Wren Sorrel has three hours of gas, a dead phone signal, and a letter naming her sole heir to a great-aunt she never met. Thorne House is waiting exactly where the letter said it wouldn't be ? gate already open, fire already laid, a writing desk angled into the one shaft of light she didn't know she'd been chasing for two years.

The house gives generously. Perfect coffee. A finished chapter she doesn't remember writing. Her grandmother's stew, improved past recognizing. And Caspian Vale ? caretaker, warning, the first thing in years that looks at her like a question worth answering honestly.

He tells her the truth on the staircase, the first afternoon: stay long enough to let the house start giving, and leaving stops being something you decide. It becomes something you attempt. The guest book has forty-one names in it. None of them have a checkout column.

She stays anyway.

What follows is a bargain paid in stolen mornings and an edited sister's voice, and a caretaker who has spent decades learning exactly what devotion costs a man who isn't allowed to leave ? deciding, for the first time in that long, that some things are worth wanting on purpose, with the bill in plain sight.

The Thorne House is a slow-burn gothic paranormal romance about memory, consent, and the difference between being taken and choosing to stay.

Contains explicit content intended for adult readers.