The pool table hadn't lived in this room for years. Reyen remembered it from a different century—felt-cushioned, warped by humidity, a relic Nami had kept for the memory of their father's hands gripping the cue. Now it sat tilted on the Persian rug, one leg shimmed with a folded napkin, the green baize stained with something that could have been wine or blood.
He chalked his cue. Took the shot. The cue ball kissed the eight and sent it spinning wide.
"Distracted," Nic said, not a question.
"Focused," Reyen corrected. "Just not on the game."
Kiaan leaned against the wall, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, watching the women on the long lounge like they were a landscape he was learning to read. Sierra had her legs tucked under her, a wine glass balanced on her knee, her voice low and deliberate. Nami sat at the end of the couch, close enough to reach out and touch Navira's sleeping form if she wanted to. Grace and Lily were curled on the floor with cushions, their heads tilted together, and Bella had claimed the ottoman, her bare feet pressed into the rug.
"She looks peaceful," Lily said, her voice soft, pitched not to wake. "Doesn't she?"
Nami's smile was fragile. "She does now."
Reyen's grip tightened on the cue. He told himself not to look. Looked anyway.
Navira was folded into the armchair he'd spent a hundred nights in—the leather worn to his shape, the arms darkened by his hands. She'd pulled her knees up, her cheek pressed into the wingback, the blush pink of her dress soft against the dark leather. Her hair had slipped over one shoulder, glossy and still, and her hand hung loose over the chair's arm, fingers curled, palm open. The corset bodice rose and fell with each breath, slow and even, and the tulle skirt pooled around her like petals after a storm.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And she was breaking, and he could not stop it.
"Her magic is still unstable," Sierra said, her voice dropping. "Since she came back, it's been—" She pressed her fingers together, searching for the word. "Louder. Hungrier. She's holding it together with willpower and stubbornness, and that's not a permanent fix."
"What is?" Grace asked.
Sierra's pause was a confession. "I don't know yet."
Adrian lined up his shot, the crack of cue ball against nine sharp in the silence. "She came back from the dead. She can handle a little magical indigestion."
"That's not what this is." Sierra's voice had an edge now. "She's the anchor. The door. Every spirit that crosses over passes *through* her. Every death. Every pain. That's not indigestion—that's drowning, and she's doing it alone."
The room went quiet. Even the pool game stopped.
Reyen set his cue on the table. He didn't trust his hands.
"She's not alone," Nami said. Her voice was steady, but her fingers had gone white around her glass. "She has us."
"We can't take the deaths for her," Sierra said. "We can't carry the door. I'm trying to find a way to lock it, to build a wall she can control, but—" She stopped. Shook her head. "It's ancient magic. Older than anything I've worked with. I need time."
"Then we give her time," Nash said. He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the group like a strategist reading a board. "And we don't let her push herself past her limit again."
"She's already past it," Sierra said. "Look at her."
Everyone looked.
Navira hadn't stirred. Her breathing was even, but there was a stillness to her that was too deep. Too surrendered. Like she'd dropped into unconsciousness rather than sleep.
"Her body won't hold for long," Sierra said. "Not if she keeps using herself as a channel. I don't know how much more she can take before she—" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
Reyen closed his eyes.
The sound of the bond was quiet now. A hum. A warmth. She was there, at the edge of his awareness, but she wasn't reaching for him. She was resting. Drifting. He could feel the shape of her exhaustion like a weight pressed against his chest.
"She's going to do it anyway," he said. His voice came out flat. "She's going to push until there's nothing left, because that's who she is. She doesn't know how to stop."
"Then we stop her," Kiaan said.
Reyen opened his eyes. "You think I haven't tried?"
"Try harder."
The silence stretched. Cracked.
Reyen picked up his cue. Lined up the shot. Sank the eleven cleanly.
"She made me promise not to cage her," he said, not looking up. "She said if I tried to protect her from herself, she'd lock me out of the bond. And she meant it."
Cole let out a low whistle. "That's loyalty."
"That's love," Reyen said. "She'll burn herself to keep us warm, and she'll call it a fair trade."
"Then we make sure she doesn't have to," Nami said.
She stood. Walked over to the armchair. Gently, so gently, she brushed Navira's hair back from her face, her fingers lingering on her cheek.
"We carry her when she can't carry herself," Nami said. "That's what she did for me. That's what she did for all of us. And we're not going to let her break alone."
Navira's brow furrowed. Her lips parted. A soft sound—almost a word—and then her hand twitched, reaching, finding Nami's fingers. Holding them.
"I'm here," Nami whispered. "We've got you."
Navira didn't wake. But the furrow smoothed, and her grip loosened, and she settled deeper into the leather, her breath evening out.
Reyen's chest ached with something he couldn't name.
He turned back to the table. Took his shot. Missed by half a centimeter, and the cue ball spun into the side pocket with a hollow sound.
"Game's yours," he said to Nic, and set down the cue.
He didn't go to Navira. He wanted to—wanted to pull her into his lap, wrap himself around her, keep the world out and her in. But if he touched her, he'd wake her. And she needed sleep more than she needed him right now.
So he stood at the window instead, watching the garden bleed into twilight, his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight.
Behind him, the girls' voices rose and fell. Grace asking about the decorations. Lily offering to handle the flowers. Bella's quiet laugh at something Sierra said. The clink of glasses, the shuffle of cards, the low murmur of a conversation about centerpieces and seating charts and the kind of normal things that felt obscene in the face of what was coming.
But they were doing it for her. For Navira. Building something beautiful because she believed in beautiful things.
Reyen pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
*I'm here,* he thought into the bond. *I'm not going anywhere.*
He didn't expect an answer. But he felt it—the faintest pulse of warmth, like a hand brushing his from across a room.
His eyes burned. He blinked the feeling away.
"She heard you," Nash said, behind him.
"I know."
"Good." Nash came to stand beside him, his reflection ghosting in the glass. "Because she's going to need someone to hold the line when she can't. And I think that's you."
"What if I can't?"
"You already did."
Reyen looked at him. Nash's face was unreadable, but his eyes held something rare—respect. Maybe even trust.
"She came back for you," Nash said. "Don't waste it."
He walked back to the pool table, picked up a cue, and lined up his shot.
Reyen stayed at the window. The garden was dark now, the last light drained from the sky. In the glass, he could see the reflection of the room—the amber glow of the lamps, the sprawl of women on the couch, the quiet concentration of men around the table. And Navira, small and pink and still, curled in his chair like she'd always belonged there.
The anchor settled in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Alive.
He turned back to the room.
"Who's winning?"
"I am," Cole said, grinning.
"You're losing by three balls."
"I'm losing *gracefully*."
Adrian snorted. "That's one word for it."
Reyen walked back to the table. Picked up his cue. Rolled the chalk between his fingers, feeling the grit, the habit, the ordinary weight of it.
He didn't look at Navira again. He didn't have to. He could feel her, steady and real, on the edge of the bond like a held breath.
She was there. She was alive. She was fighting.
And so was he.
Navira stirred.
It was small at first—a shift of her shoulders, her fingers curling against the leather. Reyen saw it from the corner of his eye, the way her brow pulled tight, the way her lips parted like she was trying to speak through water. He set down his cue. Turned fully.
She was still asleep. But her breathing had changed—shallow now, quick, her chest rising and falling too fast beneath the corset bodice. Her hand twitched on the armrest, fingers scrabbling at nothing.
"Navira?" Nami was already moving toward her, her voice low. "Hey. You're okay. You're safe."
Navira didn't wake. Her head tilted back, her jaw tightening, and a sound came out of her—thin, strained, like she was holding something back by will alone.
Sierra was on her feet. "She's having a nightmare. The spirits—they might be reaching for her through the door."
Reyen crossed the room in three strides. He didn't touch her. He stopped at the edge of the armchair, his hands hovering, his chest tight. "Navira. I'm here. Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids flickered. Her fingers dug into the leather.
And then—
Stillness.
Complete. Absolute. Her body went slack, her breath catching mid-inhale, her hand frozen mid-clench. For one terrible second, she looked like she had the night she died. Like the life had drained out of her and left only the shape behind.
"Navira?" Nami's voice cracked.
Reyen's heart stopped. He reached for her—
And her eyes snapped open.
Not slowly. Not groggily. Open, like a door thrown wide, her pupils blown black, her gaze locked on something none of them could see. Her head turned, sharp and mechanical, toward the hallway that led to the kitchen. Toward the east wing. Toward the garden doors.
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just stared, her hands white-knuckled on the armrests, her body coiled like she was about to spring.
"Navira." Reyen's voice was low, steady, even though his blood was ice. "Come back to me."
She moved.
Not slowly. Not carefully. She scrambled out of the armchair, her bare feet hitting the rug, the tulle of her skirt catching on the leather. She didn't look at him. Didn't look at Nami. Didn't look at anyone. She pushed past them, her shoulder brushing Reyen's chest, and walked—walked was too gentle a word; she fled—toward the kitchen, her steps quick and uneven, her hands reaching for the counter like a drowning woman reaching for shore.
She didn't stop.
Navira's bare feet slapped against the cold tile, her skirt rustling, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. She rounded the corner into the kitchen's second entrance—the butler's pantry, narrow and dark—and disappeared. For a moment, the lounge fell silent, everyone frozen, listening to the frantic scrape of her footsteps.
Then she burst through the opposite doorway, back into the lounge room, her curls wild, her hands already reaching out in front of her like she was pushing against an invisible wall. Her eyes were locked on something behind the couches—something none of them could see at first—and her voice came out raw, desperate.
"I know what you did." Her hands trembled, fingers spread. "I can feel it. Every single one. I'm not letting you through."
She was talking to empty air. But the air was wrong—thicker, colder, dipped into a temperature that made the hair on Reyen's arms stand up.
"Navira—" Sierra started.
Navira didn't hear her. She was circling now, backing behind the long lounge, her eyes fixed on a spot six feet in front of her where nothing was. Her voice cracked. "Please. Please don't do this. You don't have to—I can help you cross, but not like this, not through me, not—"
Her plea broke. It wasn't a negotiation. It was begging. The kind of begging none of them had ever heard from her—not in the tombs, not when she was dying, not when Medora had her on her knees. Her voice was small and young and terrified, and it stopped Reyen's blood cold.
The air in front of her rippled.
A shape formed—slowly, like sediment settling in reverse. A man. Tall, gaunt, his clothes dark and wet, plastered to his frame. His face was hollow, his eyes black pits, and his hands—his hands were covered in something that dripped. Blood. Fresh enough that Reyen could smell it: copper and salt and the dark, rotten sweetness of death.
The man was drenched in it. His shirt. His jaw. His mouth.
He had been painted in it, like he had stood in the middle of a room and let it rain down on him.
Nami made a sound—a small, swallowed gasp. Lily pressed her hand to her mouth. Cole dropped his cue, the crack of wood against tile sharp in the frozen room.
Navira stopped moving.
The spirit moved behind her. His hand—red and wet—reached out, and his fingers wrapped around her arm.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She went still, her jaw tight, her hands dropping to her sides. And the spirit stopped.
He didn't dissolve into her. Didn't pass through. He held, his grip visible, his fingers curled around her skin like he was gripping solid flesh—and then his expression shifted. Confusion. Recognition.
Navira's eyes opened. She met his gaze. And she kicked—a sharp, hard strike to his shin that made him stumble back, his hand ripping away from her arm. She staggered, caught the back of the lounge, and dragged herself upright.
The spirit straightened. His head tilted. His voice, when it came, was dry and cracked, like paper burned at the edges. "I can feel your magic."
Navira's face went white.
He lunged.
His hands caught her shoulders, and this time she didn't fight. His grip was too fast, too strong, and the moment his palms touched her bare skin, something changed.
The veins of her arms lit up. Glowing. Red. The same red that had bled through her eyes when her magic had surged before, but this time it wasn't hers—it was leaving her, pouring into him, his fingers glowing brighter as hers dimmed.
Navira's eyes widened. Her lips parted. And she screamed—not in pain, in recognition. "NO!"
The spirit vanished.
One moment he was there, his hands burning into her skin. The next, the air was empty, and Navira was falling forward, catching herself on the arm of the couch, her breath heaving, her whole body shaking.
The room was silent.
Then the lights flickered. The temperature dropped again, and Navira's head snapped up, her eyes wild, scanning the room like she expected him to reappear. He didn't. The air was still. Empty. But she kept looking, her hands clutching the armrest, her knuckles white.
"Did you see him?" Her voice was thin, frayed, barely a whisper. She turned to Sierra, her gaze desperate, feverish. "Did you see his face? Sierra—did you see him?"
Sierra's face was pale, her lips pressed together. "Yes, Navira. We saw him."
"How?" Navira's voice cracked. "How could you see him? He's a spirit, he's not supposed to be visible, he's not supposed to be here, he's—" She stopped. Her hand flew to her chest, pressing against the corset bodice, feeling her own heart hammer. Her breath was coming too fast. Too shallow.
She started to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, her skirt rustling, her bare feet slapping the rug. Her hand stayed pressed to her chest, and her breath hitched, and her eyes were too bright, too glassy, like she was looking at something none of them could see.
"He's who they warned me about." Her voice was almost a whisper. "He's who they warned me about, isn't he?"
She stopped pacing. Her head lifted. And she screamed—a raw, broken sound that tore out of her throat like it had been clawing its way up for hours. "GRAMS! GRAMS!"
The name shattered the silence. Reyen moved. He was at her side in two strides, his hand reaching for her arm—
But before he touched her, the room changed.
The air thickened. The lamps dimmed. And a voice filled the space—not from any direction, but from everywhere at once. It was old. Female. Carved from centuries of stone and silence and grief. It did not shout. It simply was, and the room had no choice but to listen.
"Yes, my darling."
Navira went still.
"He is the one. He bought himself back with your magic. When he touched you."
The voice faded. The air lifted. The lamps steadied.
And Navira stood in the middle of the room, her hands shaking, her face hollow, her lips forming a word that didn't make a sound.
Kiaan was the first to move. He set down his glass, quietly, deliberately, and walked to the edge of the lounge area, his eyes fixed on the empty spot where the spirit had stood. "Someone want to explain what the hell that was?" His voice was controlled, but there was an edge underneath it—the kind of edge that came from centuries of knowing when to be afraid.
Navira's scream cut off. The sound of it hung in the air, a living thing, and then collapsed into silence so complete that Reyen heard his own pulse.
She was still. Her hands had dropped from her head. Her shoulders rose and fell with breath that was too fast, too sharp, and then she started moving. Toward the kitchen. Not fleeing this time—marching, her bare feet slapping the tile, the tulle of her skirt dragging behind her like a wounded bird's wing.
"No," she said. Quiet at first. A breath. A denial. "No no no no no—"
She hit the kitchen island with both hands, the crack of her palms against the marble sharp enough to make Lily flinch. Reyen was behind her before he knew he'd moved, stopping at the edge of the counter, his hands raised, not touching her.
"Navira—"
"NO!" She spun, her eyes wild, her curls whipping across her face. She wasn't looking at him.
She wasn't looking at him. She was looking past him, through him, at the gallery of horrors only she could see. She moved—a blur of pink tulle and fury—back into the lounge room, her bare feet slapping the cold tile, her breath coming in sharp, wounded gasps.
She stopped in the center of the room and spun, her finger stabbing out at the empty air above the couches. "You promised me!" Her voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth, leaving only the ragged edge underneath. She pointed at the chandelier, her arm trembling. "You stood right there and you swore he was trapped! You said the bars would hold!"
She whirled, pointing at the bookshelf. "And you. You said the door was closed. You said he couldn't follow me through. You said I was the only one who could see it, feel it—that I was safe."
Grace and Lily had pressed themselves against the far wall, their faces pale, their hands clasped together. Cole stood frozen, his cue still on the floor. Adrian's jaw was tight, his eyes darting between Navira and the empty spaces she was addressing.
Navira didn't see them. She saw the dead.
"He's a psychopath!" she screamed, her voice cracking at the peak. "He's a witch that's starving for the kind of power I have, and you let him touch me! You let him drink from me! He knows what I am now, he knows what I taste like, he knows I'm the door!"
She grabbed the first thing her hand found—a heavy crystal tumbler from the sideboard, still wet with whiskey—and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, raining glass across the Persian rug, the sound sharp and final. She was aiming at someone. Someone none of them could see.
"He killed his entire coven!" Navira's voice broke into a sob. "His entire family! Mothers, fathers, children—he drained them all to buy himself another century, and you think he won't do that to this family?" She gestured wildly at the room, at the people pressed against the walls, at the frozen faces staring back at her. "You think he won't tear through every single person in this house to get to me?"
A groan tore from her throat, deep and animal. Tears carved tracks through the flush on her cheeks, dark mascara smearing in the corners of her eyes. She pressed her palms to her temples, her fingers curling into her hair. "You promised me this wouldn't happen."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. Broken. Hollow.
"WE HAD A DEAL!"
The scream ripped out of her, and the lamps flickered. The temperature dropped so fast that Reyen saw his own breath mist in front of him.
Navira's hands dropped to her sides. Her head hung. Her voice came out small, frayed, barely audible. "We had a deal..."
Then it surged back, twice as fierce, her head snapping up, her eyes blazing with a grief that had nowhere to go. "WE HAD A DEAL! I became this—" she slammed her hand against her chest, over the corset bodice, over her heart, "—so they would be safe! So he would stay where he is! I opened the door! I let them all in! I said I'd carry them, every single one, as long as he stayed out! You said the lock would hold!"
Her breath hitched. The fight bled out of her, replaced by a raw, naked terror that made her look younger, smaller, like a child lost in a storm. Her voice dropped to a broken, frightened whisper.
"I can't win against him."
She shook her head, her curls whipping across her wet cheeks. "He'll kill them all. He'll make me watch. He'll hold me down and make me watch every single one of them die, and then—" her voice cracked, "—then he'll kill me. And I'll deserve it. Because I led him here. I lit the path and I walked it right to their door."
Her eyes rolled back.
When they opened, they were black. Completely black. No iris, no white, no light. Two voids that seemed to swallow the room's amber glow, swallowing the reflection of the people she loved.
The house groaned.
The chandelier above the pool table swayed, its crystals chiming against each other in a discordant, frantic song. Cracks spider-webbed across the ceiling plaster, racing from the center of the room outward, splitting the paint, the drywall, the silence. The glass doors rattled in their frames, and the tiles beneath their feet vibrated like a low, distant earthquake.
"You all promised meeeeeee!!"
The sound was wrong. It was layered, echoing with other voices, other frequencies—a chorus of the dead screaming through her throat. It was a thousand years of grief and betrayal and exhaustion funneled through one body, one mouth, one raw and breaking girl.
The scream didn't stop. It built.
A physical pressure swelled in the room, pushing against their ears, their chests, their lungs. The air thickened, charged, heavy with the weight of everything Navira had been carrying alone.
And then it burst outward.
A ring of force—invisible, silent, absolute—blasted through the room. The pool table shuddered. The remaining glasses on the sideboard tipped and rolled, one of them shattering on the floor. The lamps went out, plunging them into darkness lit only by the dying embers of the fire.
Reyen felt it hit him like a wave.
Pure, undiluted anguish slammed into his chest, his throat, his gut. His hands flew to his sternum, pressing against the bone as if he could hold his heart in. The air left his lungs in a sharp, pained grunt. It was like being hit by his own heartbeat, like drowning from the inside out.
Beside him, Nami doubled over, her hand clamped over her mouth, a thin, wounded sound escaping her throat. Her eyes were wide, wet, fixed on Navira with a understanding she had not had seconds ago.
Sierra gasped, her fingers splayed against her sternum, her face gone white. She staggered, caught the arm of the couch, and held on, her knuckles bone-white.
Kiaan gripped the edge of the pool table, his head bowed, his shoulders tight. A low, rough sound—almost a growl, almost a sob—came from his chest.
Nash's face was ashen. His hand pressed to his throat, his breath a ragged rasp. His eyes were locked on his little sister, and something in them had broken open.
Nic stood perfectly still. His hand was over his heart, his gaze fixed on Navira with an expression of profound, terrible recognition. He knew that weight. He had carried a version of it for centuries. But hers was worse. Hers was endless.
Adrian had backed against the wall, his hand over his stomach, his breath coming in short, sharp pulls. Cole was on his knees, one hand on the floor, the other pressed to his chest.
Lily was crying. Silent tears, her hands over her mouth.
Grace had her eyes closed, her hand over her heart, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
And Bella—Bella sat on the ottoman, her hand pressed to her throat, her gaze steady on Navira, her eyes holding a depth of sorrow that spoke of knowing what it meant to be a vessel for things no one else could see.
A whisper. Raw. Cracked. Understanding.
"Navira..."
It came from everywhere and nowhere. Sierra said it. Nami said it. Nash said it. Kiaan said it. And Reyen felt it in his bones, in the bond, in the hollow space where her warmth had been replaced by this cold, endless weight.
Navira's eyes cleared.
The black drained out of them, receding like a tide pulling back from a shore, leaving behind the hazel they all knew. But the hazel was tired. Hollow. Haunted.
The house settled with a final, aching groan. The cracks in the ceiling held. The chandelier stilled. The lamps flickered back on, one by one, casting the room in a weak, uncertain light.
Navira's legs gave out.
She didn't fall hard. She folded, her knees meeting the rug, her tulle skirt pooling around her like a wounded flower, the pink dark against the deep red of the Persian weave. She stared at nothing, her chest heaving, tears still falling, silent now.
A single crack ran down the wall, from the ceiling to the floor, passing exactly between her and the rest of the room.
Reyen took a step toward her. Then stopped.
She had shown them the thing she was trying to protect them from. It wasn't just Malachai. It wasn't just Astrid. It wasn't just the witch spirit who had touched her and bought himself back with her magic.
It was the weight of the door. The endless fall. The drowning.
She had made a deal. And she was the only one still paying the price.
Navira's hands flew to her chest, her fingers scrabbling at the silk of her corset, at the laces, the hooks, the boning. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. The sound she made was thin and wet, a desperate animal noise, her nails scratching at the fabric hard enough to drag threads loose.
"I can't— I can't win this fight. I can't— I can't—"
Her voice broke into a gasp, her chest heaving, her fingers twisting in the laces. The corset was too tight. The room was too small. The air was too thick with all the things she'd been carrying, and she couldn't get it off fast enough—couldn't tear it away, couldn't breathe—
Reyen was there.
His hand caught hers mid-scrabble, gentle but firm, stopping her before she could pull a seam. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and his other hand found the back of her head, his palm pressing against her curls, and he guided her forward—not hard, not rough, just there, a solid wall of warmth and certainty.
Her forehead met his chest. His hand cradled the back of her skull, fingers threading into her hair, holding her like she was something precious and breakable. His other arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer, tucking her against him until she was folded into the space between his arms, her knees still on the rug, her body shaking against his.
"I can't do this," she sobbed into his shirt. The words were muffled, wet, broken. "I can't do this, I can't—"
"Shhh." Reyen's voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, his eyes closing. "Baby, I know. I know."
His hand moved in slow circles on her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the tulle. He didn't tell her it would be okay. He didn't promise her the spirit would go away. He just held her, his chest rising and falling against her cheek, his heartbeat steady under her ear, and let her fall apart in his arms.
Navira's sobs came in waves. Each one wracked her whole body, her shoulders heaving, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She pressed her face deeper into his chest, like she was trying to crawl inside him, like she wanted to disappear into the warmth of him and never come out.
Reyen's throat tightened. He kept his hand moving on her back, kept his voice low and steady, kept his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling because if he looked at anyone else in the room, he'd lose it.
Around them, no one moved.
Sierra stood frozen by the couch, one hand still pressed to her sternum, her face a mask of barely contained grief. Nami had her hand over her mouth, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Nash had turned away, his shoulders rigid, his hand gripping the edge of the pool table so hard his knuckles had gone white.
Kiaan was the first to break the stillness. He set his glass down on the sideboard—quietly, deliberately—and walked to the corner where the liquor cabinet stood. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink straight from the neck. He didn't offer it to anyone. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, his back to the room, and let the burn settle him.
Nic moved next. He crossed to Nami, his hand finding the small of her back, his thumb tracing a slow, steady circle. She leaned into him, her head dropping to his shoulder, her breath hitching.
"She can't keep doing this," Nami whispered, her voice barely audible.
Nic didn't answer. He just held her tighter.
Grace had sunk onto the ottoman beside Bella, her hand still pressed to her heart, her lips parted like she was trying to find words and failing. Bella reached over and took her hand, squeezing once, firmly. Grace's eyes closed, and she nodded, a small, grateful movement.
Lily was still crying. Silent tears, her hands clasped in her lap. Cole knelt beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his other arm wrapped around his own ribs like he was holding himself together.
Adrian had moved to the wall farthest from the group, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. His eyes were fixed on the crack in the plaster, on the line that ran from ceiling to floor, on the place where the house had broken open under the weight of Navira's grief.
No one spoke.
The only sound was Navira's crying—ragged, raw, the sound of someone who had been holding the dam together with her bare hands and had finally, finally let go.
Reyen's hand slid from her back to her neck, his fingers gentle against her skin. He tilted his head, pressing his lips to her hair, and let himself breathe.
"I've got you," he said. His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat and said it again, stronger. "I've got you. You're not alone."
Navira's sobs slowed. The jagged edges smoothed into something softer—still broken, still aching, but less desperate. Her grip on his shirt loosened. Her shoulders stopped shaking quite as hard.
She didn't pull back. She stayed pressed against him, her breath warm and uneven through the fabric of his shirt, her body still trembling in the aftermath.
Reyen looked up.
He met Nami's eyes first. Then Sierra's. Then Nash's. Each of them held his gaze, and in that look, something passed between them—a wordless agreement. They would not let her break alone. They would stand at the edge of the door with her, even if they couldn't feel what she felt.
"We need to move the blood burning," Sierra said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "Tonight. As soon as she's calm enough."
Reyen nodded. His hand never stopped moving on Navira's back.
"I can prepare the fire pit," Nash said. He pushed off the pool table, his shoulders still tight, but his voice under control. "It'll take me an hour to get the consecration right."
"Do it." Reyen's voice was flat. Not cold—just focused. "We break the leash. We take away their advantage. Then we figure out the rest."
Nash nodded once and walked out of the room, his footsteps steady on the tile.
Navira's head shifted against Reyen's chest. Her voice came out muffled, cracked. "I can't—"
"You can." Reyen cut her off, gentle but firm. "Not alone. But you can."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then her hand moved, finding his, her fingers threading through his. She squeezed.
It was small. It was fragile. But it was there.
Reyen squeezed back.
He didn't let go.
Around them, the room began to move again. Slow, careful movements—Kiaan refilling his glass, Sierra pulling out her phone to check correspondences, Nami brushing the hair from her face and squaring her shoulders. The machinery of survival, grinding back into motion.
The crack in the wall stayed. The silence between breaths stayed. The weight of the door stayed—pressing, waiting, patient.
But Navira was not alone.
And for now, that was enough.