Claimed By The Four Alpha Demons

2. Rules Of The Manor

Callie’s POV

The iron gates of the manor didn’t just open. They groaned like a living, breathing entity.

As my sedan crawled up the winding driveway, the massive metal structures swung inward with a heavy, metallic screech that echoed through the silent forest, and it felt less like an invitation and more like a mouth opening to swallow me whole.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “It’s just a house. A big, scary, expensive house. You’ve handled worse. You’ve handled Liam’s mother during the holidays.”

But as the manor came into view, my pep talk died in my throat.

Harper had called it a castle, but that implied something out of a fairy tale. This was…definitely not that. It was a fortress. Built from dark, jagged stone that seemed to absorb the weak morning light rather than reflect it, Hawthorne Manor sat perched on the edge of the cliff like a brooding gargoyle.

Towers pierced the gray sky, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows stared out like black, soulless eyes. It was magnificent. It was terrifying. And it…hummed.

I killed the engine, and the silence that followed was so heavy, it pressed against my eardrums, unnatural and absolute. There were no birds chirping here, no rustling of squirrels in the underbrush. Just the wind, whistling through the craggy peaks of the mountains, sounding suspiciously like a warning.

Taking a deep, big-girl breath, I stepped out of the car, grabbing my bag. The air up here was thinner, sharper, and it smelled of pine needles, wet earth, and something metallic…like copper or ozone.

A shiver raced down my spine, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was that weird feeling again. The static.

It rippled over my skin, raising the fine hairs on my arms, and the closer I walked to the massive oak front doors, the stronger it got. It felt like walking toward a magnet that was slowly, inevitably, dragging me forward.

Welcome home, a thought whispered in the back of my mind.

I stumbled, looking around wildly. “Hello?”

Nothing but the wind.

“Get a grip, Callie,” I muttered, smoothing down my thermal top. “You’re hearing things. It’s the altitude.”

I marched up the stone steps, my boots clicking loudly, and reached for the heavy iron knocker shaped like a…dragon? I couldn’t tell, but it definitely looked like something…demonic.

Before my hand could even graze the metal, the door swung open.

I jumped back, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Standing in the doorway was a woman who looked as sturdy and immovable as the house itself. She was older, perhaps in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun and a uniform that was immaculately pressed. Her face was lined with years of what I assumed was constant frowning, but her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and currently scanning me with laser-like precision.

“You’re early,” she stated. Her voice was crisp, lacking the warmth I was used to in town, but not unkind.

“I…yes,” I stammered, lowering my hand. “I wanted to make a good impression. I’m Callie. The new maid.”

“I know who you are, Miss Black,” she said, stepping aside to let me in. “I’m Britta. I manage the household staff. Or, what’s left of it.”

I stepped over the threshold, and the temperature dropped ten degrees instantly.

The foyer was cavernous. A crystal chandelier the size of a small car hung from a ceiling that vanished into shadows. The floors were black marble, polished to a mirror shine, and a grand double staircase swept upward like the wings of a dark angel.

It was beautiful, and it smelled of lemon polish and old money. But underneath the cleanliness, there was that scent again, sulfur and storm clouds.

“What’s left of it?” I asked, turning to Britta as the heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the world. “I thought there was a full team.”

“There was,” Britta said dryly, clasping her hands behind her back. “Last month. Then the gardener quit because the hedges ‘looked at him wrong,’ one of the cooks left because the kitchen was ‘too cold,’ and the last two maids ran off in the middle of the night claiming they heard voices in the walls.”

She paused, eyeing me speculatively. “You don’t look like the type to run, Miss Black.”

“I have a mortgage and a renovation to pay for,” I said, lifting my chin. “I don’t scare easily.”

“Good,” Britta nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Because this house eats fear. If you’re jumpy, you won’t last the week.”

“I’m not jumpy,” I lied.

“We’ll see. Follow me.”

She led me through the house, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the marble.

“The rules are simple,” Britta explained as we walked past a formal dining room that looked like it hadn’t been used in a century. “You are to stick to your assigned zones. Today, that is the Library and the Great Hall. Do not wander into the East Wing, that is Master Greyson’s private office. Do not go into the basement levels, that is storage and mechanical. And absolutely, under no circumstances, are you to enter the West Wing.”

“What’s in the West Wing?” I asked, my curiosity piqued despite the warning.

Britta stopped abruptly. She turned to me, her expression grave. “The brothers’ private quarters. They value their privacy above all else, and they are…nocturnal in their habits. They work with international markets, so their hours are irregular. If you see a door closed, it stays closed. If you hear anything, you ignore it. You are to stick to the main part of the house. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I understand.”

“Excellent.” She started walking again. “The kitchen is fully stocked. You’re welcome to help yourself to lunch, but don’t disturb the chef if he is in a mood. He’s…temperamental.”

We reached a set of massive double doors made of dark mahogany, andBritta pushed them open, revealing the library.

My breath hitched.

It was every book lover’s dream, and nightmare. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretched up two stories, filled with thousands of leather-bound spines. A spiral staircase made of wrought iron twisted up to a mezzanine level. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out most of the light, leaving the room in a state of perpetual twilight, illuminated only by the low glow of vintage brass lamps.

But it wasn’t just the books. It was the energy. The air in here felt thick, vibrating against my skin like a plucked guitar string.

“This needs dusting,” Britta said, gesturing to the expanse. “All of it. Please do be careful with the older volumes. Some of them are worth more than this entire town.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised, stepping into the room. I felt a strange pull toward the shelves, an itch in my fingertips to touch the spines.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Britta said. “I have matters to attend to in the staff quarters. If you need me, there is an intercom on the wall. Press the button for the kitchen.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. She looked at me, then up at the dark corners of the mezzanine, a unreadable expression on her face.

“One last thing, Miss Black.”

“Yes?”

“The Hawthorne brothers…they’re not like other men,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care. “They’re intense. Powerful. If you encounter them…do not look them in the eye. Do not engage unless spoken to. And for the love of god, do not bleed.”

“Bleed?” I blinked, taken aback. “Why would I bleed?”

“Just…be careful with the knives, letter openers, anything sharp” she said cryptically. “They have a very keen sense of smell.”

With that, she closed the doors, leaving me alone in the gloom.

I stood there for a moment, listening to the silence.

Do not look them in the eye. Do not bleed.

“Totally normal,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice shaking slightly. “Just eccentric billionaires with a blood phobia. Nothing weird about that.”

I set my bag down on a heavy oak table and grabbed the duster Britta had left for me. I needed to work. I needed to move. If I stood still, the crushing weight of the house felt like it might suffocate me.

I moved to the nearest shelf, running the feather duster over a row of books that looked like they were bound in something that definitely wasn’t cow leather.

As I worked, the static in the air seemed to grow. It wasn’t just a feeling anymore, more like a sound. A low, thrumming hum that seemed to be coming from the walls themselves.

I reached up to dust a high shelf, stretching onto my tiptoes.

Thump.

A heavy book fell from the shelf above me, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

I jumped, clutching the duster to my chest like a weapon. “Hello?”

Silence.

I looked up. The shelf the book had fallen from was empty. But I hadn’t touched it. I bent down to pick up the book. It was heavy, black, with no title on the spine. As my fingers brushed the cover, a jolt of heat zapped me, so strong I yelped and dropped it again.

“Okay,” I breathed, backing away. “Static electricity. Old house. Dry air. Totally normal.”

But as I backed away, I bumped into the library ladder.

It was on a track system, heavy brass wheels resting on the floor. I barely grazed it, but the ladder moved.

It didn’t just roll. It slid across the room with impossible speed, screeching along the metal track, and slammed into the far shelf with a violence that shook the floorboards.

CRASH.

I froze, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I hadn’t pushed it that hard. I barely even touched it.

“I need to leave,” I whispered. “I need to get out of here.”

I turned to run, but the heavy mahogany doors slammed shut with a deafening boom, and from the darkest corner of the room, a deep voice purred, “But you just got here.”