She woke to the shape of him gone from the mattress.
The indentation on the pillow beside her was still soft, the faint scent of his skin lingering in the fabric. She reached for it, pressed her face into the cool cotton, and let herself breathe before she opened her eyes. Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a muted silver glow. The fire had burned down to ash and ember, and the air held the faint chill of autumn seeping through the old windows.
Then she saw it.
A single rose lay on the pillow beside her, its petals a deep, velvety crimson. She sat up slowly, her fingers finding the small folded note tucked beneath the stem. The handwriting was sharp, angular, unmistakably his. I'm downstairs, baby.
She pressed the note to her chest. Felt the warmth spread through her ribs. Three words. Just enough to make her feel like the ground beneath her was solid again.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood floor cool against her bare feet. The room was his in every detail—the dark wood of the dresser, the leather-bound books stacked on the nightstand, the scent of sandalwood and something darker that clung to the sheets. She crossed to the armchair by the window where she'd draped the dress the night before, a soft fall of ivory fabric that caught the pale morning light.
She stepped into it, felt the fitted corset bodice cinch around her waist, the subtle floral jacquard pattern catching against her fingertips as she smoothed it down. The off-the-shoulder neckline sat just above her collarbone, and she reached behind her to tighten the delicate fabric loops that ran down the front of the bodice. The row of small cut-outs showed slivers of skin, a deliberate vulnerability she wasn't sure she felt ready for. But it was pretty. Light. The opposite of armour.
The long bell sleeves brushed her wrists as she moved, and the softly flared skirt swayed against her thighs. She found her sandals by the foot of the bed—simple brown slides—and stepped into them. Her hair was still loose from the night before, tangled and soft. She gathered it into a low, loose bun at the nape of her neck, tucking and pinning until it held. Curled tendrils fell along her cheeks, and she tucked one behind her ear, catching her reflection in the mirror above his dresser.
She looked rested. She looked almost peaceful. The gold pendant at her throat caught the light, a small crescent moon on a delicate chain. Grams had given it to her years ago. She touched it now, let the metal warm against her fingers.
From downstairs, she heard it. Laughter. Voices. The clatter of dishes. The sound of a house full of people who had no idea what she was planning to do tonight.
She picked up the rose. Pressed it to her lips. Closed her eyes. And let herself have this moment before she walked into the day.
The stairs creaked under her weight as she descended, the sound absorbed by the runner. She followed the voices through the foyer, past the grandfather clock that had stopped counting time somewhere in the last century, and toward the back of the house where the kitchen and the lounge opened into each other.
She could hear Nic's low voice, steady and measured. Kiaan's laugh, bright and infectious. Nash's dry tone cutting through the noise. And beneath it all, the murmur of the girls—Nami's gentle cadence, Sierra's rapid-fire enthusiasm.
She reached for the kitchen door.
Before her fingers touched the wood, it swung open.
Reyen filled the frame. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was still damp, pushed back from his forehead. And in his hand, a steaming mug.
"Good morning, beautiful."
His voice was low, rough with the edge of a morning he'd already been awake for. He ducked down, pressed his lips to her forehead—a slow, deliberate kiss that lingered—then her cheek, his stubble catching against her skin. The coffee was warm through the ceramic when he pressed it into her hands.
Dark roast. A splash of oat milk. Her throat tightened.
"Good morning," she managed, and her voice came out softer than she expected.
He looked at her. Really looked. His eyes traced the line of her shoulders, the fall of her hair, the way the dress sat against her collarbone. Something flickered in his gaze—warmth, maybe. Or relief. Like he was seeing her for the first time this morning and cataloguing the fact that she was still here.
"I made it before you woke up," he said, gesturing at the coffee. "Didn't know if you'd want to come down."
"You left a rose on my pillow."
"I did."
"And a note."
"Three words." He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Didn't want to overdo it."
She laughed, a real one, and took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. She took another sip.
From the lounge, Kiaan's voice cut through. "Are we going to be expecting a hybrid witch-vampire baby soon? Or what?"
She turned, coffee in hand, and found the room. Everyone was gathered in the lounge and the kitchen. Nic leaned against the counter, a steaming cup of something red in his hand. Nami sat on the arm of the sofa, her legs crossed, a soft smile playing at her lips. Sierra was curled into the corner of the couch, a throw blanket over her knees, and Nash stood by the window, his arms crossed, a dry look on his face.
Kiaan grinned from his spot on the opposite sofa, his hoop earring catching the light as he tilted his head. "I'm just saying. The tension in this house is thick enough to cut. Someone had to ask."
She took another sip of her coffee, let the warmth settle in her chest. Then she winked.
"If he keeps doing things like this—it could happen."
The room went quiet for half a beat. Then Kiaan let out a bark of laughter. Sierra's mouth dropped open before she dissolved into giggles. Nami pressed a hand to her chest, shaking her head. Nash just stared at her, a mix of horror and reluctant amusement on his face.
"Navira," Nash said slowly, "I am going to pretend I did not hear that."
"Good," she said, and took another sip of her coffee.
Behind her, Reyen let out a low, appreciative laugh. She felt his hand settle on the small of her back, warm through the fabric of her dress. "I like her," he said, loud enough for the room to hear. "I think I'll keep her."
"You better," Sierra called out, pointing a finger at him. "Or I'll hex you."
"I'd like to see you try," Reyen said, but there was no edge in it. Just amusement.
Navira turned, rolling her eyes, and crossed to the sofa where Sierra sat. She dropped down beside her, the cushion shifting under her weight. Sierra immediately leaned into her, warm and familiar, and Nami reached over to squeeze her knee.
"Navira's in love, huh," Nami said, her voice soft and knowing.
She felt her cheeks warm. "Shut up."
"She's blushing," Sierra said, delighted. "Look at her. She's actually blushing."
"I am not blushing. The coffee is hot."
"The coffee is oat milk temperature," Nash said dryly. "You're blushing."
She threw a glare in his direction, but there was no heat in it. He smiled at her, the kind of smile that said he was happy for her, even if he'd never say it out loud.
And for a moment—just a moment—she let herself forget.
Let herself settle into the warmth of the room, the weight of Sierra's shoulder against hers, the sound of Kiaan's laugh, the low murmur of Nic and Nami talking in the corner. Let herself feel the shape of Reyen's gaze from across the room, steady and hungry and full of something she was still learning to trust.
She looked at him. He was watching her, a half-empty glass of blood in his hand, his posture relaxed against the kitchen counter. When their eyes met, he raised the glass slightly. A silent toast.
She smiled. Small. Private.
Then she felt the phone in her dress pocket, and the smile wavered.
The tunnel. Midnight. Medora.
She looked away. Took another sip of her coffee. Let the heat burn the thought into submission.
Reyen's hand found hers a moment later. He had crossed the room without her noticing, and now he stood beside the sofa, his fingers brushing against her wrist. "You okay?" he asked, low enough that only she could hear.
She looked up at him. His dark eyes searched hers, patient and waiting. He knew her well enough now to know when she was drifting.
She smiled, and hoped it reached her eyes. "Perfect."
He held her gaze for a beat longer. Then he nodded, lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
The lie settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples she couldn't see but knew were there. She would carry it through breakfast, through the laughter, through the way Kiaan teased her about the dress and Nash threatened to interrogate Reyen about his intentions.
She would carry it until midnight.
And then she would walk into the dark.
But for now, she was here. Warm. Safe. Loved.
She held onto that.
She held onto that—the warmth of his hand, the weight of his gaze, the sound of Kiaan's laugh filling the room—and let herself pretend, just for a few more minutes, that the world outside these walls didn't exist.
The coffee cooled in her hands as the conversation shifted around her. Sierra was telling a story about a customer at the apothecary who'd asked for a love potion without irony, and Kiaan was insisting he could have used one back in 1820. Nash was arguing with Nic about the structural integrity of the ballroom ceiling. Nami was refilling her tea, her movements slow and deliberate, the kind of peace that came from being exactly where she wanted to be.
Navira finished her coffee, the last sip lukewarm, and rose from the sofa. She crossed toward the kitchen, the worn floorboards familiar under her sandals. The sink was an old farmhouse basin, deep and white, with a brass faucet that dripped when the house settled. She set the mug down, intending to rinse it—
Hands caught her waist.
She turned, a gasp catching in her throat, and found Reyen's chest an inch from her face. He had followed her without a sound, his body already closing the distance. His hands slid from her waist down the curve of her hips, then lower, the ivory fabric of her dress rustling as his palms found the hem. His fingers slipped beneath the skirt, warm and sure against the bare skin of her thighs.
"Reyen—" she started, half-laughing, half-breathless.
His mouth pressed to the curve of her neck, just below her ear, and her words dissolved. His lips were warm, his stubble rough against her skin, and he took his time, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive spot where her pulse beat close to the surface.
"Wear things like this more often, please," he murmured against her throat.
The words vibrated through her, low and rough, and she felt her knees weaken. She lifted one leg, hooking it around his hip, the fabric of her dress riding higher. His hand caught her thigh, fingers gripping the curve just above her knee, steadying her, holding her against him.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers, his breath warm and uneven. "You have no idea what you do to me," he said, and this time there was no teasing in his voice. Just truth.
She looked at him. His dark eyes were close, searching, the laughter gone from them. This was the Reyen she saw when the masks fell—the one who was terrified of losing her, the one who had buried his heart in a clearing and was still learning how to let it beat again.
She reached up, her fingers finding the line of his jaw, and pulled him down to meet her.
The kiss was soft at first. A question. A promise. His lips moved against hers, slow and deliberate, and she felt the tension in his shoulders ease as she deepened it. His hand tightened on her thigh, pulling her closer, and she let herself fall into the warmth of his mouth, the taste of coffee and something darker, the way he tilted his head to fit against hers like he'd been doing it for centuries.
Behind them, someone cleared their throat.
"Should we... leave?" Nash's voice was dry, but there was a note of amused resignation in it. "Or are we doing this in front of everyone now?"
Navira pulled back, her cheeks burning, and found the entire room staring at them. Sierra had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide and delighted. Nami was smiling into her tea, pretending she hadn't seen anything. Kiaan was openly grinning, his arms crossed, looking like he'd just won a bet.
Reyen didn't move. He kept his hand on her thigh, his body still angled toward her, and looked over his shoulder at the room with a slow, unhurried smirk.
"You can leave," he said. "Or you can stay and watch. I'm not particular."
"Reyen," Navira hissed, swatting his chest.
He laughed, low and warm, and pressed a final kiss to her forehead before stepping back. His hand slipped from her thigh slowly, deliberately, his fingers trailing across her skin before he let the dress fall back into place.
She exhaled. Tried to remember how to stand upright.
Kiaan let out a low whistle. "Well. That answers that question."
"What question?" Nash asked, his tone flat.
"Whether she's actually into him or just tolerating his presence for the architecture."
"I'm standing right here," Reyen said, but there was no edge in it. He was still looking at her, his eyes tracing the flush on her cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest. Something private passed between them, a thread pulled taut.
Navira smoothed her dress, bought herself a second to breathe. The kitchen was warm, the morning light spilling through the window, and for a moment she let herself feel the shape of his lips against hers, the press of his hand on her thigh, the way he'd said wear things like this more often like it was a plea and a prayer all at once.
Then she looked at the clock above the stove.
Ten in the morning. Fourteen hours until midnight.
The thought landed like a stone in her chest. She looked away, reaching for the faucet to rinse her cup, letting the cold water run over her fingers. The sound filled the silence, and she focused on it—the rush, the chill, the ordinary rhythm of a morning that was anything but ordinary.
Reyen was at her side again before she could steady herself. He didn't touch her this time. He just stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, and said nothing.
She turned off the water. Dried her hands on a towel. Let the seconds stretch.
"They're planning something for tonight," he said, his voice low, pitched for her alone. "Nami's been dropping hints about bonfires and apple cider. Kiaan found a bottle of whiskey he's been saving. I think they're trying to make you feel normal."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Normal sounds nice."
"It does." He paused. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"
Her heart stuttered. She kept her hands busy, folding the towel, setting it neatly beside the sink. "Nothing's wrong. Just..." She hesitated. Found the lie and held it. "Just today feels heavy. Grams. The party tomorrow."
His hand found her back, a gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. "I know. I'm sorry."
She turned, let him see her face. Let him read the grief she didn't have to fake. "Don't be sorry. Just... be here."
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
The words should have comforted her. Instead, they cut, because she was already planning to leave.
She stepped into him, pressing her face against his chest, letting the clean scent of his shirt fill her lungs. His arms came around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, and he held her like she was something precious. Like she was worth keeping.
She closed her eyes. Counted the beats of his heart. Memorized the rhythm so she could carry it into the dark with her.
When she pulled back, she was composed. She smiled, small and real, and brushed a piece of lint from his collar. "I'm going to help Nami in the garden. Fresh air."
He studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching. Then he nodded. "I'll find you."
"I know."
She turned and walked toward the back door, her sandals clicking against the hardwood. The laughter of the group swelled behind her, Kiaan's voice rising in protest about something Nash had said, and she let it wash over her like a wave.
The door opened onto a small stone patio, the garden beyond wild and overgrown, autumn roses still clinging to their trellises. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of damp earth and dried leaves. She stepped onto the grass, her dress brushing against the tall stems of late-blooming lavender, and let the quiet settle around her.
She pulled out her phone.
No new messages. But she hadn't expected any. Medora wouldn't reach out until it was time.
She stared at the screen, the weight of the spell in her pocket, Grams' grimoire still sitting on the desk in the guest room. She had a few hours. She could still turn back. Could still tell Reyen the truth, let him come with her, face Medora together—
No.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket. Medora had made it clear: alone, or not at all. And if Navira brought backup, Medora would disappear, and the next time she surfaced, she'd come for Nash. For Grams' memory. For everyone Navira loved.
The rose from this morning was still in her pocket, tucked beside the note. She pulled it out, turning the stem between her fingers, the petals soft and dark like dried blood.
She pressed it to her lips one more time.
Then she heard the back door open, and she tucked the rose away, turning to find Nami stepping onto the patio, a basket of herbs in her hands.
"You look like you need a project," Nami said, her amber eyes warm and knowing. "I'm making salves for the bonfire tonight. Want to help?"
Navira nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah. I'd love that."
Nami smiled, and they walked together toward the garden shed, the morning light falling soft and golden around them, the weight of what was coming still pressing against Navira's ribs. But for now, she had lavender in her hands, a friend beside her, and a few more hours before the world changed.
She would hold onto that.
Navira stopped walking. Her fingers found Nami's wrist, gentle but insistent, and Nami turned, the basket of herbs shifting in her arms.
"Nami." Her voice came out lower than she'd intended. "Can I tell you something? But you have to promise me you won't tell Reyen or Nic."
Nami's amber eyes flickered. She studied Navira's face—the set of her jaw, the way her fingers still hovered where they'd touched skin—and something in her expression shifted. Not alarm. Recognition. The look of someone who had just realized the ground beneath them was thinner than she'd thought.
"Come with me," Nami said quietly.
She set the basket down on the garden bench, her movements unhurried, and took Navira's hand. Her palm was warm, steady. She led Navira past the shed, past the overgrown rose trellises, past the stone wall that bordered the property's eastern edge. The grass gave way to wild thyme, releasing its scent as they crushed it underfoot. The morning air grew cooler as they moved deeper into the estate's grounds, away from the house, away from the open windows, away from ears that could hear a heartbeat from a hundred yards away.
They stopped at the edge of a small clearing, hidden by a stand of old oaks. A rusted wood-splitting machine sat abandoned near a pile of logs, left over from some project that had never been finished. The estate's generator hummed faintly in the distance.
Nami turned to face her. "Okay." She kept her voice low. "Say it here."
Navira's throat tightened. She crossed to the wood splitter, found the power switch, and pressed it. The machine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life, its engine noise filling the clearing with a mechanical growl that drowned out everything else. Nami's eyebrows rose, and Navira saw the understanding dawn in her eyes—the deliberate noise, the secrecy, the weight of whatever came next.
She stepped close, close enough that her lips almost brushed Nami's ear, and spoke into the space between them.
"I'm going to trap Medora in the tomb tunnels."
Nami's hand flew to her stomach. She stepped back, her amber eyes wide, her composure cracking for the first time since Navira had known her. "Navira—" The name came out half-breath, half-plea. She pressed her palm flat against her middle, as if steadying herself. "That's a big spell. Sierra has tried to do something similar before. It took a lot out of her. I mean—a lot. She was bedridden for two days."
"I know."
"Do you?" Nami's voice sharpened, just slightly. "Because I don't think you fully understand what you're offering. Trapping a vampire—especially one as old as Medora—isn't like locking a door. It's a containment ritual. It needs your blood, your focus, and if it goes wrong, it can—" She stopped. Breathed. "It can drain you completely. Not just your magic. You."
Navira held her gaze. "I know," she said again, softer this time. "That's why I can't have Reyen or anyone else knowing. If he finds out, he'll try to stop me. Or he'll come with me. And if he comes with me, Medora will disappear, and she'll come back for Nash. For all of you." She swallowed. "She told me. Alone, or not at all."
Nami's jaw tightened. She looked away, toward the house, where the faint sound of Kiaan's laughter drifted through the trees. Then she looked back, and her eyes were wet.
"It's heavy on my heart," Navira said, and her voice cracked on the last word. "I need to do this. She won't give me answers. She'll just take what she wants and leave. But if I trap her—if I hold her long enough—I can make her talk. I need answers, Nami. Not just for me. For Reyen. For Nic. For everything she's done to them." She reached out, her hand finding Nami's. "I need you to ask Sierra to block the house off tonight. Just until I get back. Can you do that? Without telling her what I'm doing?"
The wood splitter roared between them, filling the silence with its mechanical heartbeat. Nami stared at her, and Navira watched the war happening behind her eyes—the friend who wanted to protect her, the woman who understood what it meant to carry a secret, the heart that beat for the people she loved.
Then Nami reached out. Her hand closed around Navira's shoulder, warm and firm. She pulled her in, and Navira collapsed into the embrace, her face pressing against Nami's shoulder, the scent of dried lavender and something clean rising from her friend's cardigan.
"I would do anything for you, Navira." Nami's voice was quiet, fierce, pressed into her hair. "Anything. You know that."
She held her tighter, and Navira felt something in her chest release—a tension she'd been carrying since the ball, since Medora's smile in the candlelight, since she'd agreed to meet a monster in the dark.
"I'll talk to Sierra," Nami said, her voice steady now. "I'll tell her I've been feeling uneasy. That I want the house sealed for the night. She won't question it." She pulled back, her hands moving to cup Navira's face, her thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"If the spell starts to fail—if you feel it draining you faster than you can handle—you run. You don't try to be a hero. You don't stay because you think you owe it to anyone. You run, and you come back to us. To him." She paused. "To me."
Navira's throat closed. She nodded, the movement small, and Nami pulled her into another hug, fierce and brief.
"I mean it, Navira. I need you to come back."
"I will." The lie tasted like copper on her tongue. She swallowed it down. "I promise."
Nami held her gaze for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever she found, she nodded, stepped back, and reached for the power switch on the wood splitter. The machine coughed, sputtered, and fell silent. The clearing suddenly felt too quiet, the birdsong too sharp, the distant laughter too close.
They stood there, two women in the autumn light, a secret hanging between them like smoke.
"I should get back," Navira said. "Before someone notices we've been gone too long."
"I'll tell them I was showing you the herb beds." Nami smoothed her cardigan, composed herself, and Navira watched her friend's face settle back into its familiar calm—the mask of a woman who had learned to carry secrets with grace. "Go. I'll be there in a minute."
Navira squeezed her hand once, a silent thank-you, and turned toward the house.
She walked back through the wild grass, past the lavender and the roses, the hem of her dress brushing against the tall stems. Her heart was pounding, but her hands were steady. She had an ally now. Someone who knew, who would help, who wouldn't tell.
She reached the stone patio and paused, looking back. Nami was still standing in the clearing, her figure small against the oaks, her hand pressed to her chest. Watching her go.
Navira raised her hand. A small wave. Nami raised hers in return.
Then she turned and walked into the house, the warmth of the kitchen washing over her, the sound of Sierra's laughter pulling her back into the ordinary. Kiaan was demonstrating something with his hands, and Nash was shaking his head, and Nic was leaning against the counter with the patient look of a man who had seen centuries of chaos and learned to find it entertaining.
Reyen was waiting by the door. His eyes found hers the moment she stepped inside.
"Everything okay?" he asked, low enough that only she could hear.
She smiled. Soft. Real enough to pass. "Yeah. Just needed some air."
He studied her, his dark eyes lingering, and she felt the weight of his suspicion pressing against her ribs. But he didn't push. He reached out, his fingers brushing hers, and let his hand fall.
"I'll find you at the bonfire tonight," he said.
She looked at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hair was still damp from the morning. The way he looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a world that kept trying to move.
"I'll be there," she said.
And she meant it. She would be there, by the fire, with cider in her hands and his voice in her ears. She would hold the warmth of this day as long as she could.
And when midnight came, she would walk into the dark with a spell in her pocket and a secret in her heart—and she would carry the shape of his gaze with her into the tunnels.
It would have to be enough.