Page 21 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

I wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck. My head pounds, my mouth dry as sandpaper. I squeeze my eyes shut against the morning light filtering through the thin curtains, but even that feels like an effort.

God. How did I get so drunk?

I don’t drink much anymore, and yeah, I was tired—but still. How embarrassing… Maybe it was the wine?

I’ve had plenty of red wine before, but never anything that expensive. Maybe my body just wasn’t prepared for whatever outrageously overpriced vintage Damien had ordered.

I let out a groan and push myself upright, my limbs sluggish, as my gaze catches something unexpected on the other side of the bed. A small box sits on the nightstand.

That’s odd.

I don’t remember seeing it when I came in last night. Then again, I don’t remember much of anything after dinner.

I frown, rubbing my temples as I push the covers off and reach for the box, opening it.

Inside is the ring I’d admired at Strega’s Hollow, the breathtakingly beautiful one from the gift shop.

The large black stone lies nestled in soft blue velvet, gleaming, dark and smooth, like polished night.

I run a finger over the cool surface. I never said I wanted it, but Damien had noticed.

A strange warmth flickers through me—half irritation, half something else entirely.

Next to the box is a note.

For work purposes, of course.

—D.B.

I roll my eyes.

Sure. Because every client gives his attorney expensive jewelry…

Though I know I shouldn’t, I slide the ring onto my finger and smile as it twinkles and shines in the light. It fits perfectly.

Before meeting up with Damien, I throw together a quick outline for my witness interview with his brother, Lucien, and get myself ready.

An hour later, Damien picks me up in his sleek black Mercedes to take me to Lucien.

I’m still achy, my body slow to shake off the lingering haze from the wine last night.

But Damien? He looks amazing. Fresh. Unbothered.

Like the alcohol didn’t touch him at all.

“Good morning, Miss Woodsen.” Bennett, his driver, tips his cap with a polite smile as I step inside the car. “Would you like any refreshments before we go? Evian? Sparkling water, perhaps?”

I press my fingers to my temple. My head still feels like mush.

“I’m okay, Bennett,” I say. “But, uh, thanks.”

Damien slides into the backseat beside me, his gaze flicking over, assessing.

“And how are we doing this morning?”

“Still pretty crummy,” I admit. I still don’t understand what happened last night. My lips quirk into a self-effacing grin. “You didn’t put something in my drink, did you? ”

Damien exhales a dry, humorless huff. “Do I seem like a man who needs to drug his dinner dates?”

“No, of course not.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I’m just joking.”

Still… it is odd.

Damien flicks a glance at Bennett, who hands him a cold water bottle. Without missing a beat, Damien passes it to me. “Drink,” he orders. “You seem to have lost some precious brain cells last evening. Rehydrate and let’s hope they return.”

I take the water from him hesitantly.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Relax, Counselor,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “I assure you it’s not poisoned.”

I roll my eyes, cracking the seal and taking a sip. “Ha ha. Very reassuring.”

When I glance up again, Damien is watching me, gaze locked on my hand. “You’re wearing it,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with undisguised delight.

I glance down at the ring on my finger, twisting it. “Oh. Right.” I clear my throat. “I brought it to give it back to you.”

He smirks. “And yet there it is, still on your finger.”

“So it is,” I sigh, holding my hand up so the black stone catches the light. It’s unprofessional and I know I’m supposed to return it, but I just don’t think I can part with something so lovely.

“You deserve to have beautiful things, James. It looks good on you.”

“You shouldn’t go around giving your attorneys expensive jewelry, Damien. It’s highly inappropriate,” I huff, but I can’t stop the small, traitorous smile that tugs at my lips.

We both know, appropriate or not, I’m going to keep the ring. It’s a character flaw, but oh well.

“ Inappropriate? I’m offended,” Damien says dramatically, resting an arm lazily across the back of my seat as the car pulls away from the Cottage. “Aren’t you offended, Bennett?”

“Don’t tease the lady, Mr. Blackhollow. Nice women like Miss Woodsen don’t like that.” Bennett gives me a big wink in the rearview mirror. “They like gentlemen.”

“Oh, what do you know about women, Bennett?” Damien scoffs, but he’s smiling at the older man, his affection clearly on display.

I stare out the window as we drive, my fingers playing with the soft, tailored seam of my lilac blazer.

I’d taken extra care with my outfit this morning, knowing I was going to spend the day with Damien.

Beneath the pretty blazer, I’m wearing a silky ivory blouse, its low-cut collar just a hint flirty, and high-waisted trousers that flatter my figure.

The look strikes the right balance between polished and feminine.

The quaint streets of Salem’s Fall pass by in a blur as we head toward the countryside. Vibrant buildings and cobbled roads quickly give way to rolling hills and towering trees, their leaves shifting to brilliant shades of yellow, orange, red, and gold.

“So where are we meeting your brother Lucien?” I ask, looking over at Damien.

“Blackthorn Manor.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“My family’s ancestral estate,” he explains. “It’s been ours since Salem’s Fall was founded. Lucien lives in the old house just off the main grounds.”

Ancestral estate? Main grounds? I have no idea what to expect, but wherever we’re going, it sure sounds fancy.

Damien hasn’t said much about his older half-brother, Lucien, but what little I’ve found online hasn’t exactly been heartwarming.

The brothers share the same father, but not the same mother.

Lucien was the result of a one-night stand, a rare lapse in judgment from a young Ian Blackhollow before he became the cold, calculating man everyone would come to know.

Damien, though? He was planned. The perfect son, born to Ian’s wife and true love.

The heir to the Blackhollow throne. The chosen one.

And while I don’t know what that’s left Lucien with, I can’t imagine it’s anything good.

I couldn’t find any connection to Blackhollow Industries.

If Lucien plays a role in the company, it’s not one they advertise.

When I’d told Quinn about my witness interview, he’d been thrilled. Apparently, Lucien was already on Quinn’s potential witness list, but was even more prickly than his brother and impossible to pin down. Quinn had been trying for days to reach Lucien but hadn’t had luck.

Of course, I didn’t tell Quinn it was all thanks to Damien.

Something tells me Quinn wouldn’t be too happy about how much time I’ve been spending with Damien. Eventually, I’ll have to fess up, but for right now, I want to ride this wave and see where it takes me. I’ll have to ask Quinn for forgiveness later.

Bennett makes a sharp turn through grand, fortress-like gates, and a sprawling estate emerges from the thick New England woodlands. I can’t help but gawk. Blackthorn Manor is absolutely breathtaking.

Ancient oaks and towering maples line the driveway, their branches arching overhead.

Sprawling, meticulously groomed gardens extend in all directions, filled with beds of beautiful orange-hued roses and lavender.

A gardener pruning rose bushes waves at the car as we pass by.

On the left, a private tennis court comes into view, its white lines sharp and freshly painted, a stark contrast to the ancient feel of the estate.

On the right, I spot a large, well-maintained horse stable with open pastures.

Thoroughbred horses with shiny coats and manes frolic in the grass.

Then we’re at the main house—a massive, centuries-old mansion, rising up from the earth like something plucked from the pages of a gothic novel.

Stone walls weathered by time and seasons, yet untouched by decay.

Dark ivy wraps around the exterior, climbing all the way to the gabled rooftops and tall windows.

Spires pierce the sky, casting shadows over the manicured lawns below.

“That’s the West House, where Lucien stays,” Damien says, pointing to a large, dark-bricked Georgian-style manor that flanks the main house. It’s more modern but still massive in size.

“And there?” I gesture to another building that’s as big as a country inn.

“That’s the guest quarters.”

“It looks like a hotel!” I exclaim. “Is that where you stay when you’re in town?”

He snorts. “Of course not. The main house is mine,” he says, like I’m being ridiculous. “Well, the entire estate is, actually. It was passed on to me after my father’s death.”

“Not your mother?”

“No. Blackthorn Manor always passes down the male line.” He smirks, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “She prefers the pied-à-terre in Newport anyway.”

I don’t even ask. Of course, his family also has a place in old-money, self-important Newport.

Bennett parks the car at the front of the main house, and it takes everything in my power not to gape like a fool.

Everywhere I look are signs of old-world wealth, though it also seems to exude an air of mystery like most ancient things do, the sort of place where whispers from the past still cling to the walls and every corner holds untold secrets.

“You really live here?”

“I do.” He nods. “Though I’m not home as much as I’d like to be.”

“Oh my God.” A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “I can’t believe you have all this, and you’re staying next door to me at the Cottage. You’re actually insane, you know that, right?”

He grins. “Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble.” Before I can say anything else, he’s already stepping outside. “Bennett will take you to Lucien’s.”