Page 3 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

I slowed as a break in the trees opened to reveal the gated entrance.

It looked like something torn from a gothic novel—black iron twisted into thorned vines, stone columns flanking either side like they were built to repel the weak-willed.

No keypad. No intercom. Just a brushed-metal placard embedded in the masonry:

EDELWOOD HOUSE

Gravel crackled under my tires as I coasted forward. The gate groaned open with the kind of slow, mechanical dread that made you wonder if it ever truly closed behind you.

The driveway stretched on like a dare—a corridor of perfectly spaced elms and surgical rose bushes. It was too pristine. Too measured. Even the air felt… edited. As I crested the slight hill, the house revealed itself.

Edelwood wasn’t a mansion—it was a monument.

A looming, pale-stone Federalist beast with three full stories of narrow black-shuttered windows and a roof the color of storm clouds.

Ivy crawled up the east wing like it had earned citizenship.

Everything about it was old money, down to the dry, ornamental fountain in the circular drive and the intimidating lack of personal touches.

No kids’ toys. No porch lights. No warmth.

This wasn’t a home. This was a shrine to lineage.

I parked the Charger dead-center in front of the double doors—thick oak with black iron studs and a lion’s head knocker. The engine cut off and the last whisper of the song on the radio died.

The silence that followed pressed in on my eardrums. I flicked the butt of my cigarette into the gravel and crushed it beneath my boot. The air here wasn’t just still—it was judgmental. Like the house was already disappointed in me.

Gravel crunched as I moved toward my new home, duffel over one shoulder. My reflection ghosted across the driver’s side window—tattoos, dark curls, bloodshot eyes, and an aura of defiance you could bottle and sell at biker rallies.

Let them see the sin they’d tried to wash out. Let Aunt Victoria see what the family broom had failed to sweep under the rug.

I didn’t knock. I just stood there—posture loose, chin raised, that familiar fuse burning behind my ribs. Because I wasn’t here to behave. I was here because they had no idea what else to do with me.

Thirty seconds later, the door opened with mechanical precision.

Aunt Victoria stood framed in the doorway like she owned not just the house, but the oxygen around it. Her navy pantsuit looked tailored to her bones. Hair pulled into a severe bun. No lipstick. No perfume. Just surgical disdain in every pore.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice crisp as frost.

“Fashionably,” I replied, lighting another cigarette purely out of spite. “Clock never did like me.”

She didn’t blink. “Put that out before you track the stench of wasted potential through my threshold.”

I took a long, exaggerated drag before stubbing it out on the stone step. “You’re welcome.”

She stepped aside. “Shoes off.”

I stepped in —boots still on. Let the marble floor feel it. White everywhere. Marble. Trim. Curtains. A mausoleum of wealth and bleach.

She turned, heels clicking like gunshots. “You will not bring your filth into this house,” she said. “Physically or otherwise.”

“Nice to see you too, Auntie V. Still doing Iron Maiden cosplay or is that just your resting vibe?”

She spun toward me, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re not here to be clever. You’re here because your parents are done embarrassing themselves with you.”

I let the words sit for a beat. “Wow. If I squint, that almost sounds like family.”

“I don’t do sentiment,” she said coldly. “I do control. And you’re under mine now.”

“Is this where you make me kiss your ring or just scrub the floors?”

“You’ll be working at the Brookhaven Ridge Country Club. Mr. Astor is expecting you.”

I snorted. “What, I’m a towel boy now? Maybe pass out cucumber water to guys named Preston?”

She didn’t dignify me with an answer. “Mr. Astor will assign your duties. You’ll report to him daily. And you will be polite. Or you will be gone.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” she stepped closer, voice low. “That’s a fact. You’re cut off. Financially, socially, and geographically. You have one pair of boots and a fast car. That’s it. You follow my rules, or you sleep in that car.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “You rich types love power plays. What, no collar to put around my neck?”

She snapped her fingers, and a housekeeper appeared like magic from a side hallway—tall, silent, eyes flicking over me like I was a particularly tricky stain.

“Ellen will show you to the pool house,” Victoria said. “You won’t be staying inside Edelwood.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll get corruption on your fine bone china?”

“I don’t allow stray dogs in my house. You’ll use the side entrance, not the front. Meals will be taken separately unless I say otherwise. And don’t mistake this for some kind of summer retreat. You’re here to work. To disappear.”

I clutched my duffel tighter. “Crystal clear. It’s like a prison, just with better landscaping.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the bars.” She turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

The housekeeper—Ellen—gave me a tight, professional nod. “This way, Mr. Sinclair.”

I followed her out the front door and down a side path. Past a rose garden, a greenhouse, and a gravel lane that led to a smaller, modern structure tucked beside a hedge wall.

The pool house was all white stucco and glass, cold and lifeless. She opened the door and handed me a key. “Linens are clean. Kitchenette’s stocked with the basics. Miss Clarence expects you to be dressed and punctual by seven forty-five a.m.”

I walked in without a word and dropped my bag on the couch, not asking for confirmation as to what she meant by “ punctual by seven forty-five a.m.” Ellen didn’t wait around; the door clicked shut behind her like a cell locking in place.

The dive bar sat like a bad decision incarnate, wedged between a bait shop and a half-lit gas station where the pumps looked like they hadn’t worked since the Reagan era. The neon sign buzzed overhead, spelling out “The Hollow” in sickly green letters that flickered like they were dying of shame.

Inside, it smelled like stale beer, sweat, and the kind of secrets people only confessed when blackout drunk. The floors stuck to my boots. The jukebox wheezed out a gritty version of “Gimme Shelter.” It was perfect.

I slid onto a cracked leather barstool like I owned the joint.

Didn’t have to say a word. The bartender clocked me the second I walked in.

Bleached-blonde, tattoos peeking from under a faded tank top, a septum ring that caught the low amber light.

He looked like he could break a bottle over your head and still wink while doing it.

“Look what the devil dragged in,” he said, cocking a brow. “You got a name, or should I just write ‘trouble’ on the tab?”

“Sin,” I replied, leaning in with a grin. “Short for Sinclair. But you can call me whatever sounds good when you’re moaning.”

He snorted, not missing a beat. “Cute. You always hit on your bartender, or am I just lucky?”

“I like to make friends wherever I land. And I land hard. ”

He poured two fingers of bourbon without being asked and slid it across to me like we were already in on the same joke. “Well, Sin. I’m Dani. And if you keep smiling at me like that, you’re gonna start a riot.”

I raised the glass in salute. “That’s kind of the goal.”

“Where you from?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the bar, chin resting in his hand.

“L.A. But don’t worry—I left my influencer bullshit at the border.”

“I can tell,” he said, giving me a slow once-over. “You don’t look like Botox and smoothies. You look like whiskey and bad decisions.”

“Guilty,” I said, dragging my bottom lip between my teeth. “But at least I make them look good.”

That got a laugh out of him—real, throaty, and edged with interest. He grabbed a napkin and scribbled something down before sliding it over. A number. A crude sketch of a devil’s tail.

“In case you wanna make one later.”

“I’m more of a ‘make them now, regret them later’ kind of guy,” I chuckled, tucking the napkin into my back pocket without breaking eye contact.

“You playing pool tonight, or just breaking hearts?”

“Both. Probably in that order.”

He tilted his head. “You know, I’ve worked here for six years and I’ve never seen someone walk in like they already owned the place.”

“That’s because no one else did. ” I grabbed my drink and flashed him a wink. “Until now.”

He shook his head, smiling. “God help this town.”

“God’s got nothing to do with it, sweetheart.”

I downed the first drink, chased it with a second, and let the heat crawl down my throat like gasoline.

By the third, I felt it—That click . A shift like lightning finding its ground. Within twenty minutes, I’d taken over the place and was everyone’s new best friend.

Some guy with a buzzcut and a skull tattoo on his neck swaggered up and challenged me to pool. I played left-handed just to make it interesting—took his money, his pride, and blew him a kiss as he stomped off, muttering.

Two girls waved me over from a sticky booth in the corner, all glitter eyeliner and fake nails.

I slid in between them like I belonged. One fed me a lime from her tequila shot.

The other licked salt off my hand and dared me to make it disappear.

I kissed the first one—wet, messy, grinning—and got her number in lipstick on my forearm.

The bar was heat, bodies and music playing like a sermon. Shots. Laughter. Smoke curled through the air like incense to a forgotten god. I was the altar. The sacrifice. And the fire.

Sinclair Soul: the storm their parents warned them about.

I danced with a girl in ripped fishnets and combat boots to a cover of Paint It Black. She tasted like cherry vodka and bad intentions. I spun her hard, dipped her low, caught her by the hips like we were the only two people in a world made of neon and sweat.

Some guy offered me a bump in the bathroom. I declined, grinning widely. “Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m still halfway to rock bottom—don’t wanna rush the landing.”

Dani gave me another round on the house and a wink that promised far more if I stayed till the end of the night. I bit my lip, holding in a groan, and blew him a kiss that he caught in his hand and held to his heart. The girls propping up the bar cheered and jeered in equal measure.

I was in my element. Raw. Real. Radiating the kind of danger people couldn’t look away from. It was the kind of night I never wanted to end. I felt untouchable.

The door opened, and everything changed. He walked in like he owned the fucking air. Tall. Composed. No swagger—just presence . Like the room had been waiting for him and didn’t know it until now.

His shirt was midnight blue, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open just enough to suggest he didn’t care what you saw. Slate-gray trousers. A coat draped over his shoulder, not for warmth, but for statement. Like he knew how to command a room without ever needing to raise his voice.

He wasn’t trying to belong. He stood out like you couldn’t help but notice him. The noise dulled. Conversations stuttered. Even the jukebox seemed to quiet as he walked. A low-pressure system with legs.

He moved to the bar like gravity was biased toward him, the crowd parting instinctively. He didn’t shove or weave. He simply arrived—at the bar, in my world—and ordered with a voice that cut clean through the haze.

“Scotch. Neat.”

Low. Rich. Precision-polished with just enough gravel to be interesting. A voice that had grown up in libraries and boardrooms. Old money varnished with restraint.

He looked at me. Just once. But it was deliberate. Measured. Like choosing a painting in a gallery full of noise and chaotic modern art that held no interest. Something in my chest lit up, fast and wicked. Like recognition and provocation collided in a heartbeat.

I dragged a cigarette to my lips. Flicked my Zippo with a practiced snap, my dark eyes locked on his in an unbreakable connection. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just raised his glass—slight, but pointed. And took a slow sip.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was an invitation.

I smirked and let the smoke curl between us like a question I wasn’t ready to ask. “Didn’t peg you for a Hollow kind of guy,” I rasped, voice roughened from the night.

His gaze didn’t waver. Eyes like weathered glass, calm and unreadable. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who makes an entrance by setting the place on fire.”

His voice had edges and velvet. Like it had been shaped by tutors and threats.

I leaned against the bar, drink in hand, posture casual but coiled. “Stick around. I’ve got more matches.”

He smiled. Not with his mouth—with the smallest twitch of one corner. It didn’t reach his eyes. And somehow, that made it worse… Or better.

He turned slightly, letting the light hit just enough to show the fine lines near his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw. Mid-thirties, maybe? Beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission. Groomed. Composed. Leashed.

He studied me. Not like prey—like a puzzle. Or a threat. Or both. The bartender returned with his drink. He nodded, then looked back at me.

“You’re new.”

“Wow,” I said flatly. “So much for flying under the radar.”

“I’m not here to judge.”

“Then what are you here for?” I tilted my head, the tip of my tongue teasing across my teeth. “Slumming it? Looking for blackmail material?”

His gaze dropped briefly to my glass, then back up to my eyes. “Observation. Curiosity. Maybe a little damage control.”

I raised my glass in a mock toast. “You’re too late. The damage is already done.”

A flicker passed over his expression. Not quite a smile.

Not quite concern. Something too complex to name.

He looked at me again—closer, like he was filing something away.

Then quietly intoned as if he were sharing a secret with me, “You might want to pace yourself. Brookhaven Ridge has long memories.”

I laughed. Harsh and honest. “Good. Let them remember me for something real. ”

He set his empty glass down and stood straighter. Like something in him had clicked into place. “I’ll see you around,” he said, smooth as polished mahogany. “Try not to burn this place down before Monday.”

“Can’t promise that,” I murmured around my cigarette, watching him turn.

His coat slid back over his shoulders with the kind of grace people were born into. He didn’t look back, but I did—frequently—long after the door closed behind him.