Stacy herself had only gone into the city once since her move to continue practicing magic with Ethan, but their relationship had grown stilted recently. She had not yet revealed the truth of who she was, and it weighed on her. He seemed to sense she was withholding something but didn’t push. He had not seen her new home, and Stacy was fine with that.

She wished she could tell him everything since they were friends and he was a witch like her. She trusted him but was afraid of putting him in danger as she had done to Amy. She didn’t need another friend to be appointed a bodyguard every time they were away from her estate.

Stacy ambled into her home. The fresh scents of lilac bouquets arranged on a table by the back door hit her, paired with something baking in the kitchen. When the hell Rowan found time to bake and arrange flowers, she didn’t know. She didn’t have any living grandmothers, but Rowan seemed determined to act as one.

She called for him, and he responded from the living room toward the front of the house. “In here.”

She strolled the long, narrow hallway decked with dark wood flooring and peach-painted walls littered with framed photographs and paintings. The landscapes showed sprawling hills, misty moors, cliff edges, and deep blue seas. She often wondered if these were places her mother had once visited.

Rowan was indeed in the living room, holding several papers and wearing a wide smile. “May I present the final candidates for the estate staff positions? I have vetted these people myself and can promise their…unique talents make them perfect for the jobs.”

Stacy raised a brow. “Is ‘unique’ code for ‘magical,’ Rowan?”

His green eyes sparkled. “That is yet to be determined.” His way of saying, You’ll find out when they arrive, which Stacy took as a “yes.” She hadn’t needed to ask the question since neither she nor Rowan were inclined to hire anyone to live here who didn’t understand the deep magic infused within the land.

She took the papers, scanning the names and credentials. “I trust your judgment on this sort of thing better than my own, Rowan.” After all, he’d managed this estate for decades, perhaps longer. He’d hired and looked after staff. Stacy had never done anything like this other than the occasional management of a legal team, which she figured was not similar. “Whatever you think is best as long as whoever we hire can be loyal and have discretion when necessary.”

Rowan nodded. “Of course. I take those things very seriously.”

She gave him a small smile. “I know you do.”

His mouth twitched. “We need people who can work this estate knowing they’ll have more to handle than a few household chores.”

“Right, because with your standards, you’ll be expecting every speck of dust swept away and each surface gleaming and shining,” Stacy returned.

Rowan’s amusement vanished. “Households like this do not run in the absence of low standards, Miss Drakethorn.” His mirth wasn’t entirely gone since he only called her “Miss Drakethorn” to elicit a reaction.

She scowled. “When you’re interviewing potential employees, maybe don’t mention your high standards. We don’t want to scare anyone off.”

“I’ve never scared anyone off in my life.”

“Bullshit. You can be scary.” She had seen him cut down armed assassins with little effort. It wasn’t only the magic in his veins and his connection to her new home. He was a trained and skilled fighter. If Stacy ever managed to hire anyone and get through all the damn paperwork, she would ask Rowan for lessons.

Ethan had trained her well when it came to spells, and though Khan had taught her some aspects of hand-to-hand combat, she preferred to leave him alone. He had an estate of his own to run. In addition to whatever dragons do in their spare time or when they’re making secret trips across the world, she thought.

Rowan’s returning scowl had Stacy laughing. Something about the dryad made her feel like she’d known him all her life despite only meeting him a few weeks ago. Maybe it had something to do with how well he had known her mother.

She recalled the phone conversation with her father earlier that morning about Rowan. Khan told her there was no one better to run her estate. He was trustworthy, having worked for her mother for practically forever.

Stacy had laughed at that. “‘Forever’ means something different coming from you.” She didn’t remind her father that he was a centuries-old dragon strolling around in a fifty-five-year-old man’s skin.

She had no reason not to trust Rowan, but she wondered at his devotion to her. He had been in a sort of hibernation all those years since her mother’s death. Maybe he was so committed to the estate because it had once been Catherine Thorn’s.

Khan had assured her he did not think this was the case.

Stacy’s mind drew back to the present. Rowan had drifted to one of the large bay windows overlooking the front of the estate, where a cobblestone path led from the house to a large wrought-iron gate. It was closed, of course, and a thin wall of magic shimmered over it. Only those who had access to the magic could see it.

Right now, that was Rowan and Stacy. He had shown her how to operate the wards, but it turned out ward magic was a complex art, and she would need lessons before she could successfully wield it. The wards being thin did not indicate they were weak. The intricate weaving of the magic made them strong, or so Rowan had explained.

Sometimes, when Stacy wandered the grounds in the cool of the evening, she sensed the magic in the wards pulsating as if recognizing she was their commander. One day, she’d be able to tear through them or fling them up. Right now, she had more important things to take care of.

Beyond the gate was a long drive flanked by dense woods. The gate was set far enough from the road that few passing by would know a grand old house stood here. Stacy liked that. Plus, the magic worked over the grounds gave the structure a worn, ill-maintained, unappealing appearance. Few trespassers came their way.

Still, Stacy often caught Rowan passing a keen, watchful eye over the property as if expecting the defenses to be broken at any moment and an unwanted visitor to arrive. She couldn’t blame him. Since that night a little more than a week ago when assassins had infiltrated the grounds, she had slept fitfully, always wondering if someone intending her or Amy harm was creeping into her home against her wishes.

“We must consider more than loyalty and discretion in new hires,” Rowan stated at last, turning toward Stacy. “We need people who can offer extra levels of protection not only to the house and land but to you and Amy.”

Stacy wondered if he was overthinking the matter since she no longer had Lenny to deal with, and Victor Corbinelli didn’t know where she was. Yet, the back of her mind whispered. Let him try to find me. I’m not hiding, and he’ll regret it if he tries to cross me.

The stony look on Rowan’s face told her he would have her back. “Whatever you think is good, Rowan,” she replied at last. She trusted him with anything having to do with the estate. He cared more deeply about it than anyone.

He was deeply devoted to my mother, Stacy reminded herself, hoping one day to have a bond with Rowan strong enough for him to tell more of his story. A talented dryad like him with decades of experience in this place must have some wicked good shit to tell.

Rowan gave her a curt nod. “I’ll call the two people I have in mind first. They’re trustworthy. Did I mention they’re old friends of mine?”

“You didn’t, but that makes me feel better. Did they used to work here, too?”

“No. Everyone else who once worked here has been gone for…a long time.” Rowan weighed his words, then added, “They left long before you were born and your mother died. As for my old friends, the main trick is getting them to want the job.”

Stacy raised a brow. “I’d prefer employees who want the job.”

“Of course,” Rowan replied. “I’ll let you know what they say.” He was gone a moment later, moving silently from the room despite his large frame.

Stacy remained in the living room, taking a moment to breathe deeply. Her gaze traversed the front of the estate as Rowan had. Seeing all that she now owned still knocked the breath from her. It was beautiful, magical. It was hers, a rightful inheritance.

Help me do right by you, Mom, she thought, hoping part of her mother’s spirit on the grounds heard her.

The weight of her new responsibilities and her legacy brought a new feeling of apprehension, but there was no use thinking about it now. Not when there was much work to do. She strode from the living room and to the back door, muttering, “Let’s hope Rowan has better luck hiring people for the estate than I have with the damn paperwork.”

CHAPTER TWO

Rowan strode down the cobblestone walk of the estate toward the circular gravel drive with familiarity and confidence. He passed a fountain depicting a Celtic goddess around which several sprites flitted. The low light of encroaching evening paired with a soft, gradually chilling breeze reminded him of many times he had wandered from one end of the estate to the other, monitoring the security of the wards and watching for anyone who might step foot on the grounds with ill intent toward his mistress.

The estate’s quiet at this time of day calmed him, though he hadn’t revealed his anxiety to Stacy. The forthcoming arrival of two old friends filled him with conflicting emotions. Eagerness to see them again after so long mixed with apprehension and anxiety. However, the dryad kept his composure.

Stacy’s face flashed into his mind, producing a small smile. He reminded himself that she was the reason he did this. Sometimes, when he awoke in his room in the manor house, he thought of Catherine, half expecting to find her in the garden as the sun rose.

Of course, she wasn’t there anymore, and a sharp pang of grief filled him with every realization. It was bittersweet to see her daughter every day, to hear a similar laugh and see the light sparkle in her eyes.

Rowan reached the wrought iron gates that closed the rest of the world off from the house. With a simple hand wave, the wards released enough for the gates to creak open, allowing in two cars. The cars traveled the drive and parked one behind the other past the fountain. Rowan waved again, replacing the wards, then headed toward the cars at the same moment a man appeared from the first.

The newcomer appeared to be in his early thirties. He was shorter than Rowan, though broader in the shoulders. His rugged appearance told the dryad he hadn’t changed in all these years. Rowan often compared the man’s hair to the color of dark soil. At least he had bothered to comb out the bits of leaves and twigs often caught in it.

The man’s deep brown eyes held a steadfast, calm demeanor Rowan had once sought comfort in. His complexion had a tanned, weathered look from many years spent outdoors. Though he was normally dressed in workman’s clothes with gloves and sturdy boots, he had taken Rowan’s suggestion and worn something appropriate for a dinner interview.

The man glanced around and whistled, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You’re shitting me, Rowan. This is your house?”

Rowan hoped the newcomer would put his language away during dinner, but he didn’t jump into a lecture. “Not mine. I am merely the estate manager.”