Navira woke to moonlight, not morning—the silver still pooled across the floor, the gauze curtains barely gray at the edges. She reached for him before her eyes opened, her hand finding empty sheets already cool.
She pushed herself up, scanning the room. His side of the bed was undisturbed, the pillow still bearing the indent of his head but cold to the touch. The glass on the nightstand—the one with the faint metallic tang of blood—sat untouched.
"Reyen?"
Silence.
She stretched her senses toward the bond, expecting the familiar hum, the echo of him in her chest—and found nothing. A dead space where his presence should have been. Not silence. Absence.
Her stomach tightened.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, found a pair of soft pyjama pants on the floor, and pulled them on. His shirt—the black button-down he'd worn two nights ago—hung from the armchair. She shrugged it on, the fabric carrying the ghost of his scent: cedar, sandalwood, something warm and distinctly him.
The house was quiet as she padded down the stairs. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the floorboards creak louder than they should, that made every shadow feel occupied.
She found Nic and Nami in the kitchen. Nic stood at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, his dark eyes lifting as she entered. Nami sat at the island, her amber hair loose, a mug cradled between her palms like she was still learning to hold things at the right temperature.
"Morning," Nic said, his voice careful.
Navira didn't return the greeting. "Where is he?"
The silence that followed told her everything she needed to know. Nami's gaze flicked to Nic. Nic set his coffee down, slow and deliberate.
"We don't know," Nami said softly. "He wasn't in his room when I woke."
"He's not in the house." Navira's voice came out flat. "I can't—" She pressed a hand to her chest. "I can't feel him."
Nic's jaw tightened. "He didn't say anything to you before he left?"
"He was asleep when I fell asleep. He was gone when I woke." She turned toward the window, the eastern sky just beginning to pale. "He wouldn't just leave without telling me."
Nami rose, crossing to the coffee maker. She poured a cup and held it out. Navira took it automatically, the warmth seeping into her palms, grounding her.
"He's probably handling something," Nami said, her voice gentle but lacking conviction. "You know how he gets. He thinks he needs to protect everyone alone."
Navira shook her head. "He promised. He promised he wouldn't shut me out."
She lifted the coffee to her lips, but the smell turned her stomach. She set it down, her hand still pressed to her chest, pressing harder, searching for that thread of him.
Nothing.
In town, an hour before dawn, Reyen Voss stood in the hallway of a nondescript apartment building on Cedar Street. The address had come to him through the bond—no, not through the bond. Through instinct. A pull he couldn't name, a vampire presence he recognized before his mind caught up to his feet.
He'd left the estate while Navira slept, his feet carrying him through the dark streets before he'd fully decided to go. The presence called to him like a voice he'd heard before, centuries ago, buried in a part of his memory he'd tried to forget.
The door at the end of the hall was dark wood, unremarkable. But beneath it, a thin line of light bled into the carpet.
He didn't knock. He stood, his hand raised, frozen mid-air, as the door swung open on its own.
Malachai Thorson leaned against the doorframe, a glass of something amber in his hand, blonde hair catching the low light, blue eyes sharp and amused. Behind him, Astrid sat on a worn leather couch, her blonde hair braided over one shoulder, her gaze flat and watchful.
Reyen's breath caught. Recognition hit him like a physical blow—not of the face, though he knew that face. Of the presence. The weight of the room shifted, the air thickening with a power that made his instincts scream predator.
"We meet again, Voss." Malachai's voice was smooth, almost warm, carrying the faint lilt of an accent Reyen couldn't place. He smiled, and the smile didn't reach his eyes.
Reyen stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Astrid didn't rise. She watched him with the stillness of someone who had already decided how this would end.
"You're here for the girl," Malachai said. Not a question.
Reyen met his gaze. Didn't flinch. "What do you want?"
Malachai's smile widened. He set down his glass and circled the room, his movements unhurried, deliberate. "It's not time yet. You'll know when it's time." He paused, looking Reyen over with the slow assessment of a collector appraising a piece he already owned. "But I'm bored, Voss. I need a buddy."
Reyen's jaw tightened. "I'm not your anything."
"That's where you're wrong." Malachai stopped in front of him, close enough that Reyen could smell the whiskey on his breath, could feel the pull of his presence—magnetic, suffocating, absolute. "You were mine once. Do you remember? 1946. A little club in Paris. You'd just turned it off—your humanity. You were a monster, and I was the only one who didn't flinch."
Reyen's hands curled into fists at his sides. He remembered. He remembered the blood on his hands, the screams that had been music, the hollow emptiness that had felt like freedom. He remembered Malachai's hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the carnage, teaching him to be a weapon with no master.
"I'm not that person anymore."
"Aren't you?" Malachai tilted his head, studying him. "I can smell her on you, you know. The witch. Sweet, isn't she? Innocent. The kind of innocence that makes you want to protect it—or destroy it."
Reyen moved before he could stop himself, his hand closing around Malachai's throat. "Stay away from her."
Malachai laughed, low and unhurried. Astrid didn't move from the couch, but her eyes tracked the scene with the patience of a cat watching a bird.
"You're adorable when you're angry," Malachai said. He reached up, patting Reyen's hand gently. "But we both know you're not going to hurt me. You can't. And even if you could, you wouldn't survive the attempt."
Reyen held his grip for three heartbeats. Then he let go, stepping back, his breath uneven.
Malachai straightened his collar, unbothered. "Here's what's going to happen." He paused, letting the words land. "You're going to turn it off. The humanity. The guilt. The softness she's woven into you."
Reyen's blood went cold. "No."
"I need you to look after the girl," Malachai continued, as if Reyen hadn't spoken. "Protect her from anyone who might touch her before I'm ready. But I need you to do it without that"—he gestured vaguely at Reyen's chest—"emotional attachment. It clouds judgment. Makes you weak."
Reyen took another step back. "You can't make me—"
"I can," Malachai said softly. And he smiled.
Reyen felt the compulsion before Malachai spoke again—a pressure behind his eyes, a weight settling into his skull, a warmth spreading through his veins like honey laced with poison. He tried to fight it. He thought of Navira's laugh. Her hand on his chest. The way she said his name in the dark.
And then Malachai's voice, patient and absolute:
"Turn it off."
Back at the Voss Estate, Navira was setting down her coffee when the world dropped out from under her.
She felt it—felt him—the thread that had been humming in her chest since the night they'd bonded, the second heartbeat that wasn't hers, the warmth that had become as natural as breathing—
It snapped.
Not frayed. Not faded. Snapped, like a wire pulled too tight, the end whipping back into nothing.
Her hand flew to her stomach. The coffee cup hit the floor, shattering, brown liquid spreading across the tiles. She doubled over, her knees buckling, a sound tearing from her throat that she didn't recognize—raw, wounded, animal.
"Navira!" Nami was at her side in an instant, her new vampire speed carrying her across the room before Navira hit the ground. "What happened? What's wrong?"
Nic was already moving, his phone in his hand, dialing Reyen's number. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.
Sierra burst in from the living room, Kiaan behind her, his dark eyes scanning the room for threats before landing on Navira on the floor.
"Something's wrong," Navira gasped, her voice barely a whisper. She lifted her head, her hazel eyes meeting Sierra's, wide and empty. "I can't feel him. I can't feel Reyen."
The room went still.
"What do you mean you can't feel him?" Sierra asked, crouching beside her, her hands finding Navira's shoulders.
"The bond." Navira pressed her palm to her chest, pressing so hard she felt the bone beneath. "It's gone. It's like he—like someone reached inside me and ripped him out."
Nic's phone buzzed. He looked down, his expression tightening. "Reyen's location isn't registering. His phone's still on, but he's not answering."
Kiaan moved to the window, his voice low. "He didn't tell anyone where he was going?"
"No one," Nami said. She was still holding Navira, her arms wrapped around her, anchoring her. "He left before dawn. We thought he was handling something alone. He does that."
"He wouldn't do this." Navira's voice cracked. "He promised he wouldn't shut me out. He promised." She looked down at her hands, at the coffee soaking into Reyen's shirt—his shirt, she was wearing his shirt and he was gone. "Something took him. Not physically. Something took the part of him that I could feel."
Sierra's face went pale. She knew what that meant. They all did.
Kiaan turned from the window, his jaw set. "Malachai."
The name hung in the air like a blade.
Navira's hand tightened on her chest, gripping the fabric of Reyen's shirt. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, steady, carrying the weight of something breaking and reforming all at once.
"Find him."
She moved before anyone could stop her.
Up the stairs, her bare feet finding the steps without thought, the borrowed shirt clinging to her shoulders. The bedroom felt wrong now—emptier than it had been when she'd woken, the moonlight replaced by gray morning light that did nothing to warm the room. She found her bag on the armchair, unzipped it with hands that didn't tremble because she wouldn't let them.
The outfit had been in the back of her mind since Nami had shown her the shopping bags last week—an impulse purchase, Nami had called it, pressing the folded sweater into Navira's hands with a knowing smile. For when you need to feel like yourself again.
Navira pulled off Reyen's shirt and let it fall to the floor. She didn't look at it. Couldn't.
The brown knit sweater came over her head, the fabric heavy and soft, falling past her hips. She stepped into the denim skirt, the light blue fabric brushing her thighs as she pulled it up, cinching the slim leather belt at her waist with a tug that felt final. The knee-high brown boots went on next—pointed toes, block heels that clicked against the floorboards as she stood, the sound decisive.
Her hair. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, her hair a mess of dark curls from sleep. She found a brush, dragged it through the tangles with sharp, efficient strokes. A center part. The front layers she tucked behind her ears, then let them fall forward, framing her face. Smooth. Glossy. Presentable.
She didn't recognize herself.
The sunglasses went on—slim ovals that hid her eyes, that made her look like someone who had somewhere to be, someone who wasn't falling apart. The small black bag went over her shoulder, the strap settling across her chest.
She looked like a woman going to meet her day.
She felt like a woman walking into a war.
Downstairs, the kitchen was still. The shattered coffee cup had been cleaned, the tiles wiped dry. Nami stood at the counter, her amber eyes finding Navira the moment she entered. Nic was on his phone near the window, his voice low and clipped. Sierra sat at the island, her hands wrapped around a fresh mug she wasn't drinking from.
"You're going out," Nami said. Not a question.
"I'm looking for him."
"We have people already—"
"They don't have the bond." Navira's voice came out flat, controlled. "They don't know what he feels like. I do. Or I did." She pressed her palm to her chest, the gesture automatic now. "If there's anything left of it—any echo, any trace—I'll find it."
Sierra rose, her dark eyes searching Navira's face. "You can't go alone."
"I'm not asking permission."
"I know." Sierra stepped closer, her hand finding Navira's arm. "That's why I'm coming with you."
Navira's throat tightened. She shook her head. "Stay here. If he comes back—when he comes back—someone needs to be here. Someone who can read what's happened to him."
Sierra held her gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded, slow and reluctant, and let go.
Nic turned from the window, his phone still in his hand. "I've got people checking the south end of town, the old warehouses near the river, every property we know Malachai might have claimed. Kiaan's running the east side. Adrian's checking the forest line."
"What about the apartment buildings?" Navira asked.
Nic's jaw tightened. "Which ones?"
"All of them." She adjusted her bag strap, her voice steady. "He wouldn't go somewhere obvious. He'd go somewhere he thought no one would look. Somewhere that meant something to the person who took him."
The room went quiet. Nami's hand found Nic's arm.
Navira turned and walked to the front door. She didn't look back. If she looked back, she might stop, and she couldn't stop. Stopping meant the absence in her chest would catch up to her, and if it caught up, she'd collapse, and she couldn't collapse. Not yet. Not while he was out there, somewhere, empty where he should have been warm.
The estate's gravel drive crunched under her boots as she walked to Nami's car—the sedan she'd borrowed before, the keys still in her bag. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and dying leaves. Autumn's last breath before winter took hold.
She drove.
Through the winding roads of Ashwood Falls, past the closed shops on Main Street, the coffee house where she and Reyen had never gotten around to having that second date. Past the library where he'd once mocked her taste in books and she'd thrown a napkin at his face. Past the park where he'd held her hand for the first time, his thumb tracing circles on her palm like he was memorizing her.
Every street held a ghost of him. Every corner, a laugh she could almost hear.
She checked her phone at every red light. No messages. No calls. No ping from the tracking app Nic had installed on all their phones after the Halloween ball.
Reyen's dot was simply gone.
She drove for an hour. Two. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist, and still she drove, her eyes scanning sidewalks, alleyways, the faces of strangers who might have seen him pass. She checked the Cedar Street apartments, the old factory district, the forest road where the trees grew thick and the shadows pooled like water.
Nothing.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it before the second ring, her heart slamming against her ribs.
The caller ID read Sierra.
"Did you find him?" Navira asked, her voice cracking at the edges.
A pause. Then Sierra's voice, careful and low: "Come back to the estate."
Navira's grip on the phone tightened. "Why?"
"Just—come back. Please. We need you here."
The line went dead.
The drive back was a blur. Trees, houses, the iron gates of the estate swinging open as she approached. She pulled up the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires, and killed the engine before the car had fully stopped.
Her phone buzzed again. Nami.
She answered as she climbed out of the car, her boots hitting the gravel. "I'm here. What's going on?"
"I don't think you should come to the estate right now." Nami's voice was strange—controlled, the way she sounded when she was trying to keep someone calm. "Navira, just—wait. Please. Let me explain first."
Navira kept walking, her eyes fixed on the front door. "I'm pulling in now, Nami."
"Navira—"
She hung up.
The front door was unlocked. She pushed it open, the familiar scent of the estate washing over her—old wood, dust, the faint trace of Nic's cologne. But beneath it, something else. Something sharp and metallic, carried on the still air.
Blood.
Her feet carried her through the foyer, past the staircase, toward the sound of hushed voices in the living room. She rounded the corner.
And stopped.
The room was full of people—Nic, Kiaan, Adrian, Sierra, Nami. They stood in a loose semicircle, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the couch. No one spoke. No one moved.
Navira's gaze traveled past them, following the invisible thread of their attention.
Reyen sat on the lounge, his back against the cushions, his legs spread wide. His shirt was open—no, torn, the buttons ripped, the fabric hanging loose around his shoulders. Blood streaked down his chin, his neck, his chest, dark and wet and fresh. His dark eyes were fixed on the wall opposite him, empty, hollow, seeing nothing.
On the lounge beside him, a woman lay sprawled across the cushions. Young. Dark hair. Her wrist rested on Reyen's chest, the bite marks stark against her pale skin, a pattern of punctures that told Navira exactly how many times he'd fed from her. Her chest still rose and fell, shallow but steady. Alive. Barely.
Reyen didn't look up when Navira entered. Didn't acknowledge her presence at all. His hand rested on the woman's wrist, not gripping, not holding—just resting, like he could reach for her blood whenever he wanted. Like she was a glass he hadn't finished.
Navira's breath stopped somewhere in her throat.
She stood in the doorway, her sunglasses still on, her hands at her sides, her heart a shattered thing beating against her ribs. The room waited. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, the weight of what she was seeing pressing down on her chest until she couldn't breathe.
Reyen lifted his head.
His eyes found hers—dark, flat, utterly blank. No recognition. No warmth. No flicker of the man who had held her eight hours ago, who had whispered her name in the dark, who had promised he wouldn't shut her out.
He looked at her like she was a stranger.
“What did you do?”
Her voice didn't sound like her own. It came from somewhere deep, scraped raw, carried on the hollow air of the room. She stepped forward, her boots clicking against the hardwood, the sound too loud in the silence.
Reyen didn't move. His dark eyes tracked her as she approached, but there was nothing behind them—no recognition, no curiosity, no warmth. Just flat, empty observation, like he was cataloging her features without interest.
The woman on the couch stirred, a faint moan escaping her lips. Her wrist shifted on Reyen's chest, and he looked down at her, his hand adjusting its grip, his thumb pressing into the bite marks. The woman whimpered.
Navira stopped three feet from the couch. Close enough to see the blood still wet on his chin, the torn threads of his shirt, the way his chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of someone completely at ease. She stared at the woman's wrist—the punctures, the bruising, the pale skin that hadn't yet begun to heal.
“I asked you a question.”
Reyen's gaze lifted back to her face. He tilted his head, a slow, curious motion, like he was studying a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.
“I fed.” His voice was flat. Casual. The voice of someone explaining the obvious. “She'll live.”
Navira's throat closed. She forced the next words out. “You don't recognize me.”
It wasn't a question.
Reyen's brow furrowed—the first crack in his blank expression, but it wasn't recognition. It was confusion, mild and detached, like she'd said something that didn't quite make sense.
“Should I?”
The room behind her felt like it was holding its breath. She heard Nami's sharp inhale, the shuffle of Kiaan shifting his weight. Someone's hand found her arm—Sierra, her fingers warm and grounding, trying to pull her back.
Navira shook her off.
She took another step forward, close enough that she could smell the blood on him, the copper tang mingling with the cedar and sandalwood that had once meant safety. She reached out, her hand trembling, and touched his face.
His skin was cold.
He let her touch him. Didn't lean into it, didn't pull away. Just sat there, watching her hand like it was an object that had appeared in his space, something he hadn't asked for and didn't care about.
The tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it. She felt it hot against her skin, a single traitorous drop that betrayed everything she was trying to hold together.
“Reyen.” His name came out cracked, desperate. “It's me. It's Navira.”
He blinked. Slow. Deliberate. His hand came up and gently moved hers away from his face, setting it back at her side like he was returning a book to its shelf.
“I know who you are.” His voice was still flat, but there was something underneath it now—a thread of impatience, thin and cold. “You're the witch. The one Malachai wants.” He looked past her, toward Nic. “Is there a reason she's in my space?”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her chest, pressing against the hollow where his presence had been.
Nic stepped forward, his voice low and controlled. “Reyen. Look at her. Really look at her.”
Reyen's gaze slid back to Navira. He held her eyes for a long, empty moment. Then he shrugged, the gesture loose, dismissive.
“I'm looking.”
Nami moved to Navira's side, her hand finding her back, steadying her. “Come away,” she whispered. “He's not here. You're just hurting yourself—”
“No.” Navira's voice hardened. She pulled herself upright, wiping the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She met Reyen's eyes again, and this time she didn't look for warmth. She looked for the crack. The fault line. The place where the compulsion might have left a seam.
“You don't remember anything,” she said. “The bond. The night we spent together. The way you held me when I woke from the coma. The birthday party. The carnival. The way you looked at me when I wore that black dress.”
Reyen's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough.
She saw it.
“You feel something,” she said, stepping closer again. “You might not know what it is, but you feel it. That empty space in your chest? That's me. That's us. And no matter what Malachai did to you, you can't erase that.”
Reyen's hand curled into a fist on his thigh. His eyes flickered—something passing through them, too fast to name, gone before she could hold onto it.
Then the woman on the couch moaned again, louder this time, her body arching as she began to stir. Reyen's attention snapped to her, and whatever had flickered in his eyes vanished, replaced by that same flat, empty focus.
“She's waking,” he said, almost to himself. He stroked the woman's hair, a gesture that would have been tender if it hadn't been so mechanical. “I should finish.”
Navira's blood turned to ice. “You're not touching her again.”
Reyen looked up, one eyebrow lifting. “Who's going to stop me?”
The air in the room shifted. Sierra's hands began to glow, a faint amber light pulsing at her fingertips. Kiaan stepped forward, his body coiling with tension. Nic's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding.
“Reyen. Stand down.”
Reyen's gaze swept across them, slow and assessing. He let out a soft laugh, hollow and devoid of humor. “All of you. Circling like I'm the enemy.” He shook his head, looking back down at the woman. “I'm not the one you should be afraid of.”
“We're not afraid of you,” Navira said. Her voice was steady now, the tears dried on her cheeks. “We're afraid for you. There's a difference.”
Reyen's hand stilled on the woman's hair. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he looked up at Navira, and something shifted in his eyes—not warmth, not recognition, but something else. Confusion, maybe. Or curiosity.
“You keep looking at me like you know me,” he said quietly.
“I do know you.”
He stared at her. The woman on the couch stirred again, her eyes fluttering, her hand reaching weakly for his arm. He looked down at her, then back at Navira.
“She needs blood,” he said. “If I don't finish, she won't survive the transition.”
Navira's heart stopped. “Transition?”
Nic stepped forward, his face pale. “Reyen. Tell me you didn't.”
Reyen shrugged. “She was dying when I found her. I gave her a choice.” He gestured loosely at the woman's wrist. “She chose.”
Sierra's hands dropped, the glow fading. “He turned her,” she whispered. “He's making a vampire.”
The room went cold.
Navira stared at the woman—at the bite marks, at the pale skin, at the slow, arrhythmic rise and fall of her chest. A new vampire. Born from Reyen's compulsion, from the hollow shell Malachai had made of him.
And somewhere in that shell, the real Reyen was buried, watching, unable to stop it.
She turned to Nic. “Can we save her?”
Nic's jaw tightened. “If she's already been turned, she'll either wake as a vampire or she won't wake at all. There's no going back.”
Navira looked back at the woman. Young. Dark hair. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She had a life, probably a family, people who would wonder where she was.
And Reyen had taken her.
No. Malachai had taken her. Through Reyen.
She pressed her palm to her chest again, felt the dead space where his heartbeat used to live, and made a decision.
“Sierra. Can you stabilize her?”
Sierra blinked. “I can try. But Navira, she's already turning—there's no reversing it. I can keep her alive through the transition, but—”
“Do it.” Navira turned to Kiaan. “Get her to a room. Somewhere quiet, with curtains. She'll need darkness when she wakes.”
Kiaan nodded, moving toward the couch without hesitation. He bent, sliding his arms under the woman's knees and shoulders, lifting her with careful strength. She moaned, her head lolling against his chest, but she didn't wake.
Reyen's eyes followed Kiaan as he carried her out of the room. For a moment, his expression flickered—something like loss, or frustration, or hunger. Then it smoothed back to blank.
He looked at Navira. “You're taking my meal.”
“She's not a meal.” Navira's voice was quiet, but it carried. “She's a person. And you're going to stay here while we figure out how to fix what Malachai did to you.”
Reyen leaned back against the couch, his torn shirt falling open, revealing the blood that had dried in streaks across his chest. He studied her with lazy disinterest.
“And if I don't want to be fixed?”
Navira held his gaze. The hollow in her chest ached, a physical wound that pulsed with every beat of her heart. But she didn't look away.
“Then I'll wait until you do.”
She turned and walked out of the room. Her boots echoed on the hardwood, steady and deliberate. Behind her, she heard Nic's low voice, saying something to Kiaan, and the soft shuffle of footsteps as the room dispersed.
She didn't stop until she reached the basement door.
Her hand rested on the cold metal handle. The answer was down there. Chained, weakened, full of knowledge Medora had been hoarding like a miser with gold. If anyone knew how to break a compulsion—how to reach the man buried inside the monster Malachai had made—it was her.
Navira took a breath. Steady. In and out.
She opened the door and started down the stairs.
The stairs down to the basement were cold under her boots, the air growing damp and still as she descended. The single bulb at the bottom cast a weak yellow glow, illuminating the iron bars of the cell Medora had occupied for—what, a day? Two? Time had blurred since the bond had snapped.
Medora sat on the narrow cot, her wrists bound in silver chains that glinted dully in the low light. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, tangled and dark, and the vervain in her system had stripped her of the usual sharpness in her hazel eyes. But they still tracked Navira's approach with something approaching amusement.
"Well, well." Medora's voice was rough, but the smile that curled her lips was familiar—crooked, knowing, utterly infuriating. "The witch returns. Come to gloat? Or to finish what you started?"
Navira stopped at the bars. Her hand found the key in her pocket—she'd taken it from the hook in the kitchen, sliding it into her bag before anyone could ask what she was doing. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.
"I need your help."
Medora's eyebrows rose. She let out a low laugh, the sound scraping against the silence. "You need my help. After you chained me in a basement and fed me vervain like I was a rabid dog." She leaned forward, the chains clinking. "What happened? Did your little vampire finally get bored of playing house?"
Navira's jaw tightened. "Malachai found him. He compelled Reyen to turn off his humanity."
The amusement drained from Medora's face. Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or memory. For a moment, she looked almost human.
"Kai." She said the name like it tasted bitter. "He's here."
"He's been here. He had you chained in a tomb, remember?" Navira's voice was flat, impatient. "He's the reason I needed your blood in the first place. And now he's taken Reyen and turned him into—" She stopped, her throat tightening. "Into a version of himself that doesn't know me."
Medora studied her for a long moment. Then she leaned back on the cot, the silver chains scraping against the stone wall. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"
"You know how to break a compulsion. You've been alive for six hundred years. You've manipulated your way out of worse situations than this." Navira stepped closer to the bars, her voice dropping. "I'm not asking you to do it for free. I'm asking you to do it because if Malachai gets what he wants, he'll kill everyone. Including you."
Medora's smile returned, but it was thinner now, more thoughtful. "You're not wrong." She tilted her head, studying Navira with those hazel eyes that were so like her own. "But I'm chained in a basement, sweetheart. I can't exactly work miracles from here."
Navira held her gaze. Then she pulled the key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock.
The click was loud in the silence.
Medora's eyes widened—just a fraction, barely perceptible, but Navira caught it. She pushed the door open, the hinges groaning, and stepped back.
"You're free."
Medora rose slowly, the silver chains falling from her wrists as she stood. She rubbed the raw marks on her skin, her gaze fixed on Navira with something unreadable.
"You're letting me go."
"I'm asking you to help me." Navira's voice was steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "You know Malachai. You know how he works. You know how to break a compulsion on an Original's bloodline. If anyone can tell me how to reach Reyen, it's you."
Medora stepped out of the cell. She was taller than Navira remembered, or maybe it was the way she moved now—unbound, predatory, the vervain still dulling her edges but the danger coiling beneath her skin like a waiting snake.
"And if I don't?"
"Then you walk out that door and I never see you again." Navira met her eyes. "But I think you will. Because you remember what it was like when you turned him. When you loved him."
Medora's expression flickered. For a heartbeat, something raw passed through her eyes—pain, or regret, or the ghost of a feeling she'd buried centuries ago. Then it was gone, smoothed over by that familiar mask of cool indifference.
"You play a dangerous game, little witch."
"I know."
Medora looked at her for a long moment. Then she moved.
Navira barely registered the blur—one second Medora was standing three feet away, the next she was gone, a rush of cold air and the distant sound of the basement door slamming open. Footsteps, too fast to track, and then silence.
She was alone.
Navira stood in the empty cell, the key still in her hand, the silence pressing in around her. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her shoulders sagging.
Good.
She'd hoped Medora would run. Hoped she'd take the opening and disappear into the night, back to whatever shadows she'd been hiding in before all of this began. The woman was a liability, a wild card, a predator who couldn't be trusted. Letting her go had been a gamble—but keeping her chained had been a ticking bomb.
Navira climbed the stairs, her boots heavy on each step. The basement door was still open, the cool air of the hallway washing over her as she stepped through. She closed it behind her, listening to the house.
Voices. Muffled, coming from the living room. She recognized Nic's low tone, Kiaan's clipped responses. And beneath them, another voice—lighter, quicker, edged with something that made her stomach turn.
Reyen.
She walked toward the sound, her boots quiet on the hardwood. The living room came into view: Nic standing near the window, his phone in his hand, his jaw tight. Kiaan beside the fireplace, his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on the couch. And Reyen, sprawled across the cushions like he owned them, his torn shirt still hanging loose around his shoulders, a glass of something amber in his hand.
He looked up as she entered, and that flat, empty gaze found her. But there was something different in it now—a spark of awareness, of recognition, twisted into something cold and sharp.
"There she is." His voice was light, almost playful, but the edge beneath it made the hairs on her arms rise. "The witch who freed the viper. Bold move. Stupid, but bold."
Navira stopped in the center of the room. "You know I let her go."
"I felt her leave. Hard to miss that kind of energy." He took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving hers. "What did you trade for her freedom? Your firstborn? Your dignity?" A smile curled his lips, sharp and humorless. "Or did you just give it away, hoping she'd be grateful?"
"I asked her to help me break Malachai's compulsion."
Reyen laughed—a short, hollow sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Help you break Malachai's compulsion. You think Medora gives a damn about helping anyone but herself?" He set the glass down on the side table, the motion lazy, deliberate. "She's gone. Probably halfway to the coast by now. And you're standing here, empty-handed, looking at me like I'm supposed to feel sorry for you."
Nic stepped forward, his voice low. "Reyen."
"What?" Reyen spread his hands, the gesture wide and mocking. "I'm just stating facts. She made a bad call. She's made several, actually. Letting Medora go is just the latest in a long line of questionable decisions."
Navira's hands curled into fists at her sides. "You remember."
Reyen tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting. "Remember what?"
"Everything. The bond. The nights we spent together. The carnival. The birthday party." She took a step closer, her voice cracking at the edges. "You remember it all, don't you? You just don't feel it."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he smiled—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that was meant to wound.
"I remember the way you sounded when I was inside you."
The room went still. Nic's hand tightened on his phone. Kiaan's jaw clenched.
Navira felt the words hit her like a slap, but she didn't flinch. She held his gaze, her heart pounding, her throat tight.
"I remember every detail," Reyen continued, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "The way your back arched. The way you said my name. The way you begged me not to stop." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into hers. "I remember all of it. And do you know what I feel when I think about it?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
"Nothing."
The word hung in the air, cold and final.
Navira's vision blurred, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not this version of him. This wasn't Reyen. This was the hollow shell Malachai had carved out, wearing his face like a mask.
"I don't believe you," she said quietly.
Reyen's smile flickered, just for a second. "Believe what you want. Doesn't change the truth."
Her eyes flickered. Not a blink—something deeper, a pulse of black bleeding across her irises before receding, her magic feeding on the rhythm of her shattered heart. She lifted her chin. "I don't believe you." Louder this time. The words rang off the walls, carrying a weight that made the air in the room shift.
Reyen laughed. Cold, sharp, nothing like the laugh she'd fallen in love with. "I hit a nerve, did I?"
Navira's head tilted. She felt the candles in the house respond—a synchronized flicker across every room, every sconce, every wick catching the same invisible wind. The light dimmed, steadied, dimmed again. She blinked, consciously pulling the magic back into herself, and took three slow, deliberate breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Grounding herself against the hollow in her chest.
"You did," she said, her voice steady now. The admission stripped the barb of its power. "Because it's true. You remember everything. Every word, every touch, every moment we shared. And that means somewhere in there—so deep even Malachai's compulsion can't reach it—you feel something. Otherwise, you wouldn't be trying so hard to hurt me."
Reyen's smile faltered. Just a fraction, barely visible, but she caught it. He rose from the couch in one fluid motion, his torn shirt hanging open, blood still drying on his chest. He moved toward her with that predatory grace she'd always found thrilling—but now it made her skin prickle with warning.
Kiaan shifted, ready to intervene. Nic held up a hand, a silent command to wait.
Reyen stopped inches from her. Close enough that she could smell the copper on his breath, could see the way his dark eyes tracked her face, searching for weakness. "You think you know what's inside me?" His voice dropped, low and intimate, the same register he'd used to whisper promises against her skin. "You think there's some hidden version of me waiting to break free and sweep you off your feet?"
She didn't step back. "I know there is."
"He's dead." The words came out flat, final. "Malachai didn't just turn off my humanity. He killed it. The part of me that loved you? Gone. The part that wanted to protect you? Gone. I remember it, but it feels like a story someone else lived." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "You're mourning a ghost."
Navira's hands curled into fists at her sides. The candles flickered again, shadows dancing across the walls. She forced herself to hold his gaze, to look past the coldness in his eyes and find the man she knew was still there.
"You're wrong," she said quietly. "I can see him. In the way you hold yourself. In the way you chose to wound me instead of just ignoring me. A real hollow shell wouldn't bother. A real puppet wouldn't care enough to be cruel." She reached up, her hand trembling, and touched his cheek. "You're still in there, Reyen. Fighting. Even if you don't realize it."
He caught her wrist. His grip was firm, almost bruising, and for a moment she saw something flicker in his eyes—anger, confusion, something raw and unguarded. "Stop touching me like you know me."
"I do know you."
"You knew him." He released her wrist, stepping back, putting distance between them. "The man who wrote you letters and won you foxes at a carnival. The man who held you when you cried. That's not me. That man is gone, and if you keep looking for him in my face, you're going to destroy yourself."
Navira let her hand drop. The sting of his words settled into her chest, cold and heavy. But she didn't look away. "Then I'll find a way to bring him back."
Reyen stared at her. For a long, aching moment, something passed through his eyes—a crack in the armor, a brief war between the compulsion and the man beneath it. Then it smoothed over, and he turned away, walking back to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions, reaching for his glass, his movements deliberately casual.
"Do what you want. It won't change anything."
Navira watched him take a long drink. Watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his hand gripped the glass a little too tightly. He was lying. She could feel it, even without the bond. He was fighting the compulsion, and it scared him.
She turned to Nic. "Keep him here. Don't let him leave the estate."
Nic nodded, his jaw tight. "And you?"
"I'm going to find a way to break this." She looked at Kiaan. "Protect the woman upstairs. She didn't choose this. When she wakes, she's going to need guidance."
Kiaan inclined his head. "You have my word."
She walked out of the living room without looking back. Her boots echoed on the hardwood, steady and deliberate, carrying her through the foyer and up the stairs. The door to Reyen's bedroom was still open. She stepped inside, letting the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood wash over her, and crossed to the armchair where she'd dropped her bag.
Grams' grimoire was still inside. She pulled it out, the leather cover worn and soft beneath her fingers, and laid it open on the desk near the window. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting elegant and precise. She'd read through it before, searching for answers about Malachai, about Originals, about the bond. But she'd been looking for the wrong thing.
She needed to break a compulsion placed by an Original on a vampire from his bloodline.
Her fingers traced the lines of text, scanning for keywords. Compulsion. Bond. Original blood. Breaking. The words blurred as her eyes burned, but she blinked the tears away and kept reading. She didn't have time to fall apart. Not yet.
Minutes passed. The afternoon light grew stronger, painting the room in shades of gold and gray. She heard movement downstairs—voices, footsteps, the creak of the front door opening and closing. She ignored it, her focus narrowing to the pages beneath her hands.
A knock at the door made her look up.
Nami stood in the doorway, her amber eyes red-rimmed, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She held a cup of coffee in her hands, steam curling into the air. "You've been up here for two hours."
Navira blinked. "Two hours?"
"Nic said you were in Reyen's room. I figured you'd want space, but you need to eat. Or drink something. Or at least sit in a different chair so I don't have to watch you spiral."
Navira's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "I'm not spiraling."
"You're reading the same page you were reading when I knocked." Nami crossed the room, setting the coffee on the desk. "Your eyes are red. Your hands are shaking. And you've been wearing the same boots since yesterday."
Navira looked down at her boots. Right. She hadn't taken them off. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't slept. She'd been running on adrenaline and grief, and now that the adrenaline was fading, the grief was catching up.
"I can't stop," she said quietly. "If I stop, I'll feel it. And if I feel it, I won't be able to function."
Nami pulled the chair from the vanity and sat down across from her. "You don't have to function. You have to survive. And surviving means eating, drinking water, and sleeping at some point." She pushed the coffee closer. "Drink. Then tell me what you've found."
Navira wrapped her hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into her palms, grounding her. She took a sip, the bitterness spreading across her tongue, and let out a slow breath.
"There's a ritual. In Grams' grimoire. It's old—centuries old—and it requires the blood of the one who cast the compulsion." She looked up, meeting Nami's eyes. "We need Malachai's blood."
Nami's expression didn't change. "That's impossible."
"I know." Navira set the coffee down, her hands moving to the grimoire, flipping to the marked page. "But there's another option. A loophole. If we can find the witch who's working with him—the one weaving the locator spell—we can use her blood to break the connection. It won't undo the compulsion completely, but it will weaken it enough that Reyen might be able to fight it."
"And how do we find this witch?"
Navira's jaw tightened. "Medora."
Nami's eyes widened. "You let her go."
"I let her go so she could find the witch. Medora knows Malachai's network better than anyone. She knows his allies, his safe houses, his methods." Navira leaned back in her chair, her hands gripping the armrests. "She owes me. I freed her. I let her walk out of that cell without a fight. And I told her that if she wanted to survive Malachai, she'd need to help me bring him down."
"You're trusting Medora."
"I'm using her." Navira's voice hardened. "There's a difference. She doesn't care about me, or Reyen, or anyone but herself. But she cares about surviving. And Malachai is the one person who can actually kill her. If she thinks I can help her stop him, she'll cooperate."
Nami studied her for a long moment. "You've thought about this."
"I've had two hours to think about nothing else."
Navira's phone buzzed on the desk. She picked it up, her heart lurching as she saw the unknown number.
One message.
The tomb. Midnight. Bring the grimoire.
Come alone if you want him back.
— M
She stared at the screen, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Nami leaned over, reading the message over her shoulder, and let out a low breath.
"She's already found something."
"Or she's setting a trap." Navira set the phone down, her mind racing. "Either way, it's the only lead I have."
"You're not going alone."
"She said come alone."
"She's Medora." Nami's voice was sharp, edged with frustration. "She lies for a living. If you walk into that tomb without backup, you're giving her exactly what she wants."
Navira turned the phone over in her hands, the screen dark. "I know. But if I bring anyone, she'll know. And she'll disappear. And I'll lose the only chance I have to reach Reyen before Malachai completes whatever plan he's setting in motion."
Nami's hand found hers, warm and steady. "Then let me come. I'll stay out of sight. She won't even know I'm there."
Navira looked at her best friend—the woman who had died and been reborn as a vampire, who was still learning to control her new senses, who had every reason to stay safe and protected within the estate walls. And she was offering to walk into danger anyway.
"You're not supposed to be the one protecting me," Navira said, her voice cracking.
"Too bad." Nami squeezed her hand. "You've spent the last few weeks carrying everyone else's burdens. Let me carry this one with you."
Navira's throat tightened. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and looked back down at the grimoire. The words blurred again, but this time she let them. She let herself feel the weight of the moment—the fear, the hope, the aching absence of the man she loved.
She had until midnight.
She grabbed her bag, the grimoire tucked under her arm, and walked out into the fading afternoon light. Behind her, the Voss Estate stood silent, holding its breath, waiting for what came next.
The sky had deepened to violet by the time Navira reached the cemetery, the headstones casting long shadows across the frost-kissed grass. Her boots crunched against the gravel path, the sound too loud in the stillness, and the grimoire pressed against her ribs through the bag strap, a familiar weight she clung to like an anchor.
The tomb entrance gaped at the base of the hill, the iron gate hanging open as it had the last time she'd descended these stairs. She paused at the threshold, her hand finding the cold metal of the railing, and listened.
Nothing. Just the wind, and the distant hum of the town settling into evening, and the hollow ache in her chest where Reyen's presence used to live.
She descended.
The stairs were steeper than she remembered, or maybe she was just more aware of them now—each step carrying her further from the surface, from the estate, from the man who sat in the living room with blood on his chest and emptiness in his eyes. The torchlight flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls, and the air grew cooler, damper, carrying the scent of earth and old bones.
Medora stood at the center of the main chamber, her back to the stairs, her hands clasped loosely behind her. She'd changed out of the clothes she'd been wearing in the cell—somehow, in the hours since Navira had freed her, she'd found a black dress that clung to her curves and boots that added three inches to her height. Her dark curls spilled down her back, catching the torchlight, and when she turned at the sound of Navira's footsteps, her smile was sharp and knowing.
"You came." Not surprised. Pleased, maybe, or satisfied in the way a cat was satisfied when the mouse walked into the trap exactly as predicted.
"You knew I would." Navira stopped at the edge of the chamber, her bag still slung across her body, the grimoire a solid weight against her hip. "What did you find?"
Medora's smile widened. She gestured to a stone bench carved into the wall, and when Navira didn't move, she shrugged and settled onto it herself, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of casual elegance.
"That spell in your grandmother's grimoire—the one you were hoping would break Kai's compulsion? It won't work." She said it lightly, like she was commenting on the weather. "Wrong kind of magic. That ritual is designed for a compulsion cast by a regular vampire, not an Original. Kai's blood is older, stronger, woven into the very fabric of the curse that made us. You can't untangle it with herbs and intention."
Navira's hand tightened on her bag strap. She'd suspected as much, had felt the truth of it in the way the words had slid off the page without settling into her bones. But hearing it spoken aloud made it real, and real meant she was running out of options.
"Then what can I do?"
Medora tilted her head, studying her with those hazel eyes that were so like her own. "I found out what he's been compelled to protect."
The words landed like a stone in still water. Navira's breath caught. "What?"
"Malachai didn't just tell him to turn off his humanity and wander off. He gave him a purpose. A mission." Medora's voice dropped, losing some of its edge. "He compelled him to protect something. To guard it with his life, even if it meant destroying himself in the process."
Navira's mind raced. "Protect what? A place? An object?"
"No." Medora met her eyes, and for a fleeting second, something almost gentle passed through her gaze. "You."
The word hung in the air between them, cold and fragile.
"Me?" Navira's voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
"You're the key to everything, little witch. Your blood, your magic, your doppelgänger nature. Malachai needs you alive and intact for his ritual to work. So he made sure that the one person most likely to keep you safe would do exactly that—but without the emotional attachment that might make him hesitate." Medora leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Reyen isn't just wandering around being cruel for the sake of it. He's protecting you. He just doesn't remember why he cares."
Navira's throat tightened. She pressed her palm to her chest, felt the steady thrum of her own heartbeat, and thought of Reyen's hands on her in the dark, of his voice whispering promises she'd believed with her whole soul.
"How do I use that?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Medora's smile returned, but it was thinner now, more calculating. "We make him believe you're gone."
Navira blinked. "What?"
"If we make him believe you died—truly, irrevocably died—then his compulsion has nothing to protect. The purpose Malachai gave him shatters. And when that purpose is gone, the man underneath might surface long enough to choose who he wants to be."
The words settled into Navira's chest like ice. She thought of the woman on the couch, her wrist bleeding, her life stolen. She thought of the hollow look in Reyen's eyes when he'd told her he remembered everything and felt nothing.
"And how do we do that?" she asked quietly.
Medora rose from the bench, her boots clicking against the stone floor as she crossed the chamber to stand before Navira. Close enough that Navira could smell the lingering traces of vervain in her skin, could see the faint shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of hunger and exhaustion carefully masked.
"Your new magic," Medora said. "The life-force magic that nearly killed you when you brought your brother back. It grounds you, anchors you to this world in a way that most witches can't access. There's a spell in that grimoire—I saw it when you were flipping through it in the cell—that links one person's life force to another's."
Navira's hand went to her bag, her fingers finding the worn leather cover of the grimoire. She pulled it out, the pages falling open to a section she'd skimmed but not studied. The script was elegant, looping, the ink faded to a warm brown.
"The linking ritual," she murmured, reading the opening lines. "I thought this was for—"
"For binding a familiar? Yes. But magic is flexible, little witch. Intent matters more than the words on the page." Medora's voice dropped, intimate and urgent. "You link yourself to me. To my life force. And then someone—someone you trust, someone who can swing a blade without flinching—stabs you through the heart."
Navira's blood went cold. She looked up from the grimoire, her eyes meeting Medora's. "You want me to die."
"I want you to appear dead. There's a difference." Medora's smile was sharp, but her eyes were serious. "As long as I wake up, you wake up. Vampires are hard to kill, sweetheart. We've been dying and getting back up for centuries. If your life force is tied to mine, your body will heal the same way mine does—given time, and blood, and the will to keep breathing."
Navira stared at her. The words spun through her mind, rearranging themselves, settling into a pattern that almost made sense. "How long?"
"An hour. Maybe two. Long enough for Reyen to feel you die, to watch you fall, to have his compulsion shatter against the impossibility of your absence." Medora's voice softened, just barely. "Long enough for him to come back."
Navira looked down at the grimoire, her fingers tracing the faded ink. The ritual was there, written in Grams' careful hand, the instructions precise and unflinching. She could feel the magic humming beneath the words, waiting to be awakened.
"That's actually a good plan," she said slowly, lifting her eyes to meet Medora's. "But we can't tell anyone else. They won't like it."
Medora let out a low laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "They'll hate it. Nic will try to talk you out of it. Nami will cry. Kiaan will probably threaten me, which would be adorable if it weren't so predictable." She paused, her smile turning knowing. "But we don't need their permission. We just need the right moment."
"When?"
"Your birthday party." Medora said it like it was obvious, like she'd been planning this for days instead of hours. "Tomorrow night. The one Nami's been planning in secret."
Navira's brows furrowed. "My birthday party? I don't—" She stopped, her mind catching up to the words. "Nami's been planning a party?"
Medora's smile widened into something almost fond. She tilted her head, her voice rising slightly, carrying through the chamber. "Isn't that right, little Mimi?"
The silence stretched. Then, from the shadows near the stairwell, a soft footstep. A rustle of fabric.
Nami stepped into the torchlight, her amber eyes wide, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. She was wearing dark clothes—black jeans, a fitted sweater, boots that made no sound on the stone—and her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing the pale column of her throat.
"You weren't supposed to know I was here," Nami said, her voice carrying a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. She shot a glare at Medora. "And Navira wasn't supposed to know about the party."
Navira stared at her best friend, the pieces clicking into place. "You were following me."
"I told you I'd stay out of sight." Nami stepped forward, her hands dropping to her sides. "I meant it. I was just—" She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I wasn't going to let you walk into a tomb alone to meet the woman who tried to kill you. That's not how friendship works."
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough." Nami's jaw tightened. She looked at Medora, her amber eyes cold. "You want to stab my best friend through the heart and hope she comes back."
Medora shrugged, unbothered. "I want to save the man she loves by making him believe she's dead so his compulsion breaks and he comes back to himself. The stab is just a means to an end."
Nami turned to Navira, her expression softening. "You can't be seriously considering this."
Navira looked down at the grimoire in her hands, at the ritual that could link her life to a vampire who had spent centuries manipulating everyone around her. She thought of Reyen's empty eyes, his flat voice, the way he'd looked at her like she was a stranger wearing a familiar face.
"If there's a chance it works, I have to take it."
"Navira—"
"I know it's insane." Navira's voice cracked, but she pushed through it. "I know trusting Medora is the worst decision I could make. But she's right about one thing—I don't have another option. The ritual in the grimoire won't work. I can't fight Malachai directly. And Reyen is sitting in the estate right now, drinking blood from a woman he turned, and he doesn't even remember why that should matter."
Nami's eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. She stepped closer, her hand finding Navira's, squeezing tight. "If you do this—if you let someone stab you in front of him—I need to be the one holding the blade."
Navira's breath caught. "Nami—"
"I won't let a stranger do it. I won't let her do it." Nami shot a glare at Medora, who raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "If this goes wrong, if something happens and you don't come back, I need to know that the last thing I did for you was try to save him."
Navira's throat closed. She pulled Nami into her arms, holding her tight, feeling the rapid flutter of her new vampire heartbeat against her own chest. "I'm going to come back," she whispered. "I promise."
"You better." Nami's voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Because if I have to explain to your Grams in the afterlife that I let Medora talk you into a suicide plan, I'm going to be in serious trouble."
Medora cleared her throat. "As touching as this is, we have a ritual to prepare. The linking spell requires both of our blood, a candle lit at midnight, and a circle drawn in consecrated ash."
Navira pulled back from Nami, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked at Medora, at the woman who had been her enemy, her blood relative, her captor, and now—possibly—her only hope.
"Show me the spell."
Medora's smile was slow, and for once, it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like an acknowledgment, a recognition of something passing between them—not trust, not yet, but the beginning of a reluctant alliance.
She crossed to the stone bench and sat, gesturing for Navira to join her. The grimoire lay open between them, the pages catching the torchlight, and Medora's finger traced the lines of text with surprising gentleness.
"The consecrated ash needs to come from a fire that burned for at least three days. We can use the fireplace at the estate—it's been burning since autumn started."
Navira nodded, her mind already cataloging the steps. "The blood—yours and mine—mixed at the stroke of midnight. And the candle has to be white, beeswax, untouched by synthetic flame."
"You know the spell."
"I read it." Navira looked up, meeting Medora's eyes. "I just didn't think I'd ever need it."
Medora's expression flickered—something unreadable passing through her hazel gaze. "None of us think we'll need the spells that save our lives. That's why we memorize them anyway."
Nami moved to stand behind Navira, her hand resting on her shoulder. "If we're doing this tomorrow night, we need to be ready. The party gives us cover—everyone will be distracted, focused on celebrating. No one will notice a ritual happening in another room."
"Except the person stabbing me," Navira said dryly.
"Except that." Nami's voice was tight, but she managed a small smile. "I'll make sure it's quick. And clean. And that you have the best birthday party ever right before I do it."
Navira let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. "A birthday party where I fake my own death to break my boyfriend's compulsion. Grams would be so proud."
Medora rose, brushing off her dress. "I'll gather the ash and the candle. You bring the grimoire and the blade." She paused at the base of the stairs, looking back over her shoulder. "And Navira?"
Navira looked up.
Medora's voice dropped, losing its sharp edge for just a moment. "If this works—when this works—Reyen is going to wake up knowing he said those things to you. Knowing he hurt you. He's going to need you to be there when he falls apart."
Navira's heart clenched. "I know."
"Good." Medora turned and climbed the stairs, her footsteps fading into the night.
Nami's hand found Navira's, warm and steady. "We should get back. The estate will be wondering where we are."
Navira looked down at the grimoire, at the ritual that would link her life to a woman she didn't trust, in a plan that depended on her dying and coming back. She closed the book, the leather cover soft beneath her fingers, and tucked it into her bag.
"Let's go home."
They climbed the stairs together, the torchlight flickering behind them, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on their shoulders. Above them, the stars were beginning to emerge, cold and distant, scattered across the velvet dark like seeds waiting for spring.
They emerged from the cemetery into the cold night air, the stars spread above them like scattered salt, and Navira let herself breathe for the first time since she'd descended into the tomb. The grimoire pressed against her ribs through the bag strap, a promise she'd made to herself, to Reyen, to the version of him she was going to bring back.
Nami walked beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step. Neither spoke. The silence felt sacred, like speaking would break the spell of the plan they'd just woven, would make it fragile and impossible.
The Voss Estate rose ahead of them, its windows lit against the dark, smoke curling from the chimney into the violet sky. Warmth. Safety. A home that felt hollow without the man who'd made it feel like one.
Navira's boots crunched against the gravel drive as they approached the front door. She pulled it open, the familiar scent of old wood and Nic's cologne washing over her, and stepped inside.
The foyer was quiet. A single lamp burned on the console table near the staircase, casting a pool of gold light across the hardwood. The living room door was closed, muffled voices drifting through it—Sierra's laugh, Kiaan's low response, the clink of a glass being set down.
Navira moved toward the stairs, her hand already reaching for the banister, when the air shifted.
"You're late."
His voice came from the shadowed corner near the coat closet, low and flat, carrying none of the warmth that had once made her heart skip. She stopped, her hand frozen on the wood, and turned.
Reyen stepped out of the darkness. He'd changed his shirt—a black Henley that stretched across his shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hands were empty, his posture relaxed, but his dark eyes tracked her with the focus of a predator who had found his prey.
"Wasn't aware I had a curfew," Navira said, her voice steady despite the thud of her heart against her ribs.
"You don't." He moved closer, his boots silent on the hardwood—the deliberate quiet of someone who wanted her to notice how easily he could close the distance. "But I felt you leave. Felt you come back with Nami and—" He paused, his nostrils flaring. "Medora's scent. On both of you."
Nami stepped forward, her jaw tight. "We went for a walk. The cemetery. It's quiet there."
Reyen's gaze slid to her, flat and dismissive. "I wasn't talking to you." He looked back at Navira, closing the remaining distance between them until he stood inches away. Close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin, the faint copper undertone that meant he'd fed recently. "You're up to something."
Navira held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't flinch. "I'm always up to something. It's part of my charm."
"Don't." His voice dropped, a warning threading through the flatness. "I've been inside you in more ways than one, Navira. I know when you're lying. I know when you're planning. And I know when you're hiding something that's going to get you killed."
The words hit her like a blade, but she didn't let it show. She let them settle into her chest, into the hollow where his presence used to live, and found her footing in the silence that followed.
She met his eyes. "You want to know what I'm planning?"
"Yes."
"Then you should probably start caring again. Because I only share my secrets with people who actually give a damn about me."
Something flickered in his gaze—too fast to name, gone before she could hold it. His jaw tightened. "You best tell me what it is, or I'll find out my own way."
Navira held his stare for five heartbeats. Then she let a slow, deliberate smile curl her lips—not warm, not cruel, but knowing. The kind of smile that said she saw through every layer of armor he'd built.
"For someone who claims they don't care," she said, her voice dropping low, intimate, "you sure are showing a tiny bit of care right now."
His eyes narrowed. "I'm not—"
She reached up before he could finish, her thumb finding his bottom lip, tracing the curve of it with featherlight pressure. The gesture was deliberate, practiced, intimate in a way that made his breath catch despite the compulsion. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered:
"I could just repeat our actions and make you care, Reyen. You know I can. I've made you feel things in every room of this house—the kitchen, the hallway, the garden, the pool room, your bed. I know exactly how to reach you." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her thumb still resting on his lip. "The question is whether you're brave enough to let me try."
His hand shot up, catching her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but she felt the tremor in his fingers—the barest crack in the wall he'd built. His dark eyes searched hers, hungry and confused and something else, something that looked almost like fear.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, his voice rough.
Navira smiled, soft and sad. "I've been playing it since the day I met you. I'm not about to stop now."
She pulled her wrist free, gently, and stepped around him. Her boots clicked against the hardwood as she crossed the foyer, her hand finding the banister, her voice carrying over her shoulder.
"Goodnight, everyone. I'm going to bed."
She climbed the stairs without looking back. She heard Nami's soft footsteps follow her halfway, then stop—Nami staying behind to handle whatever fallout was brewing in the foyer. She heard the low murmur of voices as the living room door opened, Sierra's worried question, Nic's clipped response.
She didn't pause until she reached the bedroom door.
Their bedroom. The room where she'd woken in his arms, where he'd whispered her name like a prayer, where she'd felt his presence hum in her chest like a second heartbeat. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting it click shut behind her.
The room was the same as she'd left it. The bed unmade, the sheets tangled. His shirt still lay on the floor where she'd dropped it that morning. The glass on the nightstand, the one with the faint metallic tang, sat untouched.
She crossed to the bed, her knees hitting the mattress, and sat down hard. Her hands found the grimoire in her bag, pulling it out, her fingers tracing the worn leather cover. She thought of the ritual, of Medora's voice in the tomb, of Nami's hand on hers.
She thought of Reyen's face in the foyer—the flicker in his eyes when she'd touched him, the tremor in his hand when he'd caught her wrist. He was still in there. Fighting. Even if he didn't know it.
She looked out the window, at the stars scattered across the dark sky, and let herself believe that tomorrow night, she would get him back.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and Navira let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She stood in the center of the room, the grimoire still clutched to her chest, and let the silence settle around her like a second skin.
She needed to shower. Needed to wash off the tomb, Medora's perfume, the metallic trace of blood that seemed to cling to everything tonight. She set the grimoire on the desk, her fingers lingering on the worn leather for a moment before she turned away.
The bathroom was cold, the tiles biting against her bare feet as she stepped inside. She turned on the water, letting it run until steam filled the room, and stripped off the clothes she'd been wearing all day. The brown knit sweater fell to the floor. The denim skirt followed. She stepped out of her boots, leaving them by the door, and stood under the spray.
The water was almost too hot, scalding against her skin, but she didn't adjust it. She let it beat against her shoulders, her back, the crown of her head, letting the heat loosen the tension that had coiled in her muscles since she'd woken to find him gone. She stood there until the water began to cool, until her fingers pruned and her thoughts had quieted to a dull hum.
She stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and crossed to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—hazel eyes ringed with exhaustion, dark curls plastered to her temples, the faint shadow of a bruise on her collarbone where she'd caught the edge of the dresser that morning. She looked like someone who had been through a war and was still standing.
She dressed in silence. Soft grey pyjama pants, loose and worn, the fabric thin from years of washing. A matching tank top, the straps narrow, the neckline dipping just below her collarbone. She ran a brush through her hair, the knots catching and pulling, and left it loose around her shoulders. No energy for braids or clips. No energy for anything but the next step.
She opened the bathroom door, the steam billowing out behind her, and stepped into the bedroom.
And stopped.
Reyen was in the bed.
He lay on his side, his back to the doorway, the sheets pulled up to his waist. His dark hair was still damp, curling at the ends, and the Henley he'd changed into clung to the lines of his shoulders, the fabric stretching with the subtle shift of his breathing. He'd taken off his boots. Left them by the foot of the bed. The glass on the nightstand was gone, replaced by a book he'd rested on the edge of the mattress, his thumb holding his place in the spine.
Navira stood frozen, her hand still on the doorframe. The room felt smaller with him in it, the air charged with a tension that hadn't been there before.
"What are you doing?"
Her voice came out steadier than she'd expected. Flat. Controlled.
Reyen didn't turn. His voice drifted over his shoulder, casual and unhurried. "It's my bed too."
She stared at the back of his head, at the curve of his spine beneath the Henley, at the way his hand rested on the book like he had all the time in the world. "You have a guest room. Several, actually."
"I'm aware." He still didn't turn. He shifted, settling deeper into the pillows, his voice carrying that same flat indifference. "I prefer this one."
Navira's jaw tightened. She crossed the room to the dresser, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and pulled open the top drawer. Her hand found the spare pillow she kept there—she'd taken to stacking them ever since the first night she'd stayed, when she'd woken with her head on Reyen's chest and decided she needed more elevation. She pulled it out, the fabric cool against her fingers, and tucked it under her arm.
She grabbed her phone from the desk. The grimoire. A thin blanket she'd folded at the foot of the armchair—the one he'd wrapped around her shoulders the night of the carnival, when they'd sat on the porch swing and watched the stars blur through the heat of his hand in hers.
She didn't look at him as she walked to the door.
"Goodnight, Reyen."
A pause. Then, from the bed, his voice low and flat:
"Goodnight, Navira."
She stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her, the click of the latch loud in the silence.
The living room was empty, the fire burned down to embers that cast a dim orange glow across the furniture. She crossed to the couch, the one he'd been sprawled across that afternoon, the one where he'd told her he remembered everything and felt nothing. She dropped her pillow at one end, draped the blanket over the back, and stood for a moment, letting the silence settle around her.
The house was still. The kind of stillness that felt alive, breathing, waiting for something to break it. She could hear the faint creak of floorboards upstairs, the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the crackle of the dying fire. And beneath it all, the hollow absence in her chest that had once been the rhythm of his heartbeat.
She lay down on the couch, her head finding the pillow, her body sinking into the cushions. The blanket was thin but she pulled it up to her chin, wrapping herself in the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood that still clung to the fabric.
The ceiling was the same ceiling she'd stared at the first night she'd stayed at the estate, when she'd been too wired to sleep, too aware of the vampires sleeping in the rooms around her. But that night, Reyen had been down the hall, and she'd felt his presence like a warm current beneath the floorboards.
Now she felt nothing.
She closed her eyes. Opened them. Closed them again.
Sleep didn't come.
She lay there, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her hands resting on her stomach, counting the beats of her own heart. One. Two. Three. The rhythm was steady but it felt wrong, like a song missing its harmony. She'd grown so accustomed to the echo of him that its absence was louder than any sound.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. Soft, deliberate, pausing at the landing. She held her breath, waiting for the door to open, for him to appear in the doorway and say something that would shatter the fragile composure she'd built.
But the footsteps continued. Past the living room. Toward the kitchen. The sound of a glass being filled, the tap running for a long moment, then the soft pad of footsteps returning. They paused again at the living room doorway.
She didn't look up. Didn't let him know she was awake.
The pause stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then the footsteps continued, climbing the stairs, retreating into the upper floors of the house.
Navira let out a slow breath. Her eyes burned. She pressed the heel of her hand against them, hard, until the tears retreated, and lay there in the dark, the silence pressing in around her.
The fire crackled. Embers shifted, sending a brief flare of warmth across her face before settling back into the glow. She watched them, their slow dance, the way they held onto heat long after the flames had died. There was something beautiful about it. Something stubborn.
She thought of the ritual. Of Medora's voice in the tomb, steady and unflinching. Of Nami's hand on her shoulder, warm and grounding. Of the birthday party tomorrow night, the one Nami had kept secret, the one that would serve as the stage for the most dangerous thing she had ever done.
She thought of Reyen's hand on her wrist. The tremor in his fingers. The flicker in his eyes when she'd touched him, brief and fragile, like a candle guttering in the wind.
He was still in there. Fighting.
She let that thought settle into her chest, a small flame against the cold, and held onto it as the fire dimmed and the shadows deepened and the house settled into the breathing silence of the small hours before dawn.
Somewhere above her, she heard a door open. Footsteps. The creak of a floorboard directly overhead.
Then a soft knock on the living room doorframe, followed by a low voice she recognized before she opened her eyes.
"You're not sleeping."
Nami stood in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her amber eyes catching the last embers of the fire. She looked as exhausted as Navira felt, her hair loose and tangled, her face bare of the usual gloss and composure she wore like armor.
"Neither are you," Navira said quietly.
Nami crossed the room without asking, settling onto the couch by Navira's feet. She pulled her knees up, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself, and stared into the dying fire.
"Nic's asleep," she said. "First time in days, I think. He's been running on adrenaline and coffee. He didn't even stir when I got out of bed."
"That's good."
"It's something." Nami's voice was soft, weighted. "The woman upstairs—Kiaan said she's stabilized. The transition is slow. She might not wake for another day."
Navira's throat tightened. "I should check on her."
"You should rest." Nami's gaze found hers, steady and warm. "You've got a big day tomorrow."
The words hung between them, heavy with everything they weren't saying. The plan. The ritual. The blade. The moment when Navira would let the world believe she had died.
"I'm scared," Navira said. The admission came out before she could stop it, raw and unguarded, carried on the quiet of the dying fire.
Nami's hand found hers, squeezing tight. "I know."
"I don't mean of the pain. Or of dying, even. I mean—" She stopped, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. "I mean of what happens after. If the ritual works and he comes back, and he remembers everything he said to me tonight. Everything he did. I don't know if he'll be able to live with that."
Nami was quiet for a long moment. Then she shifted, moving closer until her shoulder pressed against Navira's, warm and solid.
"He'll have to," she said. "And so will you. That's what love is, isn't it? Not the easy parts. The parts where you have to look at each other and decide that what you have is worth the broken pieces."
Navira's eyes burned. She blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, catching the firelight. She didn't wipe it away.
"Since when did you get so wise?" she asked, her voice cracking at the edges.
Nami smiled, small and sad. "Since I died and came back. Gives you perspective."
They sat in silence, watching the fire fade to ash, until the first gray light of dawn crept through the windows. Navira's eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up to her, pulling her toward sleep like a tide.
She didn't remember closing her eyes. But she felt Nami's hand still in hers, felt the blanket being tucked tighter around her shoulders, heard the soft whisper of a voice she trusted more than her own:
"I'll be right here. Sleep."
And for a few precious hours, before the sun rose on the day that would change everything, Navira let herself rest.