Bound to Ambrose
Sinclair Brothers House of Wax Words: 1.500 *Trigger Warning* implied violence, gore (canon-typical House of Wax themes), possessive behavior, psychological horror elements, body horror (wax imagery), mild jealousy, obsession, dark themes involving death, creepy domestic dynamics
The road between your town and Ambrose had always felt like a place people avoided. The cracked asphalt, the quiet woods, the way the world always seemed to hold its breath past the “population 897” sign.
But you’d grown up near this forgotten corner of the map. And you’d grown up knowing. Not the details. Not the gore, not the part that would make normal people run. Just… enough. Enough to understand what Ambrose was. And enough to understand the Sinclairs.
You weren’t scared of them. Which, in its own way, made you even more unusual.
A ROUTINE MOST PEOPLE WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND
Most people wouldn’t think twice about the little rituals that filled your week: waking early, packing a few supplies into your bag—cleaning gloves, a book, a Tupperware of something you’d cooked the night before—then walking toward town until you saw Lester’s truck rumbling down the road.
He was always waiting. Always grinning that messy, uneven grin like you were the highlight of his afternoon.
“Hop in, sunshine,” he said as he leaned across the bench seat to push the door open.
You climbed inside, dropping your bag at your feet. “You always get here early.”
He shrugged, cheeks going a little pink beneath the smudges of dirt. “Ain’t got much else worth doin’. Plus, Bo starts pacing like a caged dog when you’re late.”
“He does not.” You laughed.
“Oh, he does.” Lester pulled onto the old road. “Gets all grumbly. Pretends he don’t care.” He shot you a sideways look, shoulders lifting. “Vincent just waits by the window.”
That part didn’t surprise you. You’d gotten used to the way Vincent lingered in the background of most of your visits—quiet, steady, always watching through that porcelain mask. He didn’t hide from you anymore, not the way he did with strangers. Sometimes he even nodded a greeting.
Small things. But with Vincent, small things meant everything.
THE HOUSE THAT ALMOST FELT LIKE HOME
The Sinclair house creaked the same way it always had—old wood complaining under every footstep, warm dust floating through shafts of morning sunlight. You shrugged off your jacket and rolled up your sleeves, already knowing what needed doing.
Laundry first. Kitchen next. Then whatever disaster Bo had left in the living room.
Bo was sprawled on the couch when you came in—boots up, grease on his arms, an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, ain’t you a sight,” he said. “House actually looks decent when you walk through the door.”
“Maybe that’s because I spend half my week fixing the mess you all make.”
He grinned wider. “You complainin’?”
“If I were, you’d hear it.”
Bo’s eyes dragged over you in that slow, assessing way he had, something sharp flickering behind them. Not lust. Not exactly.
Possessiveness. A quiet burn of something he’d never admit.
“Lester picked you up.” His voice was casual, but you heard the underlying edge.
“He always does,” you replied, moving past him to wipe crumbs off the table.
“He don’t gotta,” Bo muttered.
You didn’t answer. Bo hated needing anything. You’d learned to ignore the defensive bark that came whenever he felt something softer.
A SOFTNESS LESTER DIDN’T BOTHER HIDING
Lester hovered while you cleaned the kitchen, leaning his elbows on the counter, watching you with the full weight of his attention.
“Made somethin’ for ya,” he said suddenly, fishing a small wrapped object from his pocket.
“What’s this?”
“Somethin’ I found. Thought you’d like it.” Inside the cloth was a small metal trinket—an old locket, dented but still beautiful.
Your heart tugged. Lester didn’t show affection with words. He showed it by treasures he brought back from the woods. Shiny things. Pretty things. Things he thought belonged with you.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He melted—actually melted—eyes softening like a kicked puppy suddenly given love.
“You’re welcome,” he mumbled. “Just… like givin’ you nice things.”
His fingers brushed yours when he handed it over. He didn’t move them.
Just stood there, cheeks pink, breathing just a little too fast.
Bo’s voice cut through the moment sharply.
“Lester. Quit crowdin’.”
Lester shot him a glare. “Ain’t crowdin’. And she don’t mind.”
You didn’t, actually. He was warm company. Easy.
Bo made a noise low in his throat—jealousy, poorly hidden.
But he turned away.
THE WORKSHOP
You saved your favorite part for last.
The workshop sat behind the house, quiet and dim, filled with wax and soft light and the faint hum of Vincent’s breathing. You pushed the door open gently.
He looked up immediately.
Vincent didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The way his head tilted, the way his shoulders loosened—those were all his words.
“Hi,” you said, stepping inside.
He moved aside so you could join him at the workbench, always leaving just enough space for you to slip into. The warmth of his shoulder pressed subtly against yours, like he couldn’t help leaning close.
You watched his hands as he shaped the wax—careful, precise, impossibly gentle for someone who had done such brutal things. You’d stopped trying to reconcile those contradictions. Vincent was both. He always had been.
“Is this new?” you asked, pointing at the figure taking form under his fingers.
A nod. He reached for a sketchbook, flipping to a page—your face, half-finished, drawn in charcoal. The faintest blush of wax forming your profile on the sculpture beside it.
You stared. “Vincent… is this me?”
His shoulders tensed, just for a moment, before he dipped his head in a slow, reluctant nod.
Your breath caught. He’d sculpted you before, in fragments. Hands. A curve of your cheek. The shape of your hair.
But never a full figure. Never this intimate.
You cupped his forearm gently. “It’s beautiful.”
His body eased at your touch. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into it.
Quiet stretched between you—comfortable, warm. The kind of silence that belonged only to people who understood each other.
BO WATCHES THE TWO OF YOU
When you finally stepped out of the workshop, Bo was standing on the porch with crossed arms.
“Y’been in there a while,” he said, tone clipped.
“Vincent was showing me his work.”
Bo snorted. “He don’t show nobody his work.”
“He shows me.”
“Yeah,” Bo muttered, jaw ticking. “I noticed.”
Jealous. Absolutely, undeniably jealous.
“You got somethin’ to say?” you asked.
“No.” A beat. “Just think maybe you spend a little too much time with him.”
“That bothering you?”
Bo’s eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. Denial. Always denial.
“I don’t care what you do,” he said. “Just don’t want my brother gettin’ distracted.”
You stepped closer, tilting your head at him. “Vincent? Distracted by me?”
Bo looked everywhere except your face. “…Not what I meant.”
You smiled. He hated that you could read him this easily.
THE SUNSET WARNING
You’d stayed longer than usual. The sky was turning red, sliding toward dusk. You grabbed your jacket, ready to walk home on your own until Lester appeared in the doorway.
“Nope,” he said immediately. “Ain’t lettin’ you walk back alone. Dark comes fast here.”
“There’s nothing out there,” you said gently.
Bo scoffed. “Plenty out there.” Then, too quickly, “Not that you’d have to worry. Not while you’re… here.”
You blinked. That was the closest he’d ever come to admitting that he cared.
Vincent stepped into the hallway behind them, fingers tapping lightly against the doorway—his version of concern.
Lester took your bag off your shoulder before you could protest.
“I’m driving you,” he declared. “End of story.”
You sighed, but smiled. “Alright, alright.”
Bo muttered something under his breath—something about how Lester only volunteered so eagerly because he got to hog your attention during the ride.
You turned back toward Vincent.
“Thank you for today,” you said softly.
His shoulders lifted in a subtle, almost shy gesture. A thank you of his own.
Bo was watching the two of you from behind Vincent’s shoulder, jaw tight again.
THE RIDE HOME
Lester drove slower at night. His hand rested on the steering wheel, the other draped across the back of your seat—close enough to feel the warmth of him.
“You know…” he said after a moment, “you don’t gotta leave so early next time.”
“I stayed late today.”
“Still.” His voice dipped. “Wouldn’t mind you stickin’ around longer.”
Your chest warmed.
“I like being with you all,” you admitted.
Lester’s whole face brightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He beamed. “Good. ‘Cause Bo gets all pissy when you leave, and Vincent—well, I think you know.”
You did. You knew all of them in ways no outsider ever would.
And they knew you. Wanted you close. In their own strange, broken, possessive ways.
As you reached the outskirts of your town, Lester slowed, gaze flicking toward you.
“Hey… you’ll come back in a couple days, right?”
“Of course.”
He let out a breath of relief, then smiled softly.
“Good. Feels real quiet when you’re gone.”
You pretended not to hear the way his voice cracked on quiet.