The newsroom buzzed with noise, phones ringing, keys clacking, voices blending into a hum of urgency but Elena Rivers stood frozen before her editor's glass-walled office, holding the envelope that would change her life.
"Rivers!" barked Mel Greene, a grizzled veteran with coffee breath and an eternal scowl. "Are you planning to open that letter or mount it on your wall?"
She stepped inside, still staring at the embossed gold seal—B.H.E., Blackthorne Holdings Enterprises. "What is this?" Elena asked, sitting stiffly.
"Your next assignment." Mel grinned like he'd won a bet. "Congratulations, you're going to Eldermount." Her pulse jumped. Eldermount? The reclusive estate nestled in the forests of Eldermount Mountain? Owned by the Lucien Blackthorne?
"Why me?" she asked, skeptical. She was known for exposing corrupt politicians, not profiling billionaires with too many secrets and no social media. "Because you're not just a pretty face," Mel said, tossing her a file. "And because no one else had the balls to take it. They asked for you by name."
Her brows shot up. "Blackthorne asked for me?"
"Not exactly," Mel said, smirking. "His steward sent the invite. But yeah, you're going. Private jet, first-class access. Spend a week at the estate. Get an exclusive. Come back with a story that'll burn the servers down."
She opened the letter.
Ms. Elena Rivers,
You are cordially invited to spend seven days at Eldermount Estate, by personal request of the Blackthorne family. You will be granted full access to the grounds and limited access to Mr. Lucien Blackthorne.
Discretion is required. You are to come alone.
Sincerely,
Ronan Blackthorne
Steward of Eldermount
Two days later, Elena stood at the foot of a private jet, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her heart thudding like it knew something she didn't. The pilot greeted her with a stiff nod. "Ms. Rivers, welcome aboard. We'll be landing near Eldermount within the hour." She glanced out the window as the jet soared into the clouds. She'd done her research on Lucien Blackthorne: billionaire tech mogul, heir to an old world fortune, mysterious recluse who hadn't been photographed in nearly five years. Rumors swirled like fog mental illness, deformity, cult involvement. But the strangest thing, that he wasn't human. Of course, she didn't believe in werewolves. Not yet. She didn't believe in the rumors that he wasn't human. By sunset, the jet landed on a remote airstrip nestled between endless trees. A sleek black SUV waited, engine humming. The driver was silent, his expression was unreadable, as the vehicle took a winding, narrow road into the mountains.
"Is it true what they say about him?" Elena finally asked.
The driver didn't look at her. "You'll see."
Not helpful.
Frog crept along the road like fingers, curling around the car as the forest thickened. The silence felt… alive. Finally, the trees parted, revealing a sprawling estate built from dark stone and iron. Eldermount Estate looked more like a fortress than a home, its towering spires and ancient walls silhouetted against the rising moon. The SUV rolled to a stop before a massive iron gates that creaked open without a sound.
Elena stepped out and stared.
Welcome to Blackthorne territory.
Inside the manor, firelight danced along grand corridors lined with portraits of somber men and fierce eyed women. Candles flickered. A storm threatened outside, wind whispering secrets through the cracks. A man in a perfectly tailored suit approached, tall and commanding.
"Ms. Rivers," he said. "I'm Ronan Blackthorne. Thank you for coming."
He had a soldier's posture, silver hair, and eyes like weathered stone. She shook his hand, noting the strength in his grip.
"Where's Mr. Blackthorne?" she asked.
Ronan didn't blink. "He'll see you when he's ready."
She followed him through twisting halls until they reached a massive oak door. "This will be your room. Dinner is served at eight sharp. You are welcome to explore the manor except the West Wing."
"Why?" Elena asked, already curious.
Ronan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Because the West Wing is not for guests he said and walked away. The door creaked shut behind her. Her room was breathtaking. A canopy bed stood in the center like something out of a gothic novel. Heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows that overlooked the dense forest below. She ran her fingers along the carved wolf patterns on the bedposts and shivered not from fear, but something else. Something she didn't understand yet.
Thunder rumbled.
And from deep within the woods… something howled.
Low. Wild. Close.
She froze, heart hammering.
Not a dog. Not a wolf.
Something else.
Something watching.
The howl echoed through the trees, fading slowly into the dense night air like a ghost's cry. Elena stood at the window, her breath fogging the glass. The forest beyond was still too still. Something primal stirred in her chest. She shook herself free of the spell and turned away from the window. It was probably just a wolf. This was the mountains, after all. And she was here to write a story, not scare herself into paranoia.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight. Elena slipped into a long black dress from her suitcase, practical but elegant. A deep neckline. Clean makeup. Hair swept up. Professional, but not forgettable. She followed the sound of voices and clinking silver to the grand dining hall. The room looked like something out of a vampire movie walls lined with ancestral portraits, chandeliers flickering with soft gold light, and a long mahogany table that could seat thirty.
Only one place setting was prepared.
At the far end sat a man.
Elena slowed.
He was tall, built like he belonged in armor, not a suit. Dark hair swept back with a few rebellious strands falling into his eyes. A sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked permanently carved into a smirk. But his eyes—his eyes stopped her in her tracks.
They were silver. Not gray. Not pale blue.
Silver. Like liquid moonlight.
"Ms. Rivers," he said, standing. His voice was deep and smooth, wrapped in velvet and smoke. "Welcome to Eldermount."
Lucien Blackthorne.
Finally.
"Mr. Blackthorne," she replied, composing herself as she stepped forward. "Thank you for the invitation."
He didn't offer to shake her hand. Instead, he gestured for her to sit.
She did.
The air between them crackled.
He watched her with the calm intensity of a predator assessing prey not threatening, but aware of every blink, every movement and every breath. "I hope your room is satisfactory," he said as a butler silently placed dishes between them.
"It's beautiful," Elena replied. "Though I have to admit, the whole estate feels like something from another century."
Lucien smiled faintly. "It is. The Blackthorne line has kept this land for generations. I only updated what was necessary."
"For someone worth billions, you live like a legend."
"I am one," he said simply.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I mean the family. People say strange things about us. I imagine you've read some of the rumors."
Elena didn't flinch. "Some. Cult leader. Warlock. Werewolf."
Lucien's fork paused mid-air. "Do you believe in monsters, Ms. Rivers?"
"I believe in secrets."
He chuckled softly. "Then you've come to the right place."
As the meal progressed, their conversation stayed balanced on a knife's edge part professional, part probing. He asked about her work, her life in the city, and her family.
She deflected.
She asked about his empire, his reclusive nature, why he invited her.
He deflected.
But the way he looked at her like he already knew every answer sent warmth curling deep in her stomach.
"You don't strike me as the type to court media attention," she said after dessert was cleared.
"I'm not."
"Then why invite me?"
Lucien leaned forward, folding his hands. "Because I want you to see the truth with your own eyes."
A pause. The fire crackled in the hearth nearby.
"And when you do," he added, voice low, "I want you to understand it… before you decide what to write."
Later, Elena wandered the halls alone.
She needed air.
She slipped through a side door and stepped onto a stone terrace overlooking the forest. The moon was full and high, casting silver light over the tree canopy like a spell.
The mountain wind tugged at her dress. She exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle in her bones.
Then she heard it again.
Footsteps behind her.
She turned—but no one was there.
The shadows shifted. A flicker of movement between the trees. Not a deer. Not a bear.
Too tall.
Too fast.
She stepped backward, heart pounding, until—
"Elena."
Lucien's voice, close now. She whirled around and found him standing near the edge of the terrace, half in shadow.
"Did I startle you?" he asked.
She nodded, swallowing hard. "I didn't hear you come."
"I move quietly."
No kidding.
He stepped closer, slowly, like trying not to spook her.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said. "Not tonight."
"Why? Because of wolves?"
His eyes flashed—briefly, unnaturally bright.
"No," he murmured. "Because of what hunts them."