Part II _ Bound to Ambrose
Sinclair Brothers House of wax Words: 1.315 *Trigger Warning* possessiveness, jealousy, toxic/controlling behavior (mild), emotional tension, threatening behavior (implied), mental instability (implied)
Two days passed before you headed back toward Ambrose, bag slung over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel. You didn’t get far—not even past the old sign—before a familiar engine rumbled behind you.
Lester’s truck.
He slowed to match your walking pace until you sighed and stopped. The passenger door swung open on its own.
“Get in, sunshine,” he called, leaning across the bench seat with that soft smile he saved only for you. “Ain’t makin’ you walk all that way.”
You climbed up. “It’s early, Lester. You didn’t have to come out this soon.”
“Didn’t wanna wait,” he admitted, cheeks a little pink. “Felt like ages since I seen ya.”
It had been forty-eight hours. But with Lester, affection didn’t have brakes—it just spilled out in this gentle, unfiltered way that never made you uncomfortable.
The moment you sat down, he eased the truck back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably behind your seat. His thumb brushed your shoulder unconsciously. Protective. Close.
“You bring anything to eat?” he asked.
“Leftover stew.”
He lit up like a kid. “Bo’s gonna whine like hell when he smells that.”
You laughed. Lester beamed at the sound.
Bo was already outside when the truck pulled up—arms crossed, shoulders tense, jaw tight enough to crack. The second you stepped out, his gaze swept over you in a fast, checking-for-injuries motion he’d deny to his last breath.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You didn’t even know I was coming today.”
He scowled. “Still late.”
Lester rolled his eyes. “She’s here now, ain’t she?”
Bo shot him a glare that could’ve peeled paint. “You didn’t have to go pick her up the second she stepped outside her damn house.”
“Didn’t want her walkin’. Coulda been—”
“Yeah, yeah. Bad people. Whatever.”
But his eyes flicked toward you, and there it was—jealousy flickering beneath the surface.
You stepped past them, and Bo followed you automatically, like gravity pulled him toward your orbit even while he fought it.
“You stayin’ for a while?” he asked casually, too casually.
“I usually do.”
“Good.” It slipped out before he could stop it. His jaw clenched. “—I mean, house is a mess. Needs cleanin’.”
“Sure it does,” you said, amused.
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like missed you, but when you tried to catch it, Bo was already stomping into the house.
The moment you entered the house, you felt Vincent before you saw him—his presence always warm, steady, like a quiet hum in the air.
He appeared at the end of the hallway, head tilted, mask catching the light. Then he did something new.
He reached out.
Just a touch—fingers brushing your sleeve before he pulled back. But it was deliberate. A greeting. His version of I’m glad you came back.
You smiled softly. “Hi, Vincent.”
His shoulders loosened instantly.
Bo watched from the doorway, frowning like the scene personally offended him.
“Didn’t know you two were doin’ handshakes now,” he muttered.
Vincent didn’t spare him a glance. He simply moved closer to you, guiding you gently toward the kitchen with a hand hovering near your back—never touching unless invited, but always there.
Bo’s frown deepened.
Cleaning the kitchen took longer than usual because Lester kept hovering on your left, and Bo kept hovering on your right, and Vincent kept passing behind you to get things you didn’t actually need.
It felt like being circled by three very different animals, each territorial in their own way.
You reached for a dishcloth. Two hands grabbed it at the same time—Lester’s and Bo’s.
They froze, glared at each other, both refusing to let go.
“Let her take it,” Vincent signed sharply from across the counter, movements fluid and authoritative.
Both brothers instantly dropped the cloth.
You almost laughed.
After lunch, Lester tugged your sleeve lightly. “Come outside with me? Wanna show ya somethin’.”
You followed him out to the truck bed where he’d laid out a small assortment of objects—trinkets, metal scraps, pretty stones—like offerings.
“Been savin’ these,” he said bashfully. “Thought maybe you’d pick ones you liked. Keep ’em.”
Your heart warmed painfully. “Lester… you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He looked at you with that open, puppy-soft gaze. “That’s why I wanna.”
You picked a small polished stone. He practically glowed.
But before he could savor the moment—
Bo kicked the door open.
“What the hell’s this?”
Lester bristled. “Nothin’ that concerns you.”
“A pile of trash don’t concern nobody,” Bo snapped.
“It ain’t trash—!”
You stepped between them. “Hey. Enough.”
Bo looked away quickly, biting back the rest of his words. Lester deflated, picking up one of the stones to fidget with.
The air eased again.
Later, you made your way to the workshop, drawn by the soft scrape of wax and the quiet sanctuary the room always held.
Vincent was already there—waiting. He stood when you entered, moving to pull out the stool you normally used. He always remembered small details.
“Thank you,” you murmured as you sat.
He picked up a small carving you hadn’t seen before. A wax flower. Simple. Perfect.
He held it out to you, head dipped in a shy gesture that melted something inside you.
“For me?” you whispered.
He nodded.
When you reached for it, your fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away. He lingered, just one second too long.
You swallowed, heat rising in your cheeks.
Then Bo’s voice thundered from outside the door—
“Vincent! You seen—oh.”
He stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the sight of you two sitting close, hands too near.
Vincent straightened but didn’t move away from you.
Bo crossed his arms tightly. “You ain’t keepin’ her cooped up in here all day.”
“She’s not cooped up,” you said evenly.
Bo’s gaze flicked between you and Vincent, frustration simmering.
“Yeah? Then maybe she comes with me awhile.”
Vincent tensed.
Oh. Bo wasn’t asking. He was staking territory.
The tension finally snapped after dinner.
Bo was washing dishes. Vincent was wiping the counters. Lester was at your side, leaning on the table and telling you some ridiculous story about a raccoon he met that morning.
You laughed—maybe louder than you meant to. Lester lit up like sunrise.
Bo’s hand tightened around a plate until it squeaked.
Vincent’s head snapped up sharply.
The air changed.
“You’re awfully close to her today,” Bo said suddenly, tossing a glance toward Lester.
“So what?” Lester shrugged. “She don’t mind.”
“You sure ’bout that?”
“She’d tell me if I was botherin’ her.”
Bo scoffed. “You don’t back off unless someone spells it out for you.”
“Least I ain’t pretendin’ I don’t care,” Lester shot back.
Bo slammed the plate down.
Vincent stood straighter, stepping subtly closer to you, protective without being obvious.
The fight escalated fast.
“You’re jealous,” Lester accused.
“Of you?” Bo barked a laugh. “Please.”
“Maybe of Vincent then,” Lester said smugly.
Bo’s jaw went rigid.
Vincent froze, fingers flexing at his sides.
Then Lester smirked. “You two act like she’s somethin’ you gotta share.”
Vincent reacted first—hands signing, sharp and fluid:
She is her own person.
Bo stared at him. At you. Then back at him.
“Yeah?” Bo growled. “Then maybe she should say it.”
Three sets of eyes snapped to you—all intense in their own way, all waiting, all wanting something you hadn’t fully named yet.
Lester, hopeful. Vincent, steady and silent. Bo, burning and denying it.
Your breath caught. Suddenly the room felt too small.
“I like all of you,” you said quietly.
Bo blinked. Lester beamed. Vincent’s shoulders dropped with silent relief.
“But,” you added, meeting each of their eyes, “I’m not choosing right now. I don’t need to. And I don’t want to fight with any of you.”
The room fell silent.
Bo looked away first, jaw ticking but expression softening. “…Fine,” he muttered. “No fightin’.”
Lester nodded quickly. “Yeah. ’Course.”
Vincent signed one simple word: Understood.
The tension eased—but didn’t vanish.
Something had shifted between all of you. Something warm. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.
And none of the brothers were planning on letting go.