Page 36 of Crown of Thorns (The Initiation #3)

NOAH

“ P rofessor Montague, is that a sweat patch I see on your collar?”

I glare at him, arms crossed, still drenched from a brutal boxing workout. Louis is already grinning, two coffees in hand, gloriously smug in his football jersey, clearly fresh from practice.

“Did you work out too, or is that just righteous anger making you sweat?”

We meet in front of the shed, the air still heavy with heat and late morning light. He passes me the coffee like it’s a peace offering, or a dare.

I take the drink, and he brushes my lips with his, full of spices and arrogance. The kiss lingers just a moment too long, warmth and heat flooding in all at once. It’s comfort. It’s adoration. It’s everything a sweet kiss should be.

“Come on, let’s go inside.”

Louis makes his way in, giving me a full view of the way his muscles cling to the shirt of his football team. He’s got number one, of course.

Mid-sip, I catch myself staring at his fingers wrapped around the cup. It’s maddening, how fast I swing from denial to desire. He shouldn’t have this power over me. Blinking, I shake off the thought.

“I did some research.” He turns, catching me mid-stare. He grins knowingly. “This land has been in your family since the French Revolution. Your granddad’s request to have some of it transformed into building land was granted.”

“When?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Oh.” I turn around, taking in the place through different eyes. “Granddad didn’t know he was going to have a fatal car accident, but…”

“I think he left this all for you, baby. To find your life back. The photos, the land. He wanted you to remember who you are. And there is so much of you.”

The tenderness in his voice threatens to undo me. Like he wants me whole even if I’m not ready to be.

Slowly making his way through, Louis gives every photo the same detailed attention. He has so many questions, carefully avoiding the one he knows I won’t answer.

“Look, you’ve got your mother’s eyes. That metallic grey.”

“A record player. How cool! Do you still have records?” He turns over his shoulder, another photo in hand. “Do you?”

“I don’t know, I’d have to check with Melo. Perhaps in the attic. Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s romantic.”

“Romantic?”

“Are you just rolling your eyes at me? Yes, romantic, Professor. We should buy one for your room.”

My stomach swoops at that. He makes it sound so simple.

He makes everything sound so simple. And somehow, I keep finding myself drawn deeper into the magnetic pull of his inked skin and wicked charm.

My gaze drops to the shorts he’s wearing today.

He’s got long, tanned, muscular legs, the kind that could crush a man’s will if he let them.

It’s maddening how quickly he makes me forget myself.

I jerk my head back to the pile of photos I was flicking through.

“I don’t need a record player.”

“Ouch.” He laughs. “I wasn’t far off when I gave you that cactus. Though thorns are definitely more your thing. We should build you a castle of thorns. And a record player.”

“Shut up,” I snort.

“Why? It sounds good, right?” He laughs again, straight teeth in soft lips. My insides shudder.

“Aww, look at that.”

Picture after picture, detail after detail.

Louis thinks he isn’t good at anything, but he couldn’t be further from the truth.

He’s incredibly meticulous, remembers everything, and is genuinely interested in learning and connecting with people.

He’s a people person with remarkable charisma.

Louis is exceptional in his authenticity, curious and fun, sweet and surprisingly loyal.

He has a way of sweeping me through these family revelations that is comforting.

I don’t think I could have done this without him.

Perhaps my guard is slipping. He’s changing me.

My usual bitterness feels less pungent when I’m with him, as if he’s removed the usual veil that covers my heart. It’s frightening.

He brings me closer to something I’ve forgotten how to name. Peace, maybe. Or hope.

We spend most of the day in the shed. When the sun sets, we head back to the castle, both our arms filled with piles of photos, and we dump them on the desk in my office.

Our shower is long, a hot moment filled with soft kisses. When I let out another yawn, Louis chuckles and bites my ear. “Come on, old man, get that sexy ass of yours on the bed and choose a movie while I cook us dinner.”

I watch him rummage around, gloriously naked, while I decide on a creepy detective.

By the time we’ve watched half of it, my eyes slide closed, and I drift off.

I ’m in my office. I’ve been here for hours.

It’s been a few days since we moved most of the stuff from the shed into my office.

The window’s open, warm air curling in while final term papers pile on my desk, reminders that the semester’s almost over.

That’s when I found it, tucked beneath a stack of albums, a plain shoe box with my name written on top in Mom’s unmistakable handwriting. I’ve been ignoring it ever since.

I sit with the box unopened for nearly an hour. Just staring. It's not fear that keeps me from it. It’s the knowing. The instinct that once I lift that lid, something about my life will change. Not dramatically. Not even loudly. Just... irrevocably.

Eventually, I reach out and pull it toward me.

I tear off the lid, frowning when I look down at the contents.

Letters.

I take out the pile, flicking through them. They are dated.

February 2010.

My battered heart yields. One month after I left.

March 2010.

April 2010. May 2010.

They're from Mom.

June 2010.

July 2010.

She wrote me letters. Every. Single. Month.

Every month I thought she was silent. Every month she screamed through paper.

My knees hit the floor before I realize I’ve fallen. “My sweet boy. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss your laugh.” I trace the ink with trembling fingers, like I can hear her voice still there.

The envelopes scatter all over the ground.

I want to stomp on them, stomp on this hurt that’s always there, always stuck to my heart like a grotesque wound that won’t heal.

I thought she’d forgotten me, that she’d just let me walk out the door and believe Dad, believe him when he told her lies, like he always told her lies.

I stare at the rest of the box through wet eyes. A brown envelope sits glued to a plastic bag. I carefully slide the letter out. Unfolding the paper, I’m met with yet another handwriting, one I don’t recognize.

My dear Noah,

When you read this, you will have returned from Paris and have come home, and I hope I’m even right by your side, smiling as we pluck old memories like fruit.

But in case you are alone, I want you to know something: I’m so proud of you, sweet boy, and there isn’t a single day in my life I don’t regret not seeing your bright smile.

I hope that you are safe and sound, and that the years have treated you kindly.

Monterrey Castle is nothing like anywhere else.

It’s a place filled with history and secrecy.

I was once part of that secrecy, and so would you have been, but I’m ashamed to say that I lost my rights over the years.

You see, I’ve made mistakes, dear Noah. Mistakes I’m not proud of.

Mistakes that have cost me a great deal.

Mistakes that have eaten away much of the love I have for life and have replaced it with hatred.

I angered the wrong people, got mistreated, but didn’t have the words to make it right.

Your mom, sister and I miss you so much.

We hope for your return every day. Your mother writes you letters.

I hope they are still in this box when you read this.

I’m so grateful you have changed your surname to Montague.

My mother’s name suits you well. It’s also safer for you that way.

Please understand that my mistakes in the past are the reasons I haven’t sent you those letters.

We’re staying under the radar for your safety.

I wish it were different, my boy, I wish I could hold you once more and tell you how much I love you.

How proud of you I am. Everything I have done is for you, blood of my blood. I love you with all my heart.

Granddad

The man I recall as friendly and forever old. The one who took me for walks. The one who drank too much.

As a child, I never questioned his motives. But as an adult, as a human behaviour specialist, I can’t help but wonder why he became an alcoholic. I look back at the letter, then tear open the plastic bag.

Inside sits a black cloak and a golden Venetian mask, its red smears gleaming like dried blood.

The fabric of the cloak is stiff with age, smelling faintly of incense and woodsmoke.

I run my fingers over it, the weave coarse, almost ceremonial in its scratchiness.

The mask is cold and heavy. The painted gold flakes at the edges, the red like warnings embedded into its ornate design.

It isn’t just a memory, it’s an initiation.

A warning. A secret I was never meant to uncover.

The sight coils around my gut like a noose of memory.

He didn’t send the letters. He left them behind like breadcrumbs, praying I’d find my way back.

It clicks into place. Too many signs, too much care in hiding it.

The cloak, the mask, the letter’s cryptic tone.

My breath catches. Could he have been part of it?

Of them? My fingers tremble as I glance back at the symbols, the craftsmanship, the language.

I don’t want to believe it, yet I already know.

Granddad was one of them. A member of the Alpha Fraternarii.

The truth resonates through my heart, jagging the edges of my fragile mind.

My senses are sharpened, the emotion raw.

Relief and sadness battle for dominance inside my clenched chest. Relief because they remembered me, because Mom wrote me letters, wanted me back, because she missed me.

And sadness because they couldn’t send them to me, couldn’t share their words with my heart, couldn’t make me read that I was still in their minds.

Midnight cloaks the castle in silence, its stone halls steeped in the chill of forgotten voices. The air feels still, almost reverent, as if the walls are listening. But inside me, everything is chaos.

My mind is screaming.

I need silence. A place without ghosts, without Louis, without anything except truth.

Louis is already sleeping, his beautiful body naked on full display, occupying the entire bed, his head on my pillow and his feet on his side.

Guilt wars inside me. He felt something was up, texted me a dozen times, though he wouldn’t disturb me in my office.

He knows me too well. Brushing my knuckles over his smooth skin, I drop a kiss onto his head. He stirs but doesn’t wake.

Something’s shifting. I’m not sure what, but I do know we’re about to fall right into the moment.

There are things I need to understand about myself.

And I can’t do that here. Not with him asleep beside me, not with these walls pressing in. Not yet.

I wake before sunrise, the castle wrapped in hush. Louis is still wrapped around me, arm slung over my chest like a vow he didn’t mean to make. I slide out from under him slowly, careful not to wake him, and press a kiss to his temple.

My office is cold. I dress quietly in a pair of old jeans, a sweater I don’t care about, trainers. I leave my phone on the desk. No messages. No note. Just the silence I asked for.

The letters stay in their box, sealed again, tied with trembling fingers. The cloak and mask go into a worn duffel bag.

I pause by the door. Something in me wants to go back and crawl into bed. Pretend I can handle all this with Louis beside me. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know what my blood has buried.

I lock the office door behind me.

But I don’t ask him. I already know the answer will break me.

And I already know I won’t be here when he wakes.