The afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the Ottawa skyline, casting long, amber fingers of light through the expansive windows of the Fire estate. The house was unnervingly quiet. Francis had headed to the office for an emergency meeting, and the girls were still at their respective after-school clubs.
Hannah stood in the middle of the massive living room, her fingers tracing the cold, smooth edge of a marble pedestal. She was dressed in a pair of soft leggings and a sweater that Maya had "discarded" on her bed earlier—a silent, begrudging peace offering.
She wasn't cleaning this time. Her body was too exhausted for the frantic scrubbing of the morning, but her mind was racing. She was staring out at the manicured lawn, her eyes lost in the distance. To anyone else, it was a beautiful view. To Hannah, it was a gilded cage. She was thinking about the street corners she knew by heart, the steam vents that had kept her from freezing, and the sharp, jagged words Evelyn had spat at her.
Street urchin. Stray. Sewer.
She was so deep in the hollows of her own memory that she didn't hear the front door unlock. She didn't hear the rhythmic, casual stroll of expensive sneakers on the hardwood.
Aaron Fire kicked the door shut with his heel, tossing his keys onto the side table without looking. At twenty-five, Aaron was the polar opposite of his older brother. Where Francis was stone and iron, Aaron was silk and smoke. He was effortlessly handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass and a mischievous glint in his eyes that usually spelled trouble for someone's daughter.
He stopped in the archway of the living room, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He expected the house to be empty or filled with the screeching of his nieces.
Instead, he saw her.
She was framed by the golden light, looking so fragile that a strong breeze might shatter her. Her profile was delicate, her chestnut hair catching the sun, but there was a heaviness in her posture that didn't belong on someone so young.
Aaron stayed silent for a long moment, his head tilting to the side. He had seen many beautiful women—models, socialites, daughters of diplomats—but there was something raw about this girl. She looked like a wild thing that had been forced into a dollhouse. He found himself checking her out, his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck and the guarded way she held her shoulders.
Who the hell did Francis hire? he wondered. No, she's too young for a housekeeper. And too... interesting.
He took a step forward, a floorboard let out a faint creak.
In an instant, the "fragile" girl vanished.
Hannah spun around with a speed that was purely animalistic. Before Aaron could blink, she had retreated three steps, her back hitting a bookshelf. Her knees were bent, her center of gravity low, and her hands were curled into tight, shaking fists in front of her chest. Her eyes weren't lost anymore; they were wide, dilated, and predatory.
It was the stance of someone who had spent six years sleeping with one eye open. It was the subconscious reflex of the streets—defend, or be destroyed.
"Who are you?" she rasped, her voice sharp as a blade. "Don't come any closer!"
Aaron held up his hands, a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face. He didn't look threatened; he looked fascinated. "Whoa, easy there, Tiger. I'm not looking for a fight."
"I said, who are you?" Hannah demanded. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scanned the room for a weapon, her eyes darting to a heavy crystal vase on the table.
"The name's Aaron," he said, his voice smooth as bourbon. He took a casual step closer, watching the way her entire body tensed. "I'm the younger, better-looking version of the man who owns this house. I'm Francis's brother. And you are...?"
Hannah didn't lower her guard. "I don't believe you."
Aaron laughed, a rich, melodic sound. "Check the photos on the mantle, sweetheart. I'm the one in the tuxedo looking bored out of my mind. Now, put the claws away. I just came by to raid the fridge and see if my big brother had finally keeled over from stress."
Hannah's gaze flickered to the photos he mentioned, then back to him. The resemblance was there—the same high cheekbones, the same piercing Fire eyes—but while Francis's eyes were like a deep forest, Aaron's were like a flickering campfire.
"You're his brother," she whispered, though she didn't relax her stance.
"In the flesh," Aaron said, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his ankles. He let his gaze travel over her again, more brazenly this time. "So, let me guess. You're the one I heard about? The girl from the rain? Francis didn't mention you looked like that."
"Like what?" Hannah snapped, her defensiveness flaring into anger.
"Like you're waiting for the world to end," Aaron replied, his smirk softening into something more intrigued. "You've got that look, girl. Like you've seen things that would give my brother nightmares. It's... captivating, in a tragic sort of way."
He started to walk toward her, his hand reaching out as if to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "What's your name? I feel like we should be on a first-name basis if you're going to be haunting my brother's hallways."
The moment his hand moved toward her, Hannah's survival instinct screamed. To her, a hand moving toward her face wasn't a gesture of affection—it was a precursor to a blow or a grab.
"Don't touch me!" she cried out.
Before Aaron could react, she bolted. She didn't just walk away; she ran. She scrambled past him, her feet flying over the hardwood. Aaron spun around, watching in genuine shock as she disappeared up the grand staircase.
He heard the frantic thud of her footsteps on the second floor, followed by the heavy slam of a door. A second later, the distinct, metallic click of a bolt being thrown home echoed down the stairwell.
Silence returned to the house, but the air was still humming with the energy she'd left behind.
Aaron stood in the living room for a long time, staring up at the landing. He rubbed the back of his neck, the smirk returning to his lips, wider and more dangerous than before.
"Well, well," he murmured to the empty room. "Francis, you old dog. Where on earth did you find a girl like that?"
He walked over to the bar, poured himself a finger of his brother's most expensive scotch, and took a slow sip, his eyes still fixed on the closed door upstairs.
"Bolted the door, huh?" he chuckled quietly. "I think things are finally starting to get interesting in this morgue of a house."
Upstairs, Hannah was pressed against the back of her door, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She held the handle with both hands, as if her weight alone could keep the world out. Her heart wouldn't slow down. She had escaped the wolves on the street, but now she was in a house full of lions, and she wasn't sure which was more dangerous.