12 days. Nami had counted every one of them, tracking the hours in the pale winter light that slipped through the estate's windows, in the meals she forced herself to eat, in the mornings she woke and reached for her phone to text Navira before remembering.
The pool room hummed with warmth against the December chill. Underwater lights bled across the ceiling in slow, liquid patterns, and the sharp tang of chlorine cut through the damp air. Nami had chosen this room deliberately—low lighting, enough space for everyone, the pool table as a centerpiece that demanded attention without demanding conversation.
Sierra was curled at one end of the leather couch in flannel pants and an oversized sweater, a glass of wine balanced on her knee. Kiaan sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, his dark eyes tracking the room with the quiet vigilance he never quite switched off. Across from them, Nic leaned against the wet bar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of blood-red wine in his hand.
Deliah had claimed the armchair nearest the pool table, her feet tucked beneath her, a book open in her lap that she hadn't turned a page of in twenty minutes. Her hair fell in dark waves around her freckled face, and every so often her gaze drifted to the door, as if she expected someone to walk through it.
Nash was at the pool table, cue in hand, lining up a shot with the deliberate focus of a man trying not to think. Cole leaned against the opposite edge, beer in hand, his camera slung across his body even in pajamas—an instinct, Nami had learned, that he couldn't shake.
Grace sat on the second couch, cross-legged, her hair loose instead of its usual sleek ponytail, a glass of something amber warming in her palms. She hadn't said much since they'd all gathered, but her gaze kept finding Deliah, then sliding away.
Adrian stood near the window, arms crossed, his broad frame silhouetted against the blue-lit glass. He'd come in sweatpants and a henley, and the tension in his jaw said he'd rather be anywhere else—but he'd shown up anyway.
And Reyen.
Reyen was at the far end of the pool table, cue in hand, his black t-shirt loose across his shoulders, feet bare on the damp tile. He hadn't said a word in ten minutes. He just moved around the table, sinking ball after ball with mechanical precision, his face unreadable.
Nami watched him from her spot near the bar. 12 days since Navira's body had gone cold. 12 days since the ghost had faded into the dark with that last warmth of thanks. 12 days of Reyen waking, dressing, eating, speaking—doing all the things a living person did—while something behind his eyes stayed very, very still.
"You're going to clear the table at this rate," Cole said, breaking the quiet. His voice was light, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Save some shots for the rest of us."
Reyen didn't look up. His cue struck the cue ball, sending it across the felt in a clean line. The 7-ball dropped into the corner pocket with a soft thud. "Then don't let me shoot."
Cole raised his beer in a mock toast. "Fair."
Kiaan shifted on the couch, his voice low and easy. "You know, when Nami said pajama party, I was expecting more face masks and less competitive pool."
"Speak for yourself." Sierra took a sip of her wine. "I brought sheet masks. They're in the fridge."
A few of them laughed—a thin, grateful sound that cut through the heaviness for just a moment.
Nami let herself smile. It was small, but it was real. "I figured we could all use a night where no one's planning anything. Just... being together."
Nic met her eyes across the room, and something passed between them—understanding, gratitude, the shared weight of trying to hold a family together when one of its pieces was missing. He raised his glass, just slightly, and she nodded.
Lily, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward from her spot on the floor. She'd arranged herself on a pile of cushions near the couch, her strawberry-blond waves loose around her shoulders, wearing pajama pants patterned with tiny cats. "I've never been to a pajama party before. Is there a code of conduct?"
"No planning," Sierra said, counting on her fingers. "No serious conversations. Everyone has to eat at least one snack. And someone has to tell a story."
"What kind of story?" Grace asked, her eyebrow arching.
"The kind that makes us laugh." Sierra's voice softened. "Or the kind that reminds us why we're all here."
The room went quiet. The pool table's lights hummed overhead.
Reyen sank another ball. The 3-ball. Corner pocket.
Nami watched the line of his shoulders, the way he held the cue like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy. She thought about Navira's voice in her head—look after him. Keep him whole. She didn't know how to do that when she could barely keep herself together.
"I'll go first," Deliah said, closing her book. She set it aside and stretched her arms above her head, her silver ring catching the light. "This one time, when I was apprenticing under Old Man Harlow, I accidentally set a customer's hat on fire."
Cole choked on his beer. "You what?"
"It was a very nice hat," Deliah said, completely deadpan. "Velvet. Deep burgundy. The woman had impeccable taste. She also had no idea I was a witch, and she'd made me so nervous I forgot to control my spark."
"What did you do?" Lily asked, eyes wide.
"Told her it was a very exclusive aromatherapy treatment." Deliah's mouth twitched. "She left a five-star review."
The laughter that followed was tentative at first, then fuller. Adrian let out a low chuckle from his spot by the window. Kiaan's shoulders shook. Even Nash cracked a smile, his cue pausing mid-shot.
Nami felt something loosen in her chest. Just a little.
"Alright, my turn," Sierra said, sitting up straighter. "Remember that time Navira tried to teach me how to make a calming potion, and I accidentally brewed a truth serum instead?"
The name landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through the room—glances exchanged, breath held.
And then Reyen's voice, quiet, almost surprised: "I remember."
He'd stopped shooting. His cue rested against the table, and for the first time all night, his gaze lifted. Dark eyes, shadowed, but present.
Sierra met his look, her own eyes bright. "She was so patient. I kept adding the wrong ingredients, and she just... kept handing me the right ones. Didn't get annoyed once."
"Because you were adorable when you were frustrated," Kiaan said, bumping her shoulder.
"I was not adorable. I was determined."
"You pouted."
"I strategized with my face."
The bickering was familiar, warm. Nami watched Reyen's expression shift—the ghost of something almost like amusement passing through his features.
Grace set down her glass. "She did that. Made you feel like you weren't a burden, even when you definitely were."
"And she remembered everything," Lily added softly. "I mentioned once that I liked lavender tea, and she brought me a bag of it the next time I came by. Hand-blended."
Adrian cleared his throat from the window. "She came to the gym once. About a month before everything happened. Asked if I could show her some basic self-defense moves."
Reyen's head came up.
"She didn't tell me why," Adrian continued, his voice gruff. "But she showed up every morning for a week. Ran drills until her arms shook. Never complained."
A beat of silence. Then Nami spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "She wanted to be ready."
The words hung in the air, heavy with everything they all knew but hadn't said aloud. Navira had known danger was coming. She'd trained. She'd prepared. And then she'd let herself be killed anyway, because she believed it was the only way to save them.
Reyen's hand tightened on the cue. His knuckles went white.
Nami saw the tremor in his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. She took a step toward him, ready to say something—anything—but Nic got there first.
"Reyen." Nic's voice was calm, steady. He set down his wine and crossed to the pool table, stopping just shy of his brother's space. "You want to take a break?"
Reyen's gaze stayed fixed on the felt. "I'm fine."
"You've sunk nine balls in a row without looking at anyone."
"That's called being good at pool."
"That's called avoiding."
Reyen's jaw tightened. The cue in his hands looked like it might snap. But he didn't move. Didn't speak.
The silence stretched, fragile as blown glass.
Then Nami moved. She crossed to the small speaker on the bar, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen once. Music bloomed through the room—low at first, then fuller. A piano melody, soft and aching, carrying a voice that made Reyen's spine go rigid.
Say it, say it again.
He knew this song. He'd heard it once, late at night, through a closed door. Navira's voice, slightly off-key but full of feeling, singing along while Sierra laughed and Nami hummed harmony. The corset night. The night before everything had started to fall apart.
Nami caught his eye across the room. Her expression was careful, asking permission without a word. Is this okay?
He gave her the smallest nod. Barely a movement. But she saw it.
The piano swelled. And then—
Her.
"You hear that?" The voice slid into his mind like a familiar hand finding his in the dark. Warm. Teasing. "This is our song now. I'm claiming it."
Reyen's breath caught. His grip on the cue went slack, and he set it down on the felt before his hands could betray him.
"Navira." He didn't say it aloud. He didn't have to. She could hear him the same way he heard her—through the bond, through the space between heartbeats where she still lived.
"Missed me?"
His throat closed. Twelve days. Twelve days of waking to an empty side of the bed, of reaching for her in his sleep and finding nothing but cold sheets. Twelve days of pretending he was fine while something inside him bled out slow and quiet.
"Every second," he told her.
A pause. The song kept playing, the singer's voice raw and honest, filling the room with something none of them had dared to name. On the couch, Sierra's eyes had gone glossy. She was staring at the ceiling, blinking hard.
Then Navira's voice returned, softer now. "I miss you too. I miss the way you smell. I miss your hands. I miss falling asleep on your chest." Another pause. "I miss arguing with you about the temperature of the house."
A sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something in between that cracked through his chest and left him raw.
"You just want me to close the windows," he thought back, forcing lightness into the words.
"I want you to stop pretending you don't like the cold."
"I hate the cold."
"You grew up in a drafty manor in 18th-century England. You're immune."
The warmth in her voice was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine she was standing beside him. Her hand in his. Her head on his shoulder. The familiar weight of her presence pressed against his side.
When he opened his eyes, the room was still there. The pool table. The scattered cushions. The faces of people who loved him, watching him with barely concealed concern.
But she was there too. Invisible. Untouchable. But there.
Nami had moved to the bar. She poured something amber into a glass—whiskey, by the look of it—and crossed to him. She didn't speak. She just held it out.
He took it. Their fingers brushed, and she squeezed his hand once before letting go.
"Drink," she said quietly. "Then tell me what she said."
Reyen looked at her. Sharp amber eyes, full of knowing. Nami had always seen too much.
"She said she misses arguing with me about the windows."
Nami's lips curved. "That sounds like her."
He took a drink. The whiskey burned, but it was a good burn. The kind that reminded him he was still alive, still here, still waiting.
"Tell them I'm coming back," Navira said. The teasing had faded from her voice, replaced by something steadier. Something that sounded like hope. "Tell them I'm learning. I'm getting stronger. Every day, I feel a little more solid, a little more real."
"When?" He didn't care if the question sounded desperate. He was desperate.
"Soon." A pause. "I can't give you a day. I wish I could. But I'm fighting my way back, Reyen. I swear it."
He set the glass down on the edge of the pool table. His hands were steady now. He didn't know how—they'd been shaking moments ago—but her voice had steadied him.
"I'm holding you to that," he thought.
"I know you are." A smile in her tone. "That's one of the things I love about you. You never let go."
The song was reaching its end. The piano slowed, the singer's voice fading into a final, breathy note. The room was quiet again, but the silence felt different now. Less heavy. Like something had shifted.
Cole cleared his throat. "So," he said, his voice rougher than before, "who's up for another round?"
Nash picked up his cue. "I'll take you."
"You're on."
The game resumed, but the energy had changed. Someone had found a playlist on Nami's phone, and the next song started—something lighter, with a beat that made Lily tap her fingers against her knee. Grace was talking to Deliah in low voices, something about a book they'd both read. Adrian had left his spot by the window and was leaning against the arm of the couch, watching Sierra with an expression Reyen couldn't quite read.
And Reyen—Reyen stood at the foot of the pool table, whiskey warming his chest, Navira's voice still echoing through his skull.
"I love you." Her voice, soft and fierce. "Don't forget that while I'm gone."
"I won't."
"Good." A pause. "Now go be with them. They need you too."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to stay here, in this private space where only he could hear her, and never leave. But she was right. They were all here, carrying the same weight, pretending they weren't breaking apart at the seams.
He picked up the whiskey. Finished it in one swallow. Then he turned and walked toward the couch, where Kiaan had shifted to make room.
Kiaan looked up as he approached. Raised an eyebrow. "You joining the land of the living?"
"Shut up."
"Wouldn't dream of saying anything else."
Reyen dropped onto the couch beside him, the leather creaking under his weight. For a long moment, he just sat there, letting the warmth of the room wash over him. Sierra was curled on Kiaan's other side, her hand resting on his knee. Nic had moved to the bar, refilling his glass and Nami's. Nash and Cole were bent over the pool table, trading shots and quiet trash talk.
It was ordinary. That was the strangest part. It was just a group of friends, wearing pajamas, drinking, playing pool. No scheming. No planning. No weapons or stakes or ancient enemies.
Just this.
Just them.
"See?" Navira's voice, barely a whisper. "You're okay."
He closed his eyes. Let himself believe it, just for a moment.
Then Adrian's voice cut through the quiet. "Sierra."
Sierra looked up from her wine. "Yeah?"
"You said you brought sheet masks."
A beat. Then Sierra's face split into a grin. "I did. They're in the fridge."
"Does anyone actually know how to use them?"
"I do," Lily said, raising her hand. "I'm a professional."
"You're an interior designer."
"I design interiors. I also have skin. The overlap is significant."
Someone laughed—Reyen wasn't sure who. The sound surprised him. It was real, not forced. Not brittle.
Nami was already heading for the kitchen. "I'll get them."
And somehow, impossibly, the night kept moving. The laughter came easier. The conversation lost its careful edges. Nash missed a shot and blamed it on the lighting. Cole called him a sore loser. Grace made a dry comment that made Deliah choke on her wine.
Reyen sat on the couch and watched it all happen. He didn't join in. Not yet. But he was present. He was here.
"That's my boy," Navira said, and he could hear her smile.
"I'm not your boy."
"You're absolutely my boy. We did the binding. I own you."
He huffed a quiet laugh. No one noticed.
"I'll own you right back when you're here," he told her.
"Promises, promises."
The warmth in his chest spread. Not magic—not the bond, not the anchor she'd left inside him. Something simpler. Something that felt almost like peace.
Nami returned with a handful of sheet masks, foil packets crinkling in her grip. She tossed one to Adrian, who caught it with surprising grace, and held another out to Reyen.
He stared at it.
"I'm not wearing that."
"It's hydrating."
"I'm a vampire. I don't need hydration."
"It's also fun."
"I don't do fun."
Sierra leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "Afraid it'll ruin your brooding aesthetic?"
Kiaan snorted. "He's got a point. A sheet mask might permanently damage the dark-and-mysterious thing he's got going on."
"You're both insufferable."
"And yet," Nami said, holding the mask closer, "you're still here."
He looked at the packet. Foil. Plain white. A tiny illustration of a smiling cartoon face.
"Do it," Navira whispered. "I want to see a picture."
"You can't see pictures."
"I'll make Sierra describe it to me later."
He took the mask.
The room erupted. Sierra actually clapped. Kiaan shook his head, grinning. Adrian raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. And Lily, who had already torn open her own mask and was smoothing it over her face with practiced ease, gave him a thumbs up.
"You won't regret this," she said, her voice slightly muffled.
"I'm already regretting it."
He tore open the packet anyway.
The mask was cold and wet, soaked in something that smelled faintly of green tea. He held it up, letting the excess serum drip onto his fingers, and tried to figure out which way was up.
Nash appeared at his side, cue in hand. "You need help with that?"
"No."
"You definitely need help with that."
"I've got it."
"The eye holes are sideways."
Reyen looked down. The eye holes were, in fact, sideways.
Nami took the mask from his hands with infinite patience. "Here. Let me."
He sat still while she smoothed it over his face. The fabric was cool against his skin, clinging to the contours of his jaw, his cheekbones. He'd seen sheet masks in stores. He'd never imagined wearing one.
When she was done, she stepped back and assessed her work. "Perfect."
"I look ridiculous."
"You look like someone who's being taken care of." Her voice was soft. "Which is the whole point."
He didn't have an answer for that.
"You're beautiful," Navira said. Her voice was fainter now, like she was pulling away. Like she was running out of energy. "Even with a sheet mask."
"Don't push yourself," he thought. "Rest."
"I will. But first—" A pause. "Thank you. For letting them in. For not shutting down."
He didn't answer. He didn't know how.
"I'll be back before you know it," she said. "Wait for me?"
"Always."
The warmth faded. The bond went quiet. She was gone.
Reyen sat on the couch, a sheet mask on his face, surrounded by people who loved him. The music played on. Someone was laughing. Nash sunk the 8-ball and Cole accused him of cheating.
And for the first time in twelve days, Reyen felt something other than the cold.
It was small. It was fragile.
But it was there.