THE TWINS WHO CLAIMED ME

I had exactly three minutes to find the truth before the devil returned home, and I was wasting precious seconds staring at a locked drawer.

The grandfather clock in the west wing study had struck midnight two minutes ago. Its chime still echoed through the marble halls like a death knell, counting down the moments until the housekeeper's nightly security sweep. Downstairs, the party raged on clinking champagne flutes, hollow laughter, the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards. Up here, in the shadows of the master's private sanctuary, I was invisible. Just Anne Delaware, the new maid, dusting the spines of leather-bound books that cost more than my entire life.

I wasn't supposed to be in this room. The head housekeeper had strictly forbidden the staff from entering the master's private study. But I hadn't spent three weeks memorizing the Pillar mansion's security rotations, charming the head gardener into revealing the family's darkest secrets, and stitching a hidden pocket into my uniform for nothing. My mother died a broken woman because of the Pillar family, and I knew the evidence of their betrayal was hidden somewhere in this mansion. I just hadn't expected my search to be interrupted.

The heavy oak door slammed open with enough force to rattle the crystal chandelier.

I dropped my hand from the drawer, snatching up a feather duster and spinning around, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I pressed my back against the bookshelf, willing myself to melt into the shadows. My fingers found the small tear in my apron where I'd hidden a lockpick, but I forced myself to release it. Not yet. Not unless I had no other choice.

Two men stormed in, identical in face but opposite in every other conceivable way. Jerry Pillar, captain of Chicago's most feared hockey team, wore a tailored black suit that did nothing to hide the raw, athletic power coiled in his shoulders. His tie was already loosened, his jaw tight with a familiar, simmering aggression. Behind him, Jefferson Pillar, the feared lord of the city's most dangerous motorcycle club, filled the doorway. He was clad in worn leather, smelling of asphalt, whiskey, and smoke, his dark hair a chaotic mess and a fresh cut slicing through his eyebrow.

I catalogued everything in a single breath. The window behind Jerry's desk twelve feet away, locked, alarmed. The drawer I'd been trying to open was still closed, but the lock was old, pickable. The security panel by the door Jefferson's massive frame currently blocked it. Two exits. Both compromised.

"You had no right to interfere with the Southside deal, Jerry," Jefferson growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through my chest. He stalked toward the center of the room, his presence sucking the air right out of it. "That was my territory. My men."

"Your men are amateurs," Jerry shot back, his tone icy and precise as he poured himself a glass of amber liquid from the decanter. He didn't even look at his brother, but the tension radiating from him was a physical force. "They almost got the entire operation shut down. I stepped in to save your ass. As usual."

"I don't need saving," Jefferson sneered, stepping into Jerry's space. They were inches apart now, a mirror image of violence and wealth. "I needed you to stay out of my way."

I inched toward the door, my soft-soled shoes silent on the Persian rug. Jerry was a controlled, strategic type who calculated every move before he made it. Jefferson was impulsive, unpredictable, the type who acted first and asked questions never. If I had to manipulate one of them, it would be Jerry. He was used to people obeying him, which meant he'd underestimate anyone who didn't.

"Don't move."

Jerry's voice cut through the room like a blade. He hadn't even raised his head, but his dark eyes were suddenly fixed on me in the reflection of the antique mirror behind the bar. I froze, my blood turning to ice water.

Jefferson's head whipped around, his piercing gaze landing on me with the force of a physical blow. He didn't say anything. He simply walked to the door, his heavy boots deliberate on the hardwood, and clicked the lock into place. The sound echoed through the silent room like a gunshot.

"Well, well," Jefferson murmured, turning back to face me. A slow smirk curved his lips. "What do we have here? A little mouse, scurrying around where she doesn't belong."

"I I was just dusting, Mr. Pillar," I stammered, forcing my voice to remain steady, submissive. I clutched the feather duster to my chest like a shield. "I'm sorry to intrude. I'll leave immediately.

I took a step toward the door, knowing it was locked, knowing I was trapped. But I needed to see how they'd react. I needed to know which brother would move first.

Jefferson reached me before I could blink. He moved with a fluid grace that belied his large frame, his rough, calloused fingers catching my chin and tilting my face up to meet his. His touch was electric, a spark of danger that shot straight down my spine. I let him see the fear in my eyes. I let my lower lip tremble. Men like Jefferson fed on fear, and I needed him to think I was nothing more than a terrified servant.

"Jerry, look at her," Jefferson said, his voice dropping an octave, laced with dark amusement. "She's trembling. Like a little rabbit caught in a trap."

Jerry finally turned, his glass of whiskey forgotten on the bar. He walked toward us with the deliberate, measured stride of a man who was used to owning everything in his path. He stopped just behind his brother, his eyes raking over my uniform, the plain black dress, the white apron, the hair pulled back in a severe bun. But his gaze wasn't dismissive. It was hot, intense, and deeply unsettling.

"She's the new maid," Jerry stated, though it sounded more like a question. His eyes narrowed, assessing me. "The one who transferred from the agency last week."

"Yes, sir," I whispered, my throat dry. Three weeks. I'd been here three weeks, and he already knew my name. That was a problem.

"You're hiding something," Jerry said softly, taking a step closer. He was so close now I could smell his cologne clean, sharp, and expensive. "I can see it in your eyes. You're not just dusting, are you, Anne?"

My heart nearly stopped. He was too observant. Too dangerous.

"I assure you, sir, I was only"

"Don't lie to me," Jerry interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the collar of my uniform, sending a shiver across my skin. "I don't like liars."

Jefferson chuckled darkly, his grip on my chin tightening just enough to be a warning. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. "You heard him, little mouse. My brother doesn't like liars. And neither do I. So why don't you tell us what you were really doing in our father's study?"

Think, Anne. The window was twelve feet away. The drawer was still unlocked. If I could just get them to turn around for three seconds

"I was just trying to do my job," I insisted, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to remain calm.

Jerry's eyes flickered down to my hand, which was still clutching the duster. But then his gaze shifted to the floor just behind my feet. I followed his stare, and my blood ran cold.

The small, silver locket I wore around my neck, the only thing I had left of my mother, had snapped from its chain during my panic. It lay on the Persian rug, the clasp broken, the tiny picture inside exposed.

Jerry bent down, picking up the locket with two fingers. He examined it, his expression unreadable.

Then his fingers stopped

He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was looking at the photograph.

The room went deathly quiet. Even Jefferson's grip on my chin loosened as he watched his brother's face transform. The cold, calculating mask Jerry wore slipped, just for a fraction of a second, and something else flickered beneath the surface. Something raw.

"Where did you get this?" Jerry's voice had changed. It was no longer the smooth, controlled tone of a man who owned the world. It was rougher. Thinner. Almost afraid.

I said nothing. I couldn't. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

Jerry's eyes lifted to mine, and for the first time that night, he looked at me not as a maid, not as a trespasser, but as something else entirely. Something that unsettled him.

"This is my father," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned the locket toward me, and there it was the photograph I'd stared at a thousand times. My mother, young and smiling, standing beside the late Mr. Pillar. Their shoulders are touching. Their hands intertwined.

"And this woman," Jerry's jaw tightened. "Who is she?"

The grandfather clock in the hall struck twelve-fifteen. The security sweep would begin in five minutes. If I didn't get out of this room, I'd lose everything.

But as I looked into Jerry Pillar's eyes, those dark, dangerous eyes that had haunted my nightmares for years, I realized I wasn't the only one who had secrets.

"My mother," I said, my voice steady for the first time since they'd walked in. "Her name was Eleanor Delaware. And your father destroyed her."

Jefferson went completely still behind me. The air in the room thickened, heavy with unspoken accusations and decades of buried lies. For a long moment, no one breathed.

Then Jerry's hand closed around the locket, his knuckles white. He didn't give it back.

"You're not leaving this house tonight," he said, his voice cold and absolute.

Jefferson stepped closer, his chest pressing against my back, trapping me between them. His voice was a low rumble against my ear.

"Not until we know why our father was standing beside your mother."

I had come to the Pillar mansion to ruin them, to avenge the woman they'd destroyed. But as the identical twins closed in on me, their dark eyes promising something far more dangerous than violence, I realized the terrifying truth.

I was no longer the hunter.

I was the prey.

And the Pillar brothers weren't going to let me go until they'd uncovered every secret I'd buried.

Jerry turned the locket over in his palm, his thumb tracing the worn silver edge. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried a weight that made my blood run cold.

"There's something else," he said quietly, almost to himself. He held the locket up to the light, and I saw a tiny inscription I'd never noticed before, carved into the back. Three letters. Three numbers.

E.D. 1999.

Jefferson leaned over his brother's shoulder, his jaw tightening. "That's the year before we were born."

The clock struck twelve-sixteen.

I had four minutes until the security sweep.

And I was running out of time.