For the readers who believe in cursed lockets, grumpy witches with soft hearts, and the kind of love that sets the world on fire. You found magic in these pages—thank you for letting it find you back.

Chapter 1

Kieran

I have to save her. I have to save her.

My bare feet bleed as I run through the rough underbrush, my arms aching from the dead weight of Calliope’s body.

Not dead. Not dead weight. She’s weak. She’s just lost a lot of blood.

I glance at the dagger embedded in her stomach, rivers of blood flowing down her sides, onto my torso and hands. I shake my head, trying to clear the tears and thoughts. I push harder. I have to get her to the circle. Silas should have everything gathered. I sent him ahead. He knows what to do—she gave him the rite. The Rite of Soul Preservation. She knew she was dying, and my smart girl knew how to save herself. I just have to get her back to the circle. My brother and my coven will save her.

I’ll deal with the consequences of bringing an outsider in later. I’ll take whatever punishment the Elders have for me, as long as they save her.

Bursting through the last of the trees, my strength leaves me. I fall to my knees. But Silas is there, taking her from me. His face is awash with worry.

“Gods, Kieran. I have her—hurry. It’s ready.”

He lifts her gently and lays her in the center of the pre-drawn circle. It barely registers to me that everyone is gathered. Their questions and shouts of concern are muffled in my ears as I crawl to Calliope.

I won’t leave her. I can’t. Whatever the gods have in store for me, I don’t care, as long as she’s beside me.

I stand, limping to the circle of salt and ash, my heart thudding in rhythm with the ritual drums echoing through the woods. Candles flicker, casting jagged shadows across the trees and huts like watching spirits. My hands brush her long black hair back from her face. Her breathing comes in ragged waves. My fingers are slick with her blood, the copper scent thick in the air, coating the back of my throat.

“This will work,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice shaking with magic and panic. “You’re not dying here.”

Her eyes open—once bright ocean blue, now muted, as if the color itself has given up. They flutter closed again.

Around us, the coven begins the chant, their voices low and rhythmic, the language old and coiled with power.

“Stay with me,” I say again, not caring that my voice cracks. “Just... stay.”

The circle around us shimmers, runes glowing in dull gold. This spell—this ancient rite—it wasn’t meant to harm. It was supposed to bind. A sharing of life, power, breath. Enough to keep her tethered to this world until we found another way. A way that didn’t end like this.

I didn’t hesitate. I never did when it came to her.

My right hand slides over her heart, and the other rests on my own. I can feel our magic vibrating between us, pulsing in time like two halves of a drumbeat.

I begin the words. She echoes me—at first.

Then her tone shifts. Sharper. Louder. Older than the rite itself. I stop.

“Calliope?” I whisper. Her eyes open wide and lock onto mine. The blue now a grotesque red.. Shining. Not with pain.

With intent.

“I’m not dying, Kieran,” she says. Her voice... it isn’t hers anymore. It’s layered with something ancient. Something…wrong. “Not when I can have your strength instead.”

My heart drops. The runes flare crimson.

“No. No—what are you—”

The circle twists, the sigils warping mid-chant. Power cracks through the air like lightning, searing up my spine. My body seizes—frozen in place. I can’t move. I can’t think.

“Calliope!” I shout, my voice splintering.

She only smiles, her teeth bloodstained.

“You offered your life,” she says, as her body begins to fracture under the magic she can’t contain. “I just took more than you meant to give.”

And then it happens. The spell shatters. The coven screams. Magic whips through the clearing, turning beauty into carnage.

One by one, they fall. My sisters. My brothers. Flames tear through the woods, a storm of ash and agony. I can feel my soul unraveling—like it’s being siphoned out through my skin.

And beyond the blaze, just outside the circle, stands Silas. I meet his eyes.

My brother. My blood.

He doesn’t move. “Silas,” I beg. “Please. Help me.” His jaw clenches. “She made her choice.” So did he.

He steps back.

And the locket closes around me like a fist.

I don’t scream. There isn’t time.

Only—
Silence.
Darkness.
And the cold eternity of being forgotten.

Chapter 2

Dahlia

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the antique bookstore. The familiar scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee hit me instantly, tugging a smile to my lips.

“’Mornin’, Dahlia! Just put a fresh pot on—you’re right on time,” Henry’s voice called from somewhere behind the tall, overcrowded bookshelves.

Henry is in his early seventies—short, balding, and still sharp as ever. He’s owned this store for over fifty years, and for the last five, I’ve made a habit of stopping by to browse the shelves and check in. The books might be what brought me here initially, but Henry quickly became more like family.

“Morning, Henry,” I called back, carefully weaving through the shelves and dodging creaky, uneven floorboards that should’ve been replaced two decades ago.

The coffee pot sits on the counter near the register, conveniently near Henry’s favorite rocking chair. As I poured myself a cup, he appeared from the back room, a cardboard box in his arms.

“Henry,” I said, quickly setting my mug down and moving to take the box from him, “the doctor said nothing over ten pounds. You’re gonna throw your back out.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Dahlia, I’m seventy-two. I survived two tours in Vietnam and a stroke that should’ve killed me. I don’t take orders, especially not from doctors. If I stop now, I probably won’t start again.”

I scowled, and he just grinned. “Relax, I brought this for you anyway. Found some books on herbs, crystals, and all that woo-woo stuff you love. Figured you’d get a kick out of digging through it.”

He poured his own coffee into a stained yellow mug and took a long sip.

“Go on. Take a look.”

I eyed the box, then him, suspicious. “Okay, what’s really in here? You’re being way too nice. What’s got your cranky old ass so cheerful this morning?”

His grin turned downright mischievous. “A little birdie told me your birthday’s coming up. And I know—it’s the day that shall not be named—but I found something while going through an old storage unit. Thought of you immediately. So shut up and go through the damn box.”

Rolling my eyes, I crouched beside the counter and began rifling through it. Just like he said, there were books on regional herbs, crystals, and even a few older texts on witchcraft. But at the bottom, wrapped in brittle newspaper, was a small jewelry box. The leather was cracked and faded, clearly aged.

“Where did this come from?” I asked, already sensing a faint hum of energy around it.

Henry shrugged. “Storage unit out near Willow Creek. Could’ve been Jane’s or older. It was under a trunk. Funny thing—when I picked it up, I thought of you before I even opened it.”

I slowly opened the box. Inside was the most ornate silver locket I’d ever seen. The surface was etched with delicate swirls and flowers that seemed to shimmer faintly in the soft light. A crescent moon sat in the center, so finely carved it almost looked alive.

I leaned closer.

For just a breath, the swirls moved. Not because of light or angle. They rippled, like liquid silver beneath glass. Then stillness.

Something deep inside me stirred, like the echo of a memory I couldn’t quite grasp.

I laughed nervously. “Henry, this is beautiful. And definitely too expensive. You could pay your bills for a month if you sold this.”

I tried to hand it back, but he raised both hands and stepped back. “Nope. This is for you. If you hadn’t wandered into my life, all chipper and helpful, “ He grimaced, “I’d still be sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Everything kind of fell apart after Jane passed, and you helped put it back together. This is my thank you.”

He smiled softly. “So—shut up and take it.”

I grinned and wrapped him in a hug. His small frame stiffened against mine.

“Love you, you grumpy bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get off me,” he grumbled, but the flush in his cheeks said otherwise.

I set the box on the counter, planning to sort through the rest later. “Who told you about my birthday? I’ve done a pretty good job keeping it quiet.”

He chuckled. “That broody girl you’re always hanging around. The one who dresses like a vampire hunter. Tasha? Tessa?”

“Thea,” I said, shaking my head. That sneaky cow.

I made a mental note to send her one of those glitter-filled, chirping greeting cards just to get even.

“Well, I’m meeting her for lunch at the café,” I said. “But first, can you help me put this on? I don’t want to break the clasp.”

Henry grunted and stepped behind me. As soon as the locket clicked shut, something shifted. The store went quiet—too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

A draft brushed the back of my neck, even though no doors or windows were open.

I turned, but Henry was already sipping his coffee again like nothing had happened.

The locket settled into the hollow of my throat. Cold, but comforting. It hummed faintly beneath my skin—like it was remembering something. Or maybe I was.

“Thanks again, Henry. It really is beautiful.”

He smiled as I caught my reflection in the glass counter. We chatted for a while—about the weather, annoying customers, my Etsy shop, and the latest antics of my cat Sunny and my rabbit Oleander. When the grandfather clock chimed noon, I stood, cup empty, and grabbed my bag.

“Alright, old man, I’m heading out. Call me if you need anything.”

“You know I won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “Probably gonna nap in that chair. Happy birthday, kid.”

The door jingled as I stepped outside. I turned left and spotted Thea on a bench, dressed in a black turtleneck, jeans, and combat boots. Her tall, lean frame stood out starkly against the cheerful fall decorations.

She looked up from her phone and smiled. I waved and made my way toward her, locket cool against my skin.

Chapter 3

Dahlia

Brookside’s the kind of small town where everything just moves a little slower. The downtown streets are lined with old brick buildings that look like they’ve been around forever, their faded fronts whispering stories you don’t hear every day. The sidewalks are cobbled, winding past family-run shops—Whitaker’s, Henry’s antique bookstore; The Corner Brew, a cozy café with chipped porcelain cups; and Wildflower and Vine, a flower shop that’s always bursting with fresh blooms. Tall oaks and maples shade the narrow streets, their leaves rustling softly whenever the breeze kicks up.

Right in the center is the town square, with a simple stone fountain, a few benches, and a small playground where locals hang out and kids run wild. Just beyond that, the river winds under a worn stone bridge—a quiet little spot to get away from it all. It’s exactly the kind of place where everyone knows your name, and every face feels strangely familiar.

I never thought I’d end up here—until I inherited Aunt Miriam’s tiny cottage off Maple Street, along with a small fortune tucked away in some dusty old family trust. The cottage is small—just two bedrooms, a cozy living room with peeling paint, and a porch that’s seen better days. But that inheritance gave me a fresh start.

Aunt Miriam was always quiet, full of stories and little treasures. I’d never visited Brookside, yet somehow, I felt pulled here. With no close family left and just enough money to lean on, I packed up my life and moved, hoping the slower pace and that little house might help me figure out where I really belong.

After a lot of hard work, I turned that tiny, out-of-the-way cottage into a home. Now it’s full of potted plants, books, crystals, and all the little things that make me happy. You can tell it’s loved.

As I walk down the street toward the café, Thea falls into step beside me.

“So, Henry told me you couldn’t keep today a secret,” I say, shooting her a playful glare.

She groans dramatically. “Look, Dahl—I cannot say no to cute old men. No matter how mean I try to be, they’re one of my weaknesses.”

I didn’t honestly believe Thea had any weaknesses. Like Henry said, she gave off serious vampire hunter vibes—always in boots, always with a knife somewhere on her body, and that cold-eyed stare that could make grown men forget how to speak.

Not to mention, she works at an office building with way too much security for a simple data entry job like she claims.

I mean, who needs fingerprint scanners and passcodes just to clock in for Excel?

I’d asked her once. She gave me a smile that said drop it, and I—like a coward with excellent self-preservation instincts—did exactly that.

I laugh and slide an arm around her waist. “You’re fine. He actually gave me a really sweet present.” I lift my chin to show off the new necklace.

Thea leans in, inspecting it. “Cute. Meanwhile, I’m just buying you lunch. I think ol’ Henry’s getting soft in his golden years.”

Thea’s a born-and-raised Brooksider, though you’d never guess it. With her dark wardrobe, combat boots, and half-shaved, half-braided hair, she sticks out in this cheerful little town like a raven in a flock of cardinals. We met when I found out that Thea had thought Sunny was a stray and had been feeding him on the side. Between her surprise snacks and the food I was already giving him, the little traitor managed to pack on five extra pounds before I even noticed. She was stunned when I offered friendship instead of demanding an apology.

She acts tough, but don’t let her fool you—she loves our Disney marathons. She’s my ride or die. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

The Corner Brew smells like cinnamon, espresso, and something vaguely nutty—probably the seasonal muffin of the week. Thea and I snag our usual window seat, a tiny round table that wobbles unless you wedge a folded napkin under one leg. It’s unofficially ours.

She picks at a pumpkin scone while I wrap both hands around my latte for warmth.

“So,” she says between bites, “how’s it feel to be another year older and officially the weirdest witch in town?”

I snort into my cup. “Wow. Thank you for that glowing endorsement.”

“I mean it with love,” she says, grinning. “The kind you reserve for haunted dolls and aggressive houseplants.”

“I don’t have aggressive houseplants.”

“You literally named your rabbit Oleander.”

“He’s a rabbit, not a ficus,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Besides, he’s misunderstood.”

Thea raises a brow. “He bit my ankle last week.”

“Yeah, he does that when he likes people.”

She leans back, sipping her black coffee like it’s fuel. “So. Are we pretending it’s just a cute vintage necklace and not screaming cursed energy?”

I glance down at the locket Henry gave me, the metal warm against my skin. “I don’t know. It’s weird. I got this... déjà vu feeling when I put it on. But I’m probably just being dramatic. It’s my birthday—I’m allowed some theatrics.”

She sets her cup down, eyes narrowing. “Okay, but if that thing starts whispering Latin at 3 a.m., I’m out. I love you, but I draw the line at demonic possession.”

I smile. “Deal. You’ll be the first to know.”

Thea taps her nails against the ceramic mug. “Good. Because I already Googled how to do an exorcism with zero magical talent, and it mostly involves yelling.”

“Perfect. You’ll scare the ghost right out of me.”

She smirks. “Damn right.”

Our lunch date ends far too soon for me. We linger in the café until the last of our drinks go cold and the afternoon sun starts to slip behind the trees. Outside, Brookside has that lazy golden glow it gets in late autumn—everything softened, quieter.

As we step out, the air hits colder than before. I pull my cardigan tighter, the locket cool now against my chest. Thea walks me halfway home, her boots crunching over the sidewalk.

“You gonna do anything wild tonight?” she asks, elbowing me gently.

“Wild as in... herbal tea and a hot bath?”

She snorts. “Reckless.”

We part ways at the corner near the bakery. Thea gives me a mock salute. “Text me if the necklace tries to eat your soul.”

“Promise.”

The rest of the walk is peaceful, the kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones. A few porch lights flicker on. The wind tugs playfully at my scarf.

When I get home, the cottage greets me like an old friend—warm light through the windows, the comforting scent of rosemary, and something sweet from the kitchen. Oleander thumps his foot from inside his hutch like he’s been personally offended by my absence.

I set my keys in the little ceramic bowl by the door, shrug off my sweater and scarf, and stand there for a moment, fingers brushing the locket again.

It hums faintly under my touch.

Not loud. Not scary. Just... there.

Watching.

I head into the kitchen to kick off my wild birthday celebration—by making tea, obviously. I grab the kettle and fill it with tap water, setting it on the stove to boil while I pull out a handful of calming herbs to add to my tea strainer.

That’s when Sunny finally decides to grace me with his presence, weaving his orange body lazily between my legs like I’ve been gone for days. He lets out a drawn-out meow—the kind that clearly says my food bowl is tragically empty and this is your fault.

Sighing with a smile, I pause my tea prep and open the cabinet, pulling out a can of wet food. As soon as he hears the click of the lid, his meows grow more insistent.

I bend down to grab his bowl, but the moment he catches sight of the locket around my neck, something shifts.

He hisses.

A sharp, startled sound that echoes off the kitchen tile.

Before I can say anything, he bolts—his claws scrambling for traction on the hardwood floor as he disappears down the hall.

I blink after him, confused.

“Sunny?” I call, following slowly. “It’s just me.”

But he’s gone.

No tail poking around the corner. No curious eyes peeking from behind a doorway. He doesn’t answer.

Strange.

My thoughts flick back to Thea’s comment about the locket having “screaming cursed energy.” Demonically possessed, she’d joked.

A chill skates down my spine.

Nope. We’re not doing this today. Not today, Satan.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. The locket sat there, humming faintly beneath my skin. Like it recognized me.

I didn’t know much about magic—not real magic, not the kind that bit back—but sometimes I got feelings. Weird little tugs in my chest. A pressure behind my eyes when I held certain stones too long. Aunt Miriam used to say it was intuition, but sometimes it felt… older than that.

I brushed the thought away. Probably just nerves. Or hormones. Or leftover anxiety from that time I ate an entire wheel of brie at 2 a.m.

I march to the bathroom, flick on the light, and stand in front of the mirror. With a determined breath, I reach up to unhook the clasp of the necklace.

It won’t budge.

Frowning, I try again, tugging a little harder. Still nothing. The clasp refuses to give.

“Seriously?” I mutter, spinning the chain around so I can get a better look. I dig my nails in, trying to pry it open. Nothing.

Growing more frustrated, I grab the chain and attempt to snap it. All I manage to do is dent the skin on my palm and scrape the side of my neck.

“Fuck,” I hiss, rubbing the angry red mark that’s already starting to rise.

I stare at my reflection, heart thudding slightly faster now—not full-blown panic, but definitely in the what the hell is going on zone. The locket glints under the bathroom light, innocent as anything, like it isn’t actively trying to gaslight me into madness.

My reflection stares back at me: wide eyes, messy hair, faintly wild expression.

“Great,” I mutter. “I’m being outwitted by a piece of jewelry.”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the shrill whistle of the kettle.

“Jesus,” I mutter, heart thudding as I scramble out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

I yank the kettle off the stove and set it aside, the steam curling into the air like ghostly fingers. I pour the boiling water into my favorite mug—a handmade ceramic one with a soft, rainbow glaze that catches the light just right—and drop my tea strainer into the cup. The herbs swirl and settle as I add a spoonful of honey, stirring slowly.

I try to focus on the warmth of the mug in my hands, the earthy scent rising with the steam, but my thoughts keep drifting.

Sunny’s hiss.
His sudden bolt across the room.
The fact that the necklace won’t come off.

I lower myself into the chair at the small kitchen table, the old wood creaking beneath me. With the mug steaming nearby, I reach up and begin to fidget with the locket again, running my fingers over its surface.

It’s warm. Warmer than it should be.

I pause. I haven’t even tried to open it yet.

I set my tea down and bring the locket into both hands. The metal is smooth beneath my fingertips, cool now, but still humming with an odd sense of presence, as if it’s holding its breath.

With a soft click, I find the seam.

I press my nail into the tiny groove and try to pry it open.

At first, it doesn’t budge.

Then, with a faint snick, the locket opens.

The moment the locket clicks open, a sudden rush of cold air spills out, swirling around me like a breath from another world. The silver edges shimmer and pulse, and before I can even pull back, a soft, low hum fills the room—a sound almost like a whispered chant just beneath hearing.

Then, a shape begins to form inside the hollow of the locket, as if shadows and light are weaving themselves into a figure. The air thickens, charged with electricity and something ancient, and the faint outline sharpens into a handsome man—tall and lean, with dark, tousled hair that falls in loose waves around a strong, angular face framed by a mildly disheveled beard. His beard is dark, thick, but not unseemly, giving him a rugged, weathered look that hints at both hardship and quiet strength.

His skin is pale but not sickly—more like marble kissed by moonlight. His eyes—deep and stormy gray—hold a turbulent intensity, flickering with pain, relief, and something dangerously raw.

The Man’s jaw is set beneath that beard, lips full and slightly chapped from years of silence, yet there’s an undeniable magnetism in his gaze, as if he’s both a warrior and a prisoner finally unbound. Broad shoulders and a slender frame seem to shimmer with a subtle aura, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

He steps out as if emerging from water, dripping shadows that dissolve into the air around him. His gaze locks with mine—intense, haunted, but alive. For a moment, he’s still, as if disoriented by the release, the weight of years spent trapped pressing down on him. He falls to his hands and knees on the tiled floor.

Then, his lips part in a rough breath, and he reaches out a hand, fingers curling with quiet urgency.

“I’m here,” he says, voice low and raw, “finally free.”

With a sharp curse and a yelp of surprise, I tumble backward out of my chair—and then everything goes black.

Chapter 4

Kieran

For the first time in what felt like centuries, I could breathe.

Not the memory of breath, not the echo of life in some cursed liminal space—but actual breath, sharp and clean, burning through lungs I hadn’t used in far too long. I hit the floor hard, the impact jarring, but the pain was glorious. Real. Grounding.

I was out.

I sucked in another breath, feeling my fingers curl against the cold tile. My vision was blurred, the light too bright after years locked in darkness. The last thing I remembered was that damned locket and a betrayal I couldn’t claw my way out of.

Then her scent hit me—lavender and honey and something ancient—and my gaze snapped to the figure crumpled on the floor.

A woman. Still. Unmoving.

My heart stuttered. Was she dead? Had my release harmed her?

I forced myself to my feet, still unsteady, my body aching like it had been pieced back together with heat and magic and raw desperation. My fingers brushed through my beard—I hadn’t had one before, I was sure of it. My reflection, wherever it had gone, used to be clean-shaven. This version of me was rougher. Sharper. Cursed longer.

I knelt beside her carefully, not wanting to startle her if she woke. Her hair was a wild halo around her head, dark and curling like vines left untamed, her expression slack with unconsciousness, but her energy… gods, it buzzed. I could feel it. Magic ran through her veins, old and potent, though untrained. She was sprawled on the kitchen floor—unmoving, save for the soft, steady rise and fall of her chest. Unconscious, but very much alive. My senses were slow to catch up with the moment, but even then, even dazed and half-feral from the confines of that cursed locket, I knew she was something rare.

A streak of ink or charcoal smudged one hand, and her sweater had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone. There was a warmth to her skin, even under the pale cast of the overhead light, like she'd been steeped in sunlight hours before.

She looked soft. Disarming. Fragile, in the way lightning bugs look fragile just before they vanish into the dark.

Something in her called to something in me, and it wasn’t just gratitude.

She had freed me.

A warm mug sat nearby, still steaming. I picked it up absently, holding it like it might explain who she was. Why her. Why now.

A whisper of memory stirred—the locket humming with something fierce, resisting her, then giving in with a final click. She must’ve opened it.

And now here I was. Alive. Free. Kneeling on her kitchen floor, staring at a stranger who felt anything but.

I reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Who are you, Flower?” I murmured. “And what the hells have you just gotten yourself into?”

Her fingers twitch. Then a groan, soft and annoyed, like she’s waking up from a nap she didn’t mean to take.

I shift my weight, crouched awkwardly on her kitchen floor, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m here. Breathing. Whole. The air smells like burnt honey and scorched tea leaves, and everything feels… too sharp. Too loud.

She jolts upright with a gasp, scrambling backward until her spine hits the cabinets with a dull thud. She reaches for a large green bag and pulls out some blocky black thing, and points it directly at me. Her wild eyes land on me—bearded, disheveled, looming—and immediately she goes into panic mode.

“What the fuck?!” she shouts. “Who the hell are you?!”

I raise my hands slowly. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?! You just—appeared! Out of my necklace! What the actual fuck is happening?!”

I grit my teeth, jaw clenched. My voice is low, gravelly, and more irritated than comforting. “Trust me, I wasn’t aiming for a dramatic entrance.”

She pulls at the necklace, still stuck firmly around her neck. “So you’re just some random cursed dude who lives in jewelry now?”

“I didn’t exactly sign up for it,” I snap. “That thing’s been my prison for longer than you’ve been alive.”

She blinks. “You’re cursed?”

“Obviously.” I push a hand through my tangled hair and exhale sharply. “Gods, I forgot how loud the world is.”

She looks like she’s two seconds away from chucking her tea mug at me. “Okay, Kurt Russell in a horror movie, back up. What were you doing in that necklace in the first place?”

“It’s Kieran,” I mutter. “And how about we don’t dive into the traumatic backstory ten seconds after I claw my way back into existence?”

“Fine, Kieran, I’m Dahlia,” she says, standing and placing her weapon on the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest. “You look like a medieval lumberjack with a temper.”

I glare. “You look like someone who poked a bear and is now surprised it growled, Flower.”

“Yeah, well, that bear was hiding in my fucking jewelry, so excuse me for being a little startled.”

I run a hand down my face. Everything aches—bones, skin, soul. “Look, I didn’t ask for this. But you opened the locket, which means something’s changed. Something bad. And if I’m out, that means the thing that put me in there might not be far behind.”

Her eyes flicker to mine. For the first time, I see the fear behind the sarcasm. She’s scared. Smart girl.

I sigh through my nose. “I’m not here to hurt you. I don’t even want to be here. But now that I am…” I glance at the locket. “We’ve got a problem. And like it or not, it looks like we’re in it together.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not staying here.”

“Where else would I go?” I growl. “You dragged me out of magical purgatory in your fucking kitchen. Congratulations, sweetheart. You broke the lock. Now you get the monster.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. I can see her fighting herself on whether to force me out.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.

“Fine,” she mutters eventually. “But if you touch my tea again, I will kill you.”

I eye the mug again like it’s insulted me in a past life.

Dahlia’s standing across from me, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. She’s clearly waiting for me to admit defeat.

Yeah. Not happening.

“You know what? Fine,” I mutter.

She narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.”

I lift the damn thing and take a long, defiant sip, while staring directly into her eyes.

Immediately, I regret every choice that led me to this moment.

It’s like regret and sadness had a baby and steeped it in suffering. I cough, because I have to—because whatever this is doesn’t deserve to be called tea—and lower the mug, scowling.

“Fucking hell,” I rasp. “It tastes like someone boiled despair and added a hint of disappointment.”

Dahlia snorts. “You didn’t have to drink it.”

“Oh, I did,” I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “Because now I can say, with absolute certainty, that this is the worst thing I’ve consumed since the Black Plague.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s not that bad.”

“I would rather chew bark. Not even fresh bark—old, sun-bleached, cursed-forest bark with termites and centuries of sorrow soaked in.”

She tries to keep a straight face, but a laugh escapes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I was tortured for decades,” I say solemnly, still staring at the mug like it’s my sworn enemy. “But this tea? This tea is what finally broke me.”

Now she’s full-on laughing. I can’t help it—I glare at the cup and set it down like it’s radioactive. “If I die again tonight, blame the tea.”

She wipes a tear from her eye, shaking her head. “I will. And I’ll remember that you drank it on purpose just to win an argument.”

I grumble under my breath. “I’m surrounded by witches and chaos and now apparently herbal war crimes.”

“And yet,” she says with a smirk, “you’re still standing.”

“Barely.”

She rolls her eyes. “Alright, tough guy. Why don’t you go rinse your mouth out or get yourself some water? The sink’s right there.”

I glance toward the counter, spotting the shiny silver contraption she gestures to.

“That?” I ask, squinting. “That’s the sink?”

“Yes. That’s the sink.”

“It looks like something that would strangle you in your sleep.”

“It’s a faucet.”

I walk over to it cautiously, eyeing the handles like they might bite. “There are no pumps. No well. No enchanted vessel. Just... knobs?”

“Turn one,” she says, amused now. “It’s not going to hex you.”

I hesitate. I don’t like objects I can’t predict, especially ones that hum with unnatural stillness. Magic has rhythm. This thing is just waiting.

I wrap my hand around one of the handles and twist.

The faucet sputters violently, then shoots out a stream of water so sudden and aggressive that I stumble back like it just roared at me. “Gods’ teeth!”

Dahlia snorts behind me. “It’s plumbing.”

I narrow my eyes at the faucet, deeply offended. “In my day, water didn’t hiss like a demon being exorcised.”

“Yeah, well, in your day, they also thought mercury cured headaches.”

“I’m beginning to miss it.”

I glare at the water, slowly inching closer again. Tentatively, I cup my hands beneath the stream and slurp. Cold. Clean. Infinitely better than her plant death brew.

I turn back toward her, wiping my beard with a scowl. “I liked it better when water came from the earth. Not... metal snakes.”

She grins. “You’ll get used to it.”

I snort. “Doubtful. But it is less offensive than your tea.”

She just laughs, and I pretend I don’t like the sound of it.

I dry my hands on a rag that’s way too soft to be trusted. The whole house smells strange—like lavender, rosemary, and a hint of something warm and sugary—but not unpleasant. Just... unfamiliar. It makes me itch under my skin. Everything in here is small and oddly cozy, like the cottage itself is trying to make me feel something.

I don’t like it.

I step into the adjoining room—more plants, more soft colors, more little sparkling things hanging from shelves and corners. Crystals. She has crystals everywhere. I eye them warily. Some of them are humming with faint magic. Most are just shiny rocks pretending to be important.

And then I see him.

A flash of orange fur darts behind a bookshelf, then peeks out at me with large, untrusting eyes. A cat. Small. Fuzzy. Judgy.

He watches me with the wary suspicion of a creature who’s seen too much. I stare back.

“I don’t trust you either,” I mutter.

He slinks forward anyway, tail twitching. I stay still, letting him sniff the air around me like I’m something he’s deciding to either claw or befriend. To my surprise, he brushes against my leg once, then again, purring like a tiny infernal machine.

“Well,” I mutter, crouching down, “aren’t you indecisive. Hissing one minute, cuddling the next.”

I reach out a hand. He doesn’t bite it. Instead, he rubs his head into my fingers like we’ve been comrades for years.

“Coward,” I murmur, begrudgingly scratching behind his ears. “You were my enemy five minutes ago.”

“Sunny likes you,” Dahlia says from behind me, sounding both surprised and amused.

“Sunny? That’s its name?” I glance at the creature. “He seems more like a Brimstone.”

She snorts. “I’ll let him know you disapprove.”

I straighten, joints creaking in ways I don’t remember them doing before. She eyes me critically.

“You stink,” she says flatly. “Like firewood, blood, and... tomb.”

“Charming,” I say, arching a brow. “Care to insult my beard while you’re at it?”

“It’s a great beard,” she replies, holding up her hands. “But everything else needs serious help. Go shower. Please.”

“I don’t know how your demon ‘plumbing’ works, remember?”

“I’ll show you how the shower works,” she says, already heading toward the hallway. “I’ll even find you something clean to wear.”

I follow her, Sunny trailing behind like a tiny orange sentinel.

“And while you’re in there,” she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Something that doesn’t taste like regret and moss?”

She spins, walking backward now, grinning. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”

I sigh dramatically. “If that’s a euphemism for more cursed tea, I swear I’ll do my best to vanish back into the damn necklace.”

She just laughs again. Bright, unbothered, and annoyingly... warm.

Chapter 5

Kieran

Dahlia led me into a small, bright room that smelled faintly of soap and something floral. She gestured at a shiny metal contraption fixed to the wall. “This is the shower,” she said, her grin barely contained. “It’s how you get clean without having to find a river or pond.”

I stared at it suspiciously. “Looks like some sort of torture device.”

She laughed. “No, no. See these knobs?” She pointed at two round things. “One controls the cold water, the other the hot. You twist them to get the temperature just right.”

I reached out cautiously, turning one knob. Suddenly, water sprayed out like a burst from a spring. I jumped back, scowling. “Damn thing is gonna drown me.”

“Just step under it and turn it off when you’re done,” she said, amused. “The shampoo is for your hair and the body wash is, well, for your body.” She pointed to some colorful bottles lined on a shelf. “They clean better than mud and river water.”

I narrowed my eyes at the bottles. “Suspicious.”

“Try it. They won’t bite,” Dahlia teased. “I’ll bring you a towel. I wasn’t expecting company, so they’re still in the dryer.”

Grumbling, wondering what a ‘dryer’ was, I step into the shower stall, eyeing the mysterious contraption mounted on the wall. It’s a silver thing with knobs and buttons that look complicated. I twist the left knob, and a sudden blast of cold water hits me like a bucket of icy river water.

“Fuck!” I curse, jerking back.

Dahlia’s voice floats through the door. “Hot water’s the other knob.”

With a grunt, I adjust the other knob slowly, and the water shifts to a more tolerable lukewarm. I step under the spray, the warm water sluicing over my beard and tangled hair. I close my eyes, trying to pretend it’s a natural spring in the woods, but it’s not. This new magic was confusing — and aggravating. But it did feel... clean.

I spot a bottle sitting on a ledge labeled Shampoo. The label promises “nourishing lavender” or some nonsense. I squeeze some out into my palm. It feels like mucus.

I lather it into my hair. It smells weirdly sweet, almost like the flowers outside. My fingers tangle in the suds, and the shampoo slips down my arms.

“Good grief,” I mutter, trying to wash it out. The water carries the foam away, but my scalp still itches.

Then I see another bottle—Body Wash. More mucus. I rub it over my skin, grimacing at the artificial smell.

I start scrubbing the grime from my skin, my beard, the dirt I can feel settled deep in my pores from years trapped in that damned locket.

After what feels like forever, I finally turn off the water and step out, shivering.

Dahlia’s waiting with a towel in her outstretched arms, her eyes averted but amused.

“You look like you fought a forest fire,” she says.

I snarl. “It’s the blasted water. I’m certain it’s trying to drown me.”

She laughs. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

I grab the towel and wrap it around myself, grumbling. “I’m more of a ‘bathe in a river’ type.”

“But this way,” she says, “you don’t get poison ivy.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I follow her path toward the kitchen, drying off, still muttering about the witchcraft that is modern plumbing.

My stomach growled — traitorous thing — just as I rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

“Absolutely not!” Dahlia's voice cut through the air like a blade.

I froze mid-step. She stood near the stove, pointing a wooden spoon at me like it was a sword.

“What?” I asked, annoyed and hungry.

“You are not walking around my house naked, Kieran.”

“I’m not naked, Flower,” I said, gesturing vaguely to the towel. “This is technically clothing.”

“That’s technically my last clean towel, and you are one gust of wind away from being very naked in my kitchen.” She shot me a pointed look. “Go to the bedroom—first door on the left down the hall. Clothes are on the bed. I found some of my uncle’s old stuff that should fit you.”

I frowned. “You’re really going to stop me from eating because of a lack of pants?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I have standards. I don’t eat dinner with a naked man unless it’s the third date.”

That made me pause.

“…So if this were the third date, I could be naked?”

Noted.

“Bedroom. Now,” she snapped, turning her back and stirring something in a pot like she wasn’t blushing.

Grumbling, I padded down the hall, muttering, “Don’t know what’s wrong with a little towel-based dining…” but secretly, I was a little amused.

And hungry enough to do as I was told. For now.

I stepped into the bedroom she’d pointed me toward, still wrapped in the towel like some disgraced Roman emperor. The room was small but cozy, with soft lighting and the faint smell of lavender. The bed was neatly made, and sitting on top was a folded pile of clothes: A linen button-down shirt in a soft cream color. Dark brown trousers with real buttons and a slightly high waist. A knit sweater in a deep forest green. Next to it all, a pair of thick wool socks and sturdy leather boots that looked worn but well-cared-for. I pulled the towel off and got dressed slowly, savoring the feel of proper cloth again—natural fibers, solid stitching. The trousers fit well, and the sweater felt oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory. Even the boots were broken in, easy to lace, and made the floorboards creak just right when I stood.

It almost made me feel human again.

Almost.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Beard still damp, hair curling at my jaw, dressed like some relic from another time—but at least I looked less like a lunatic and more like a man.

I stepped into the hallway and made my way back to the kitchen.

Dahlia looked up from the stove and gave me a slow once-over. She smiled. “Now that’s more like it.”

“I assume this means you no longer find me offensive to dine with?” I said dryly.

She smirked, flipping something in the pan. “Definitely an upgrade. Still not eating with a naked man until the third date, though.”

“So I heard.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves.

Dahlia slid a bowl in front of me with a practiced hand, followed by a plate holding some sort of golden, oozing sandwich.

“It’s just grilled cheese and tomato soup,” she said, easing into the chair across from me. “Classic comfort food.”

I stared at the bowl. Red. Thick. Slightly steaming.

My stomach growled, but my instincts screamed.

“What is this?” I demanded, leaning back in my chair and narrowing my eyes at the soup like it might leap up and throttle me.

Dahlia blinked. “I just said—”

“No, I know what you said. You expect me to eat that?” I jabbed a finger at the bowl. “That is made of tomatoes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes…?”

“Tomatoes are poisonous.”

Her mouth fell open for a beat. “Excuse me?”

I stood up, nearly knocking the chair over. “This is a trap. You lure me in with a place to stay, clean clothes and hot water, get me to lower my guard, and now you’re trying to kill me with soup.”

She just stared at me, stunned into silence.

“You can’t seriously expect me to eat that. The red alone is ominous. That’s the color of warning. Of death. That’s devil fruit right there.”

She started laughing—full-on, shoulders-shaking laughter.

I scowled. “I fail to see the humor in being poisoned.”

“Kieran,” she said between giggles, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “tomatoes are not poisonous. They were once thought to be, yeah, like...in the 18th century. But people figured it out. You’re fine. It’s not going to kill you.”

“I’m not convinced.”

She picked up her own spoon and took a dramatic, slurpy bite, then dipped the grilled cheese into the bowl and took another. “See? Not dead.”

I watched her for a long moment, suspicious. She didn’t convulse. Didn’t foam at the mouth. She even smiled.

My stomach growled again.

Damn it.

Grumbling, I sat back down and tore a cautious corner off the sandwich. The melted cheese stretched, gooey and golden, and the bread was crisp with just the right amount of butter. It smelled...like food. Real food. Warm, comforting, nostalgic, even.

I dipped it into the soup.

Took a bite.

Paused.

Chewed.

Glared at her. “I hate how good this is.”

She beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

“I still say it’s a suspicious dish.”

“And yet you’re going for another bite.”

I didn’t dignify her with an answer. I just scowled and kept eating—because, poison or not, it was the best damn thing I’d tasted in over a century.

“So, I have to ask,” Dahlia said, stirring her soup anxiously, “what did you mean by ‘the thing that put me in there’? What do you think is coming? How did you end up in the locket? What even are you?”

I looked down at my hands for a moment, then met her eyes. The truth wasn’t easy, but she deserved it.

“I’m Kieran Voss,” I began, voice low. “A witch—or at least, that’s what I was told. That locket isn’t just jewelry. It’s a prison.”

She waited.

“Years ago, I was in love. My first love.” I swallowed hard. “She was… stabbed. She was dying.” I closed my eyes briefly. “At least, that’s what I believed.”

I shook my head. “But later, I found out the truth was darker. She may not have died at all. She lied. Lied about the wound, about everything. Why? I don’t know. Maybe to protect me, or maybe… something worse.”

I hesitated, voice thick. “I tried to save her anyway—when she was stabbed she gave my brother a spell, to save her. I used magic I barely understood. But it backfired. Instead of saving her, I became the target.”

“And my brother, Silas…” I clenched my fists. “He betrayed me. He tampered with the spell somehow and sided with the dark forces that trapped me inside the locket. It was meant to keep me from interfering with whatever plans they had.”

Dahlia’s spoon froze mid-air. Her eyes searched mine.

“That betrayal shattered me. I was locked away, powerless, while everything I cared about… slipped through my fingers.”

I looked down again, voice quieter. “And those dark forces? They’re still out there. Hunting. I can feel them. I think they want to finish what they started. With me—and maybe now, with you too.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t look away.

“We’re connected, Flower. I don’t know what’s coming, but it won’t be easy.”

She stared at me for a long beat, the flickering candlelight making her eyes seem darker, deeper. I could see the storm of thoughts behind them, feel the weight of the questions she wasn’t sure how to ask.

Finally, she exhaled. “Jesus, Kieran.”

She pushed her bowl away slightly, no longer interested in the soup.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, voice a little shaky. “Your first love lied about dying—why, we don’t know. Your own brother betrayed you. You were cursed and locked in that thing for God knows how long… and now something evil might be coming for me just because I put on a necklace I didn’t know was magical?”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “What the hell kind of hellscape date is this?”

Despite everything, I let out a short, tired laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Dahlia looked up again, all sarcasm slipping from her voice. “I’m sorry. I just—this is a lot. It’s insane. But somehow, I don’t think you’re lying. I… believe you.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she shook her head like she couldn’t believe she was saying it.

“Maybe I’m insane, too. But… if what you’re saying is true, then we need to figure out what’s coming. Together. Because I’m not about to let some creepy, ancient evil thing crash into my life without a fight.”

She looked down at the locket resting against her chest and muttered, “Especially not over a piece of cursed jewelry I got for my birthday.”

She reached out and placed her hand over mine. “You’re not alone anymore, Kieran. Whatever’s coming, we’ll deal with it. You’ve already been through hell. I’m not letting it swallow you again.”

The electricity in her touch made me pull my hand back slightly. I replaced the stony look on my face, trying not to let it slip how badly I wanted her skin on mine.

You just met her, Kieran. You know nothing about her.

Yet her raw magnetism was there. Even I couldn't deny that.

There was silence between us, heavy and full of unspoken truths. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be used or a man cursed by his own mistakes.

Returning to my food, I scowled through the last few bites, fully aware that she was watching every spoonful of the alleged poison. Once the bowl was empty, I shoved it away like it had offended me, then slouched in the chair like that might hide the fact that I was… full.

And warm.

And, gods help me—comfortable.

Dahlia stood and started gathering the dishes. I made a vague attempt to help, but she waved me off.

“I’ve got it. You’ve had a rough day, resurrecting and all.”

“You say that like I took a nap and not spent decades trapped in a cursed trinket,” I muttered.

As she turned to the sink, I watched her. Moving around the kitchen like she belonged here. Like this place welcomed her.

She didn’t seem afraid of me. Not really. Just annoyed and maybe a little amused. Which was—odd. After all, I was a strange man who appeared out of a locket in a flash of light and shadow in her kitchen.

Instead, she made me soup. Argued with me. Told me to shower and made jokes about third dates.

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“So…” I said after a pause, tapping a finger against the table. “What now?”

She rinsed the dishes and glanced back at me over her shoulder. “Now you get to sleep in an actual bed instead of a piece of jewelry.”

“Are you sure I won’t wake up cursed again?”

She considered that. “Honestly? Not sure. But I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure your locket doesn’t start glowing or chanting in Latin.”

“Comforting.”

She dried her hands and turned around, leaning against the counter. “You don’t remember anything else about how you got trapped?”

I hesitated. My jaw clenched, and something deep inside me stirred—a flicker of memory, like smoke from a dying fire. Blood. Betrayal. A name I couldn’t quite grasp.

“No,” I said gruffly. “Just flashes. Nothing useful.”

She nodded, like she understood. “It’ll come back. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, you’re here now.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling. Gratitude felt foreign in my mouth.

So I stood, slowly, joints popping like old wood. “Where’s the bed again?”

She pointed down the hall. “First door on the left. Sleep as long as you need. Tomorrow… we’ll figure out the next step.”

I walked to the doorway, then paused and looked back at her.

“Thank you, Flower.” I said quietly. The words tasted unfamiliar.

Dahlia tilted her head. “You’re welcome, locket boy.”

I grunted and disappeared down the hall, hoping she didn’t see the way my ears turned red.

Chapter 6

Dahlia

I set the last spoon in the drying rack and exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The kitchen was clean. Or, at least, as clean as I could manage considering the utter madness that had unfolded in it just hours ago. My mug still sat on the counter, half-full of cold tea. I picked it up, sipped it out of habit, and grimaced. Ugh. Cold herbal betrayal.

I poured it out and leaned against the sink, rubbing the back of my neck.

What the hell had I just done?

There was a man—an actual man—asleep in the guest bed. A man who had, less than six hours ago, materialized out of a cursed locket in my kitchen in a puff of magic, rage, and unwashed medieval drama. I was about to taze him. But instead, I told him he could stay with me. I told him to shower and use my bath products.

And I made him grilled cheese and tomato soup.

I might be losing it.

I ran a hand over my face. “You’re either the most compassionate woman alive, or a complete idiot,” I muttered.

Because, really, what if he was dangerous? I can’t deny the instant attraction I felt towards him. Sure, he was grumpy and dramatic and didn’t know how a faucet worked—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be some ancient evil. Just because he looked like a disheveled fantasy lumberjack didn’t mean he was harmless.

And I’d let him into my house.

Into my guest bed.

And why did he keep calling me Flower? Can he not remember my name? Just the general meaning of it?

“Great job, Dahlia,” I muttered. “This is how people end up on the news.”

I grabbed a dish towel and half-heartedly wiped down the already-clean counters. My thoughts spiraled.

Thea was going to lose her shit when I told her. She’d flip her lid and probably try to hit him with a broom. Or her car. Or both. She’d definitely accuse me of being enchanted. She might not be wrong.

I sighed and looked around the kitchen. I should be freaking out more. A man came out of jewelry and accused me of poisoning him with soup, and now he was sleeping down the hall, and somehow my main concern was that I was out of milk.

Because, yeah, if he’s sticking around for more than a day—and at this rate, it seemed like he might—I was going to need groceries. And maybe a sedative.

The fridge made a faint humming sound. I opened it, stared blankly at its sad contents—half a cucumber, some mustard, one lonely egg—and closed it again with a soft thud.

“Grocery run tomorrow,” I said to no one. “And maybe sage. A lot of sage.”

I wiped my hands on a dish towel and looked around the room one last time. Everything felt normal again. Almost.

Except it wasn’t. Because there was a man in my house who didn’t know what indoor plumbing was, and somehow I wasn’t terrified.

Just… curious.

And exhausted.

I flicked off the kitchen light, leaving the space in quiet darkness, and padded down the hallway toward bed.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

The hallway creaked softly under my feet as I padded toward the guest room, the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen fading behind me. The house felt still, finally. The chaos of the day—of everything—had settled into a strange, surreal calm.

I paused outside the guest room door, hand hovering near the knob.

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to check on him. Maybe to make sure he hadn’t disappeared like some weird fever dream. Or maybe just to reassure myself that I hadn’t let a complete lunatic take over my guest bed.

Quietly, I turned the handle and pushed the door open just a crack.

The bedside lamp I’d left on earlier still glowed softly, casting golden shadows across the room. Kieran was sprawled on his back on top of the quilt, his broad chest rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. His hair, still damp from the shower, curled against the curve of his shoulder. He looked… softer like this. Less growly, less haunted. Human.

I lingered at the doorway, rubbing the chain of the locket between my fingers. A faint warmth pulsed through it every time I touched him. Not heat—something deeper. Familiar, in a way I couldn’t explain.

Aunt Miriam used to tell me that certain kinds of magic only wake when they’re needed. That some bloodlines carry things like secrets in the marrow.

I always thought she was just being poetic. But now, watching this strange man sleep in my guest bed—this man pulled from silver and shadow—I wasn’t so sure.

But what made me pause was the sight of Sunny—my opinionated, picky cat—curled up right against Kieran’s chest.

The little traitor was purring.

I blinked.

Sunny didn’t warm up to anyone that fast. Hell, he barely tolerated Thea. And yet here he was, pressed into the crook of a stranger’s arm like he belonged there, his tail flicking lazily with each contented breath.

Kieran stirred slightly, one hand twitching in his sleep. His fingers curled around Sunny’s fur, and the cat nuzzled closer, letting out a pleased rumble.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart doing something stupid in my chest.

Well. If Sunny trusted him...

I studied the peaceful expression on Kieran’s face, the way the furrow between his brows had finally smoothed out. He looked so different like this—younger, almost. Or maybe just unburdened.

For the first time since he’d erupted into my life like a storm cloud, I saw something gentle under all that gruffness.

Maybe I wasn’t completely crazy.

Or maybe I was. But at least I wasn’t the only one.

I stepped back, slowly pulling the door almost shut behind me, leaving just a crack. “Goodnight, you weird, possibly-cursed lunatic,” I whispered.

The cat purred louder in response.

Chapter 7

Dahlia

I woke the next morning to the ear-piercing screech of the smoke detector blaring through the house.

I shot upright, heart slamming against my ribs. “What the hell—?”

The sharp smell of something very burnt wafted down the hall. I threw off the covers and bolted out of bed, skidding into the hallway in my oversized sleep shirt and fuzzy socks.

The kitchen was a disaster zone.

Smoke curled up from a blackened skillet on the stovetop. Kieran was flailing wildly with a dish towel, swearing loudly as he swatted at a small fire licking out of the pan. Bits of scorched something—possibly zucchini at one point—were smoldering in the sink.

Sunny sat in the doorway, ears tilted back and tail flicking with disdain, the very picture of feline judgment. Oleander, my menace of a rabbit, was somehow out of his hutch and blissfully chewing on a half-mangled carrot near Kieran’s feet like the chaos didn’t concern him in the slightest.

“What the actual fuck is happening!?” I yelled, rushing past Sunny and straight to the stove.

Kieran stepped back, towel still smoking at the edges. “I had it handled!”

I yanked the pan off the burner and slammed it into the sink, turning the faucet on full blast. Steam hissed up in a furious cloud. I darted up onto a chair and smacked the smoke detector with the end of a broom handle until it shut off with a pathetic beep.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Kieran coughed once, smearing ash on his cheek. “Good morning, Flower.”

I turned around slowly. “Good morning?”

Sunny meowed as if to second my disbelief.

“There was going to be breakfast,” Kieran said, chest puffing out in defense. “I woke early. Found your garden out back. Dug up some of the vegetables. Figured I'd repay you for the not-poison soup and you letting me stay.”

I blinked. “You dug up my garden?”

“I left some.” He gestured toward the back door. “The tomatoes betrayed me again, so I focused on the root vegetables.”

My gaze swept over the carnage. Half a burnt leek was stuck to the wall. My favorite wooden spoon was singed and smoldering on the counter.

Oleander hopped up onto Kieran’s boot and started nibbling on the laces.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “How—why—what made you think you could cook?”

Kieran shrugged, looking half-proud, half-defeated. “I woke up early. Read some of the books in your living room. One of them had a section on rustic cuisine. Thought I’d give it a go.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You mean the Victorian Home Cooking coffee table book?”

He paused. “…Yes. That’s the one.”

I stared at him for a long beat, then burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it.

Kieran frowned. “I fail to see the humor in a woman waking up to a thoughtful, homemade meal.”

“You set my kitchen on fire with a turnip, Kieran.”

“It was a parsnip. And the fire was controlled.”

I shook my head, still laughing, and crossed to the sink to rinse out the skillet. “Next time, just let me cook.”

“Fine. The rabbit started it.”

Oleander thumped once in agreement and hopped toward the living room.

Sunny sneezed dramatically and walked away like he couldn’t be associated with any of us.

“Alright, you scorched the food, smoked up my kitchen, and possibly traumatized my pets,” I said, hands on my hips, “so now you get to learn the joy of doing the dishes.”

Kieran narrowed his eyes at the mountain of charred pans and crusty bowls stacked in the sink. “I battled hellfire this morning, and now you're punishing me with peasant chores?”

I handed him a sponge. “Welcome to domestic life, Your Grumpiness.”

I turned on the faucet and adjusted the temperature. “It’s a sink, Kieran. Warm water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat. This is the bare minimum of not living like a disaster goblin.”

He grumbled under his breath but started clumsily scrubbing a scorched pan while I dried the less tragic pieces beside him. It was awkward at first—he kept dropping utensils and was overly fascinated by the way the suds clung to his fingers—but he got the hang of it.

“I think I’m actually getting the hang of—” clang. A fork clattered to the floor. “Never mind.”

I snorted and handed him another pan. “So, is this how it’s gonna be? Every day, I find a new way you nearly destroy my house, and we cap it off with life skills boot camp?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed as he rinsed the pan under the water, the suds swirling down the drain.

“I have some bad news,” he said finally, not looking at me.

I stiffened a little. “That’s not a fun segue.”

“This morning,” he continued, “when I went into your garden, I couldn’t reach the back corner. Past the tall hedges.”

“Okay…?”

“I physically couldn’t move forward. It was like... like hitting an invisible wall. I tried again, harder. Same result. The air got thick. My chest tightened. My skin itched like I was being burned from the inside.”

I paused with a dish towel in my hand. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the mood while I was trying to poison you with parsnips,” he muttered.

“That’s—actually fair,” I admitted. “But seriously. What do you think it means?”

He exhaled heavily, setting a cleaned pan aside. “I think I may be bound to the locket. To you. I don’t know yet. But I’m not free. I can’t just leave.”

I leaned against the counter, staring at him. “So you’re stuck?”

He nodded, rubbing a hand through his still-damp hair. “Seems like it.”

I let that settle for a moment, the sound of running water filling the space between us. Kieran, an ancient, magically-bound man with a beard that could probably write its own memoir, was stuck in my house, with me. Possibly forever.

Kieran froze as Oleander hopped into the kitchen, sniffed the floor near his boots, then butted his head gently against his ankle.

“What the hell is he doing?”

I grinned, “Oh no. He likes you now.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Kieran grumbled, though he didn’t step away.

“Well,” I said finally, handing him another plate, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re learning to do dishes.”

He gave me a dry look. “If this is eternity, I demand a sponge with more dignity.”

“Tough shit, you’re using the pink one with the smiling cat face.”

He groaned like I’d stabbed him, but took the plate anyway.

At least he didn’t try to set anything else on fire.

Chapter 8

Kieran

I barely had time to dry my hands before Dahlia’s voice cut through the house like a blade.

“Kieran,” she called, sharp and suspicious, “why was Oleander out of his hutch this morning?”

I glanced toward the hallway, vaguely wondering what the problem was. “I let him out.”

A pause. A deadly kind of pause.

“You what?”

I stepped into the living room and found her standing there with her arms crossed, glaring at me like I’d just sacrificed a goat on her coffee table. Oleander—the tiny, mean, and entirely too smug black rabbit—sat on the back of the couch, twitching his nose like he owned the place.

“I figured that’s what he was for,” I said with a shrug.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Flower, rabbits,” I said slowly, as if explaining it to a child. “They’re livestock. Fur or food. He didn’t seem particularly fluffy, so I assumed... food.”

Her mouth dropped open like I’d slapped her.

“You were going to eat him?” she shouted.

I blinked at her. “Well, I didn’t get that far. He tried attacking me, and I didn’t want to wake you by fending him off.”

She stormed toward me, arms flailing like a madwoman. “That’s because he’s evil! But he’s my evil rabbit! He’s not for eating! He’s for love! Or whatever twisted mockery of love a creature like him can offer!”

I looked at the rabbit again. Beady eyes. Evil aura. Clearly a demon. “He looks like he crawled out of a witch’s cauldron.”

“He probably did,” she snapped, “but that doesn’t mean you get to make him into stew!”

I raised both hands, trying to calm her down before she started throwing things. “Alright. Fine. No rabbit for breakfast. It was just a misunderstanding.”

Oleander thumped his foot, glaring at me like he understood every word. Little bastard.

Dahlia pointed a finger at me with the intensity of a sorceress mid-curse. “If you lay one finger on him again, I swear I will hex you so hard your beard grows backwards.”

Honestly... I wasn’t even sure that wasn’t already happening. The thing itched like hell.

“I’ll go apologize,” I muttered, mostly to shut her up. “To the demon rabbit. So I don’t get cursed in my sleep.”

I addressed the rabbit, “I apologize for trying to skin and eat you, small demon named Oleander, it will not happen again…”

She flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, mumbling something about “tiny hellbeasts” and “emotional damage.”

I turned toward the hallway, giving Oleander a sideways glance as I passed. He just stared at me, all twitchy nose and judgment. Honestly, if anything in this house was cursed, it wasn’t the locket—it was that damn rabbit.

And somehow, that made him kind of impressive.

Maybe I wouldn’t eat him.

Yet.

I heard her rummaging through the pantry, muttering to herself. Then she called out, “Okay, I need to go to the grocery store. Which means, unfortunately for you, you have to come with me.”

I groaned from the couch, where I was actively trying to scratch my face off. “Why?”

“You’re cursed and stuck to me, remember? If I leave without you, you’ll probably hit the boundary again and give Mrs. Patterson across the street a heart attack.”

Bloody fantastic.

I hauled myself to my feet, still clawing at my jaw like something vile had taken root beneath my skin. She looked up as I walked in and gave me that expression she always wears when she’s trying not to laugh.

“You okay?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“No,” I grumbled. “Do you have any magic that’ll stop my skin from feeling like it’s on fire?”

She blinked. “What happened?”

I gestured wildly at my face. “It started after I used that purple... thing in the bathing room. The one that smelled like a flower shop exploded in a cauldron.”

“Wait,” she said, looking both horrified and amused. “You mean the lavender body wash?”

“Lavender?” I spat the word like it was venom. “I thought it was some kind of alchemical cleanser. Real lavender does not sting and itch. Instead, it’s clearly hexed. Or poisonous. Or both.”

She snorted, covering her mouth. “You’re probably allergic, because it’s artificially scented.”

“Or cursed.”

“It’s not cursed.”

“Says you.”

She leaned against the counter, still grinning like I was the best show in town. “Fine. We’ll pick up something unscented while we’re out. Maybe oat milk and chamomile.”

“Oat what?”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the door. “Go get your boots. You’re going grocery shopping, itchy face and all.”

I scowled as I went to put the damned things on. She huffed and pulled out that little glowing device she talks to like it’s a person. “I’m calling Thea. She can drive us.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Who is Thea?”

“My friend,” she said casually. “She has a car big enough for you and the groceries. I don’t have space in my Beetle.”

“‘Beetle.’ Are we still talking about a carriage or some sort of mechanical insect?”

She blinked, then burst out laughing. “It’s a car, Kieran. Tiny, yellow, and probably one good sneeze away from retirement. You’d crush the suspension just by looking at it too hard.”

“So this Thea has a sturdier carriage,” I said slowly.

“Yes,” she said, already tapping away on her phone. “And she won’t mind giving us a lift. Probably.”

“Probably?” I repeated warily.

“You haven’t met her yet, but she’s cool,” she said.

I squinted. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

That did not reassure me. At all.

“She’s blunt, a little scary, and very observant,” Dahlia continued, which somehow made things worse. “But she’s a good person. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m from the eighteenth century. I am weird, Flower.”

She chuckled, and the sound made my chest feel tight in a way I didn’t particularly care for. Then she raised the phone to her ear and turned away, muttering something about “a mountain of a man” and “double the food budget.”

I sighed, pressing my palms to the table. I wasn’t sure what kind of creature a Thea was, but it sounded like I’d find out soon. And knowing my luck, she’d hate me immediately.

Still… maybe this world wouldn’t be so unbearable.

Chapter 9

Dahlia

I stared at my phone for a solid ten seconds before sighing and unlocking it. This was going to be a conversation. I hit Thea’s name and put the call on speaker so I could nervously clean up the countertop while it rang.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Dahlia,” she answered, voice suspicious. “You never call me during the day. Who died?”

“Okay, rude,” I said, scrubbing a mysterious smudge off the counter. “And… sort of a valid question.”

There was a pause. I took the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”

“So… remember the locket Henry gave me?”

“The one I specifically told you might be cursed and should probably be buried in a salt circle with a priest chanting nearby?”

“Yeah. That one.”

Another pause. “Dahlia. What the actual hell.”

“Okay, listen,” I said quickly. “I need a ride to the grocery store.”

“Did the locket eat your car?”

“No! The Beetle’s fine. I just… don’t have enough room for everything I need to buy.”

“Since when do you buy enough food for an army?”

I hesitated.

“Dahlia.”

“I’ll explain when you get here,” I said. “It’s kind of… a lot.”

“Dahlia.”

“I’m fine. No one’s dead. Just… I sort of have a… guest.”

Another pause.

“A guest?”

“Yeah.”

“A ‘guest’ who is somehow tied to the locket, aren’t they?”

“…Maaaaaaybe.”

She made a long groaning sound like she was either in physical pain or dragging herself out of bed. “Are they a ghost? A demon? A haunted Victorian doll in human form?”

“No. I mean… he’s a guy. Just, like… from a few centuries ago. And he came out of the locket.”

Thea went dead silent.

Then she shrieked, “YOU UNLOCKED A CURSED LOCKET MAN? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“I didn’t mean to! It just… happened!”

“You accidentally freed a magical locket man?!”

“I was making tea!”

“This is why I told you to leave creepy heirlooms alone!”

I cringed, holding the phone a little farther from my ear. “Look, can you come get us or not?”

Thea made a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper. “Us. Us. Jesus Christ, you’ve already adopted him, haven’t you?”

“No! I mean, I’m feeding him. And letting him use my shower. But it’s not like—”

“Oh my God, you’re housing a time traveler like he’s a stray dog.”

“He’s not a dog! He’s just… very large. Honestly? He’s a mountain of a man. And grumpy. And allergic to lavender, apparently.”

There was a pause, then a resigned sigh. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I swear to God, Dahlia, if he tries to eat me, I’m lighting him on fire.”

“You’d have to get past Sunny first. He’s claimed him.”

“Great. The cat’s on his side. That’s very reassuring.”

She hung up.

I stared at the phone for a moment, then set it down on the counter and turned toward the living room.

“Good news!” I called. “We have a ride.”

Kieran, who was sitting at my kitchen table reading a cookbook like it held the secrets of the universe, looked up warily. “What’s the bad news?”

“She’s a little intense.”

His eyes narrowed. “Define ‘intense.’”

“You’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later—exactly twenty minutes later—I hear the low rumble of Thea’s blacked-out Escalade pulling up outside. The sound alone makes my stomach twist with nervous energy.

“She’s here,” I mutter, mostly to myself, as I grab my stash of reusable grocery bags from the hook by the door. I head to Oleander’s hutch in the corner and crouch to scoop him up. He glares at me with the kind of contempt only a mean rabbit can muster.

“Don’t bite me, you furry little menace,” I warn under my breath.

He promptly tries to bite me.

I manage to stuff him gently—safely—back into his hutch with only minor bloodshed and a lot of muttered curses, then I stand up and call over my shoulder, “Kieran, let’s go! Time to meet the terrifying whirlwind that is my best friend!”

He appears in the hallway like some kind of reluctant summoned demon, dressed in the older-style clothes I picked out for him: loose, faded trousers and a linen shirt that looks like it walked off a period drama set. Somehow, it suits him. Annoyingly well.

“Is she always punctual?” he asks, peering toward the front door like it might explode open at any second.

I snort. “She’d be early to her own funeral if she could.”

Kieran groans softly. “Fantastic.”

He follows me toward the door with the gait of a man marching to his own execution.

I offer him a sideways glance. “You’ll be fine.”

“You keep saying that, and yet the itch from the lavender still lingers.”

“You’re really going to hold that against me?”

“Flower, I’m really going to hold everything against you until further notice,” he mutters.

Gods, I wish he would.

I swing the door open—and there’s Thea, leaning against her SUV with mirrored sunglasses on, sipping from a neon pink iced coffee cup like she’s a hitman waiting for a mark.

Her eyes land on Kieran, and the straw in her mouth freezes mid-sip.

“Oh, hell no,” she mutters, yanking her sunglasses off.

I wince. “Here we go.”

Kieran steps half in front of me like he’s supposed to be a human shield. “That’s her?”

“Yup.”

“She looks like she eats men.”

I grin. “She does. Try not to be rude, or she’ll add you to the menu.”

Thea storms up the walkway with all the grace of a freight train, her combat boots stomping against the cobblestone like she’s about to serve someone a cease and desist—possibly to Kieran’s existence.

“I’m gonna need someone to explain—right now—why a whole grown-ass man is standing in your doorway looking like he escaped from a time-traveling Renaissance fair,” she says, jabbing a finger toward Kieran.

“I told you I’d explain everything when you got here,” I say, lifting the grocery bags like a peace offering. “And maybe don’t lead with threats. He’s still adapting to soap.”

She turns to me, eyes wide. “Dahlia, what the hell did you bring to life?”

“Technically,” I say, edging down the front steps toward the SUV, “he brought himself to life. I just opened the locket and let the strange haunted man fall out.”

“Haunted?” she repeats, voice jumping half an octave.

“We’re still figuring that part out.”

Kieran crosses his arms, looking vaguely offended. “I am not haunted.”

Thea points at him. “And why are you dressed like you’re about to recite poetry in a candlelit crypt?”

“I didn’t have a say in the wardrobe,” he snaps.

Thea’s mouth falls open. She looks at me. “You made him get dressed in period drama cosplay?”

“It was in Aunt Miriam's stuff. He looks good!” I protest. “Besides, he was going to eat dinner with me naked last night. Naked. Holding a towel. He at least tried to make breakfast fully clothed this morning, swearing at vegetables on fire, and all.”

“Vegetables on fire?”

Kieran glares at the sky. “Your heat contraptions are far too aggressive.”

Thea looks like she’s genuinely questioning her reality at this point.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Can we please just go to the store?”

Thea pinches the bridge of her nose. “You owe me so many explanations. And probably therapy.”

“You’ll get both,” I say, ushering Kieran toward the passenger side.

“I’m not sitting in the front with him,” Thea warns.

“Good,” Kieran mutters. “I prefer the back.”

“You smell like smoke and regret. Don’t test me.”

“Fantastic,” I groan as I shove the last bag into the back hatch. “Let’s all just survive the car ride without killing each other, please.”

Kieran opens the back passenger door and looks at the interior suspiciously. “How does one not die inside this metal box?”

“Seatbelts. Just get in and don’t touch anything,” I warn him.

As we all pile in, Thea mutters, “If this ends with me possessed by a demon, I swear to God, Dahlia...”

I just smile and buckle my seatbelt. “Later. Let’s go get groceries before someone tries to eat the rabbit again.”

“You what?” Thea shrieks.

Kieran shrugs. “In my defense, he looked delicious.”

Thea groans. “I need a drink. And a priest.”

And with that, we drive off down the sleepy streets of Brookside, my ancient curse of a houseguest squished into the back seat of Thea’s Escalade, and the kind of chaos that makes life feel a little too real unfolding by the minute. So, instead of dwelling on the impending panic attack, I launched into my promised explanation. The curse, the locket, breakfast, and then I told her everything Kieran told me last night over grilled cheese.

Thea hadn’t said much since I began.

Well, no—that’s not true. She’d said “What the actual fuck” about twelve times in the first five minutes, then gone quiet. Her hands gripped the steering wheel like she thought it would float away, and her eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror, where she kept sneaking glances at Kieran like she wasn’t sure if he was real or some kind of hallucination brought on by too much espresso.

Kieran, of course, looked as relaxed as someone cursed into a locket for over two centuries could look. He slouched in the seat behind me, arms crossed, jaw set in that broody way he seemed to default to.

“So,” Thea said at last, her voice sharp. “Wanna run that by me one more time? Just, like, slowly. For the people in the front seat trying not to hyperventilate.”

I cleared my throat. “Okay. Short version: the locket Henry gave me for my birthday? Magical. Cursed. Contained this guy”—I pointed to Kieran—“who is, uh… about two hundred years old and was trapped inside by some very dark magic.”

Thea’s eyes widened. “Two. Hundred.”

“Give or take a few decades,” Kieran muttered, staring out the window.

Thea let out a weak laugh. “Oh, good. Ancient man trapped in jewelry. Totally normal.”

I tried to keep my voice calm. “There was a coven. His brother betrayed him. His… his first love might’ve lied about dying—there’s a lot to unpack. He tried to save her, and it got him cursed. He’s basically a magical landmine.”

Kieran shot me a look. “Thanks for that.”

Thea ran her hand down her face. “You’re telling me you have a hot ghost-immortal-ex-warlock roommate with a traumatic backstory, and you didn’t call me the second it happened?”

“I passed out!” I snapped. “He popped out of a necklace! I thought I was hallucinating!”

Kieran grunted. “And she screamed.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t taze you.”

Thea took a sharp breath and shook her head. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. There’s dark magic. Ancient curses. Betrayals. We’re clearly in a whole new level of bullshit. Do you know who cursed you?”

Kieran’s face darkened. “Not exactly. It wasn’t just my brother. The thing that helped him—whatever it was—it wasn’t human. It was old. Older than any of us. It fed on grief, on desperation. My brother… Silas, he wanted more power. He made a deal. One I don’t think even he understood.”

Thea was silent for a moment, digesting. “And your coven?”

“I don’t know,” Kieran said quietly. “Scattered. Broken. Some dead. Some lost to whatever that thing was. I don’t know if any survived.”

“And the girl?” she asked.

Kieran’s jaw clenched. “Calliope… She told me she was dying. I thought she’d been stabbed. She begged me to do the rite. I thought it would bind her soul to mine. I thought it was the only way to keep her from slipping away. But I don’t think she was dying, now.”

“She tricked you,” Thea whispered.

“She used me,” Kieran said. “Maybe it was part of the plan all along. Maybe she was part of the betrayal. I don’t know.”

Silence stretched through the car like a wire pulled too tight.

Thea exhaled hard, then said, “Okay. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to drop you two off at the store. While you shop for boring mortal things, I’ll hit the occult section at my office down the block. If there’s a rite, I’ll find traces of it. Or at least some clue.”

I blinked. “You believe us?”

She shot me a look. “Dahlia, I’ve seen you make tea that cures migraines in like five minutes and nurse a plant back from the dead in a single day. I’ve known there’s weird shit in the world. I just didn’t expect it to come with a six-foot cursed man in a linen shirt.”

Kieran glanced at her. “I have a name, you know.”

“I’ll learn it once you stop smelling like that,” she shot back.

He gave a reluctant snort. I wasn’t sure, but it might’ve been the closest thing to a laugh I’d heard from him yet.

Thea continued, “Look. If something ancient is stirring? We need to be ready. But I’m in. Just don’t leave me out of the loop again, or I will burn your garden down.”

“Alright,” I said, grinning despite the tension in my chest.

As we neared the store, I caught Kieran watching Thea with a furrowed brow. “She’s strange.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But she’s family.”

Chapter 10

Kieran

Thea dropped us off at the front entrance before heading off to her office, determined to dig up a lead on my clouded past.

The automatic doors whooshed open, and I froze on the threshold like I was about to walk into enemy territory.

“You alright?” Dahlia asked, nudging me forward with her hip as she pushed the cart.

I blinked at the bright lights, the sounds, the people. “This building hums.”

“It’s fluorescent lighting. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think I will.”

But I followed her inside anyway, eyes wide as saucers, glancing around like I expected something to leap off the shelves and bite me. It was all so aggressive.

“Alright,” she said, trying to get us on track. “We’re doing the basics. Bread. Eggs. Vegetables. Meat. Soap. Stuff that won’t make you try to burn down my kitchen again.”

I grumbled under my breath, “You try cooking after being a locket ghost for two centuries,” but trailed after her dutifully, fingers trailing across packages and cans with silent curiosity.

When we passed the electronics section, I stopped dead. The wall of TVs, all playing the same thing, a plump woman cooking various things on a stove more advanced than I had ever seen, seemed to mesmerize me.

“What sorcery is this?” I murmured.

“It’s just a TV. Screens. Moving pictures. Sound.”

“Madness.”

She snorted and tugged my arm. “Come on, Gordon Ramsay. We’ve got a list.”

I hesitated, then followed. We made it about four aisles before I got distracted again — this time by the soap section. I picked up a bar of lilac-scented body wash and sniffed it, then recoiled like it had slapped me.

“That’s vile,” I said, coughing.

“Yeah, we’re not doing lilac,” Dahlia agreed.

I picked up another bar — cucumber melon — and scowled at it like it had personally insulted my lineage. Finally, I found a bar wrapped in rough brown paper labeled “All-Natural Oat & Honey Soap” and held it up like I’d been given a gift from the gods.

“This one,” I said, nodding with great seriousness. “This doesn’t smell like lies.”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, Sir Oat-and-Honey. You win.”

Then I spotted a bottle of liquid soap next to it. Curious, I squeezed some into my palm. The thick, slimy liquid clung to my skin, leaving it feeling mucousy and disgusting.

“What fresh hell is this?” I grimaced, trying to rub it off. “It feels like pond scum.”

Dahlia laughed. “That’s liquid soap. It’s supposed to be convenient, but yeah, some people don’t like the texture.”

“I’ll take the solid bar, thank you very much.”

In the produce section, Dahlia taught me the difference between zucchini and squash, which then led to me loudly asking, “And what, pray tell, is a vegetable medley?” — and debated the merits of canned vs. fresh tomatoes (a sore topic, given our dinner last night).

I leaned close while she sorted through apples. “You do this every week?”

“Grocery shopping? Yep.”

“Seems like a great deal of trouble for food.”

“Well, most modern people don’t have gardens or sacrificial offerings anymore, so we make do with reusable bags and discount coupons.”

I gave a soft, amused noise and picked up a pomegranate, turning it in my hand thoughtfully. “This used to mean something sacred.” A gift to show your undying love, like Hades and Persephone.

“Still does. Just now it means ‘six dollars each and a pain to peel.’”

My smile was slightly crooked. “I like this. The learning.”

That caught her off guard. “Yeah?”

I nodded, eyes soft. “There’s a rhythm to this place. Even if it’s loud and smells like plastic and fruit wax.”

She smiled, nudging me with her elbow. “We’ll make a modern man out of you yet.”

My brow lifted. “Does that mean I have to wear those strange trousers that look way too tight-like someone stitched them on?”

“Skinny Jeans? Gods, no. I’d sooner burn them.”

My laugh was low and rough — genuine this time. And maybe I was imagining it, but when our hands brushed while reaching for a loaf of bread, I didn’t feel the need to recoil at her touch.

We made one last loop through the aisles, Dahlia scanning her list and muttering about forgetting cheese. I dutifully followed, arms loaded with things she assured me were essential—olive oil, toothpaste that promised to whiten teeth with "science," and a box of something called Cheez-Its that I’m still convinced are not food.

She handed me a bag of coffee beans and smiled when I sniffed the package like a bloodhound.

“This smells… divine,” I muttered, more to myself than her. “I didn’t know the afterlife had been lacking until now.”

“Just wait until you have your first cup.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise, but I nodded solemnly and added it to the cart.

By the time we made it to the front of the store, the cart was overflowing, and I had become proficient in dodging people, fluorescent buzz, and some abomination called a self-checkout kiosk that Dahlia steered us firmly away from.

“No,” she said flatly when I pointed at it. “That thing eats souls.”

Good enough for me.

We rolled up to a manned register where a young man with artfully tousled hair and a badge that said “Braden :)” greeted Dahlia with a too-wide grin.

“Hey there,” he said, eyes flicking to her face and staying there. “Did you find everything okay today?”

Dahlia smiled politely. “Yeah, thanks.”

He started scanning our items with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever, barely looking at what he was doing because he was too busy making small talk. “You must’ve come in for the essentials, huh? Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to get out of the house on such a beautiful day.”

I didn’t like the way he looked at her. I didn’t like the way he said house like he was imagining himself in it.

I leaned an elbow on the counter and narrowed my eyes, stepping a little closer to her. “We came in because the pantry was empty. Not everything’s an opportunity, lad.”

Braden blinked and glanced at me for the first time. His smile faltered slightly. “Uh, right. Of course.”

Dahlia coughed into her hand, clearly trying not to laugh.

Braden resumed scanning, visibly more focused on the actual groceries. I watched each item pass his hands like a hawk watching prey. He didn’t say another word until he read the total, then gave it with all the energy of a kicked puppy.

Dahlia swiped her card and thanked him sweetly. I grabbed the bags before he could even offer to help.

Outside, she burst into laughter. “Kieran. Did you just alpha-male a teenager?”

I scowled. “Flower, he was leering at you like a starving man eyeing a roast.”

“He was being friendly.”

“He was being hopeful.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Gods, you’re ridiculous.”

I handed her the lighter bags and hefted the rest. “Only because I’ve seen what happens when men like that start smiling too wide.”

She tilted her head, amused. “And what happens?”

“They get disappointed. Sometimes violently.”

“You’re such a man.”

“Good.”

But when I reached to intertwine her fingers with mine as we walked to the curb to wait for Thea, she didn’t pull away.

Just so no one gets any ideas about talking to my flower.

Chapter 11

Dahlia

Kieran’s hand found mine as we stood just outside the automatic doors of the grocery store, the afternoon sun warm on our faces and our shopping cart loaded with bags. His grip was steady, sure. Not tight, not uncomfortable — just there.

I glanced down at our joined hands, then up at him.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was watching the parking lot, squinting slightly like he was expecting Thea to come barreling through the asphalt with a cavalry behind her.

I stared at his profile for a moment. The wild tangle of his hair, the bit of beard he hadn’t quite tamed. He looked like a painting someone dragged into the future, all dark brows and stormy presence.

Still, his hand didn’t leave mine.

And for some reason, I didn’t want it to.

I cleared my throat, shifting a little under the weight of the silence. “Is… this a normal thing? For 18th-century men?”

He blinked and looked down at our hands like he’d forgotten what they were doing there. “What?”

“This,” I gestured vaguely. “Handholding. The whole... knight-and-sword protective energy.”

He tilted his head. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

I’d rather you do it all the time.

“No,” I said a little too quickly. Then backpedaled. “I mean, it’s fine. Totally fine. Just trying to figure out if you think I’m, like, your ward or something. A damsel to protect. Because I’m not really that girl.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “You’ve taken me in. Fed me. Clothed me. Potentially saved me from a soap that made my skin feel like I’d rolled in ants.”

I huffed a laugh.

“So,” he continued, a little more softly, “if I’m holding your hand, it’s because I want to. Not because I think you’re weak, Flower.”

I looked down at our hands again. His thumb brushed against mine absently. It wasn’t romantic. Not really. At least, I didn’t think it was.

But I’m also not good with history.

Maybe this is just how they did things back then. A gentleman’s way of saying, “You’re under my protection,” like I’m a glass unicorn that might break at the slightest provocation.

Maybe that’s all it is.

I can’t tell.

And I don’t really want to ask. Because if I do, I might not like the answer.

Thea’s Escalade turned the corner and I quickly pulled my hand back, busying myself with straightening the grocery bags like they were in any danger of rearranging themselves. I could feel the blush climbing up my neck and spreading across my face. Kieran didn’t comment on it. Just grabbed the heavier bags and followed me to the car.

The SUV idled at the curb as Thea leaned over the console, watching Kieran struggle to shove the last of the bags into the back seat like it was a game of grocery Tetris. I climbed in beside her, grateful to be off my feet. Kieran finally managed to shut the door and slid into the back with a dramatic huff like he’d just returned from war. Glancing back, I notice that Kieran has mastered the seatbelt.

Damn. Quick study. Maybe the modern world isn’t ready for him.

“Alright,” Thea said, pulling away from the curb. “I found some leads.”

I perked up instantly. “Yeah?”

“Sort of.” She glanced at me, then at Kieran in the rearview mirror. “There’s practically nothing on the Rite of Soul Preservation itself—just scraps. The kind of thing people mentioned in passing, like they were afraid to write it down in full. But I did find more on what happened to the coven.”

I twisted in my seat to face her. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, flipping on her blinker and turning out of the parking lot. “About a hundred and fifty years ago, there’s a noticeable stop in any documentation of the Voss coven—Kieran’s coven, I’m guessing.” Thea glanced at him again in the rearview, and he nodded solemnly. “There were a few scattered mentions after that, mostly from rival groups saying the Voss line had ‘fallen’ or ‘been silenced.’”

Kieran’s jaw clenched in the rearview. I could practically feel the way he stilled behind me. “Silenced,” he repeated, voice like gravel.

Thea nodded grimly. “Yeah. The records didn’t say how or why, but the language was pretty ominous. Like it wasn’t just natural decay or a slow death. Like something or someone made sure they vanished. Overnight.”

“They were powerful,” Kieran muttered, his tone low. “Someone would have had to be just as powerful to do that.”

I turned back in my seat, chewing on my lip. “So the Rite might have been tied to whatever happened to them? To the coven disappearing?”

Thea nodded. “Could be. I think someone—some thing—used the Rite to trap him and wipe out the rest.”

A silence settled between us, thick and heavy like a wool blanket soaked in rain. Thea glanced at me, her usual snark softened by concern.

“I’m going to keep digging,” she added. “But whatever happened… this thing had reach. And teeth.”

Kieran didn’t speak, but I caught the way his hand gripped the strap of a grocery bag like he was trying not to crush it.

Thea signaled to turn onto the highway, then glanced between the rearview mirror and me, like she was still debating whether to drop the last bombshell.

“There’s one more thing,” she said finally, hesitating. “And it’s… weird.”

“Weirder than my week?” I asked, thumbing toward the back seat.

Kieran grunted in a way that sounded vaguely offended.

Thea sighed. “There’s a record. Just one. I found it in an archived shipping log from the late 1700s. Someone named Silas Voss traveled from North America to the British Isles. The handwriting is awful, but the name and signature match older records of the Voss coven leader.”

Kieran leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense. Silas would’ve been in his eighties—if not older—by then. We weren’t exactly living soft lives.”

Thea nodded. “I know. That’s what makes it interesting.”

From the passenger seat, I let out a low snort. “You came out of a necklace, Kieran. And late-in-life travel is what you’re hung up on?”

That earned me a long-suffering glare from the back seat. “There are rules to magic. Or at least, there were.”

“Maybe he broke them,” Thea said, eyes on the road, but her voice sharpened by thought. “Or maybe someone else broke them for him. There’s too much missing. The rite, the coven’s vanishing, you getting bound to jewelry like a cursed heirloom… and now this travel record. If it’s really him, we’re talking about someone who should’ve been long dead. Which means one of two things.”

Kieran didn’t need to ask. I could feel the tension radiating off him like a heatwave.

Thea laid it out anyway. “Either Silas found a way to extend his life… or someone—or something—made sure he didn’t die.”

A beat of silence. Then Kieran muttered, “I always knew he feared death more than anything else.”

Thea exhaled. “I’ve got theories. None of them good. But I need to dig deeper. There’s too many gaps.”

“We need to get home,” I said quietly. “Put the groceries away. And then… we start looking. Hard.”

Kieran didn’t speak, but when I looked back at him, I saw it again—that flicker of something behind the usual grump and grit. Not fear, not quite. But a realization that something he thought ended long ago might still be crawling forward in the dark.

Thea nodded, turning down the familiar road toward my house. “Alright. Let’s go home.”

I cleared my throat, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, good news is we got soap and enough food to feed a small village.”

Thea snorted, but it lacked her usual bite. “Great. Now we just need a battle plan in case something crawls out of the shadows.”

Kieran finally spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Something already has.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I reached back and placed my hand on his knee. It was the only thing I could offer—steady, human warmth in the middle of unraveling something ancient and ugly.

Chapter 12

Kieran

The ride back was quiet—one of those silences thick with unsaid things, too tangled to sort out in a thirty-minute drive. Thea gripped the steering wheel like it had offended her, her eyes on the road but her mind clearly elsewhere. Dahlia sat beside her, half-turned in her seat, fiddling with the locket around her neck. I sat in the back, watching the rain streak across the window and trying not to think too hard about ghosts I hadn’t buried yet.

When we pulled into the drive, Thea didn’t immediately get out. Instead, she sat for a moment, staring at the windshield like it might start whispering answers if she looked long enough.

Dahlia reached for the door handle. “You coming in?”

Thea blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. If you don’t mind. I want to go over a few more things before bed, and honestly... I don’t feel great about leaving you alone with Locket Dracula just yet.”

“Charming,” I muttered.

Dahlia smirked. “You’re staying in the guest room. Thea can sleep with me.”

“I’ll grab an extra blanket,” I said dryly. “So you don’t freeze to death from my ancient, menacing aura.”

We unloaded the groceries in relative peace, each of us slipping into our own quiet rhythms. Dahlia and I unpacked the bags while Thea poked through her notes at the kitchen table, occasionally muttering about missing archives and “how does someone erase an entire coven?”

After dinner—eggs and toast, simple and safely unburned—Thea claimed the living room table with her laptop and a growing stack of highlighted texts. Dahlia drifted off for a shower, leaving me with a steaming mug of tea, a blanket tossed over my shoulders, and a few carefully selected books from her shelves.

Eventually, I retreated to the small bedroom that had quietly become mine.

The house was quiet, save for the creak of old wood and the occasional soft sigh from the heater. Outside, rain tapped against the windows, steady and persistent. It was a strange comfort—this new world’s version of a lullaby.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a fortress of books Dahlia had pulled for me. Half were about herbs, moon phases, or soft magic that smelled like chamomile and kitchen spice. The rest—modern fiction, cookbooks, encyclopedias, and something called a “Beginner’s Guide to Google”—were less gentle.

The one in my lap currently claimed to be a history book. A brief overview of the 20th century, it said. Brief. As if two world wars, flying machines, and glowing rectangles that held moving pictures could be summarized in a few hundred pages

I turned another page, squinting at a photograph of a mushroom cloud rising like some apocalyptic god. My jaw clenched.

“Madness,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. “All of it.”

A rustle came from the hallway. Sunny—the orange beast—slunk into the room and flopped beside me with a theatrical sigh, tail flicking like I’d somehow interrupted his schedule. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Don’t judge me. You’re the one who sleeps in a bread bowl.”

He blinked once, then proceeded to clean his paw with total indifference.

I went back to the book.

Electricity. Antibiotics. Airplanes. Satellites. Internet. I still wasn’t entirely convinced that any of those weren’t just fancy illusions. Magic had once been the mystery of the world, and now people carried the world in their pockets and argued with strangers for entertainment.

But the part that got me—really got me—was how much had been forgotten. There was no mention of the Voss coven. No record of the rites we’d sworn our lives to. No acknowledgement of the magic that had once pulsed through these lands like a second heartbeat. We’d been scrubbed out, bleached from history like an ink stain someone was ashamed of. In our place were lies and exaggerations of the Salem witch trials. There were no true witches in Salem, just evil people punishing outcasts.

I didn’t know if that made me furious or hollow.

Dahlia had left a notepad beside me, along with a pen and a post-it that said, In case you want to make a list of stuff to ask about. Her handwriting was loopy, messy, full of motion. It made me smile, reluctantly.

I clicked the pen open and scrawled the words:

Microwave???

Internet =??

Did tomatoes really stop being poisonous??

I paused, then underlined that one twice. I still didn’t trust them.

A flicker of movement caught my eye. My reflection in the window—slouched, half-shadowed, brow furrowed. I barely recognized him. No runes. No robes. No fire or thunder. Just a man in borrowed clothes with a brain full of centuries-old rules and a heart that hadn’t stopped aching since it broke.

But in Dahlia’s home, with her books and tea and her stubborn way of making room for things that didn’t fit anywhere else, I found myself wanting to learn. To stay. To matter again.

The book slipped shut in my hands, and I let my head rest back against the bed.

“This world is loud,” I said to no one.

Sunny blinked again, unimpressed.

“But I think I want to hear more of it.”

I want more her.

I eventually wandered back into the hallway, the house dim except for the golden lamplight spilling from the living room where Thea still sat cross-legged on the floor, papers fanned out around her like a ritual circle. Her laptop screen glowed pale blue against her tired face. She glanced up as I passed, eyes bleary but focused.

“You’re still reading?” I asked.

“Trying to,” she said, rubbing the heel of her hand against one eye. “There’s something here, I know it. I just—” She tapped at her laptop, frowning. “I found a reference. A book. ‘The Hollow Veil: Lost Rites and Forgotten Orders.’”

My brow lifted. “Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, if it actually existed in the modern world,” she muttered, spinning the laptop toward me. “It’s cited in three separate fringe articles and one scanned letter from 1894, but there’s no ISBN, no university copy, no archive trace. It’s like it’s been scrubbed clean.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s gone,” I said. “Just hiding.”

Thea stared at the screen like she could will it into revealing something more. “Maybe. But I don’t even know where to start looking.”

From behind us, Dahlia’s voice came, slightly muffled. “Wait.”

We both turned. She was standing in the hallway in her robe, hair damp, arms folded across her chest. A toothbrush hung from her fingers.

“‘The Hollow Veil’?” she repeated, stepping closer. “I’ve seen that title before.”

Thea blinked. “What?”

Dahlia nodded slowly, brow furrowed in thought. “Henry had a copy. It’s in his locked case—y’know, the one with the weird books he won’t sell to just anyone. I remember the title because I made a joke about it sounding like a goth poetry collection.”

Thea shot to her feet. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Leather cover, cracked spine, really old. He said it gave him the creeps, but he wouldn’t throw it out.”

I stared at her. “You’ve had a copy of a possibly lost magical manuscript within walking distance this entire time?”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow. “Okay, well, I didn’t know it was lost. Or magical. It just looked cool. And smelled like mildew.”

Thea groaned, dropping back onto the floor with a thud. “Of course it’s in Henry’s shop. That place is a cursed treasure chest.”

I looked between the two of them. “Then tomorrow, we go ask him.”

“Assuming he lets us in the case,” Dahlia said, rubbing at her temple. “But yeah. It’s a start.”

Thea gave a nod, her exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by that flicker of adrenaline only a breakthrough could bring. “Alright. That’s something.”

From there, the momentum ebbed. Dahlia returned to the bathroom, muttering about floss, and Thea started packing up her notes. I stood in the hallway for a moment longer, watching the way the house settled into itself, rain whispering against the windows.

Chapter 13

Dahlia

The rain had tapered to a drizzle outside, just enough to tap at the windows in a rhythm you could fall asleep to. Beside me on her side of the bed, Thea was snoring like she had a personal vendetta against silence.

I shifted again, wincing as Thea kicked out in her sleep and caught me squarely in the shin. I bit back a yelp.

This wasn’t working.

The idea had been sweet—Thea bunking with me like two kids having a slumber party, staying close because the whole cursed-warlock-possible-villain-returning situation had her rattled. I’d offered. She’d grunted her agreement. We’d both thought we could make it work.

But her snoring had levels. Entire settings. Symphony movements. And her sleep habits were... active.

She turned over again with a loud sigh and flung an arm across my face like a sleepy octopus.

“Nope,” I whispered, slipping out from under her like I was escaping a bear trap. I grabbed my pillow and shuffled out the door, carefully pulling it shut behind me. The floor creaked under my steps, and I winced again, trying to tiptoe like a spy down the hallway.

I paused outside the guest room.

The couch? Tempting, but probably a death sentence for my spine. I was already halfway to being a cliché. Might as well lean in.

I turned the knob on Kieran’s door as quietly as I could.

The room was dark except for the small nightlight used for avoiding obstacles during midnight potty breaks. Kieran was asleep on his side, facing the door. One arm curled under his head, the other draped lazily across the blanket. And next to him, of course—Sunny, curled up like a smug orange comma against Kieran’s chest. Traitor.

I hesitated in the doorway. It felt a little weird, just standing there. But the ache in my lower back was already warning me what would happen if I laid on the couch. So I crept inside.

Kieran stirred slightly when the mattress dipped, one eye cracking open. “What are you doing, Flower?”

“Thea’s snoring like a chainsaw,” I whispered. “And she kicked me. Repeatedly.”

A sleepy grunt. “How awful.”

I slid under the covers as quietly as I could. “If it’s weird, I can leave. I just... my couch isn’t the most sleep-friendly.”

He blinked at me, then let out a slow sigh. “Stay. Just don’t steal the blanket.”

“Deal,” I said, settling in. “But I make no promises about Sunny. He might trade sides again.”

As if on cue, Sunny stretched and promptly draped himself over Kieran’s hip, purring loud enough to vibrate the bed.

Kieran mumbled something that sounded like “Feline menace,” but didn’t move.

I lay there for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark, the weight of the day finally settling over me in a way that didn’t feel crushing for once. The bed was warm. Kieran smelled like honey soap and old books. And despite everything—the curse, the mystery, the potential doom—I felt... okay.

Safe.

His breathing slowed beside me, soft and even. I turned slightly, just enough that our legs brushed under the covers. He didn’t pull away.

And somewhere down the hall, Thea snored into a pillow like a storm on the horizon.

It started with a sound.

Not loud—just sharp enough to pierce the warm silence of the room. A broken breath. A low, guttural murmur.

I blinked awake in the dark, momentarily disoriented. It took me a second to remember where I was—Kieran’s room. The guest bed. A violent and snoring Thea had driven me to abandon my own space, and Kieran, in an uncharacteristic moment of gentleness, had let me stay.

Now, beside me, his body was tense. He’d shifted onto his back, jaw tight, hands clenched into the sheets. His brow furrowed and twitched like he was fighting something I couldn’t see.

“Kieran,” I whispered, scooting closer, propped up on my side. “Hey…”

He jerked slightly, a strangled sound escaping him. One of his arms lashed upward, instinctively defensive—and I flinched backwards. But he didn’t strike. His hand hovered, shaking, fingers curling inward like they remembered something they never wanted to touch again.

“No,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep and something darker. “Don’t—don’t do this. Calliope—Silas, don’t—”

My heart dropped.

“Kieran.” I placed a hand gently on his chest, firm enough to ground him. “Kieran, wake up.”

He gasped—sharp, like surfacing from too deep underwater—and bolted upright, panting, wild-eyed. Sunny skittered off the bed like someone set his tail on fire. Moonlight caught the sweat along Kieran’s temples, his breath hitching as he blinked and looked around rapidly, trying to piece together where he was.

“Hey,” I said softly, sitting up beside him. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

He stared straight ahead for a long moment, chest heaving, then let out a long, shuddering breath and rubbed his face with both hands. “Apologies,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “I’m not… I haven’t gotten used to dreaming again.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, resting my hand on his arm, “you’re out of practice. You’ve only slept twice in two hundred years.”

He let out a bitter half-laugh. “That’s generous. More like one and a half.”

I glanced at the digital alarm clock next to the bed, and it read 3:15 am.

I didn’t say anything—just moved a little closer, leaning my shoulder against his. I could feel the tension still coiled in him, all that centuries-old pain lodged beneath the skin. Not just from the nightmare, but from memory itself. The kind of grief that wakes you up screaming because it never learned how to fade.

“What was it?” I asked gently, though I already had a guess.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

“I saw them,” he said eventually, voice quiet. “The night it happened. The circle. The blood. Silas standing outside it, watching. Her face… she lied to me. I knew it, and I still let it happen.”

I swallowed hard. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“I was blinded,” he said. “And because of that, everyone else paid the price.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted. Honest. I didn’t try to fill it. Just shifted, carefully, until I could rest my head on his shoulder.

“You’re not there anymore,” I said softly. “You’re here. In this house. With… people. Me. Thea. Even Sunny, somehow.”

He gave a tired huff, like he wasn’t quite ready to believe that counted.

But then he leaned his head just slightly against mine.

And in the dark, under the faded quilt and the watchful silence of the night, he whispered, “Thank you, Flower.”

I squeezed his hand, steady and sure. “Go back to sleep, Kieran. I’ve got you.”

I lay still, my hand still resting over his heart. His skin was warm, heartbeat steady. But there was something else, something electric in the air between us.

Not tension. Not fear. Something deeper.

When I closed my eyes, I could almost see it—like roots threading between us, glowing under the skin. The same way the locket pulsed. The same way my bones sometimes ached before a storm.

It didn’t scare me.

It felt like recognition.

Chapter 14

Kieran

Dahlia didn’t let go of my hand.

Even after she told me to go back to sleep, then laid next to me—soft and steady, like her voice could stitch the edges of my nightmare back together—she stayed. Her fingers tangled gently with mine, and when I finally lay back down, she moved with me.

She settled against my side, warm and close, one hand resting over my heart. Her breaths slowed, smoothed out. Sleep returned to her easily.

I envied that.

I stared up at the ceiling, the shadows moving like smoke across the paint. Her hand rose and fell with each of my breaths, steady. I could feel the delicate weight of her palm, could hear the quiet sounds of her dreams. The way her hair brushed against my arm. How her fingers flexed slightly every few minutes, like she was still holding on even in sleep.

But I couldn’t close my eyes again.

Every time I tried, the circle came back.

The blood. The heat. The smell of burning sage and betrayal. The way Calliope had smiled through her lies. How I’d believed her—wanted to believe her—so badly I hadn’t seen the trap forming until the teeth were already sunk in. And Silas… standing just outside the ritual, watching. Letting it happen.

And I let it happen, too.

I let them all die.

I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Dahlia. She murmured something incoherent and curled closer, her nose pressing into the hollow near my shoulder.

I swallowed hard.

This wasn’t just a dream. It was a warning. Or a memory. Or both.

Whatever had imprisoned me hadn’t disappeared with the centuries. Whatever dark thing had twisted the Rite, broken the laws of magic, and fed on the lives of my coven… it was still out there. Still watching. Still waiting.

And now it had a new target.

Dahlia.

My flower.

That locket hadn’t just bound me. It had found her. And not by chance. No magical object survives that long and ends up in the hands of a witch without intent. Without a thread being pulled.

And that’s what terrified me.

I turned slightly, just enough to see her face—peaceful in sleep, soft in the kind of way I didn’t think existed anymore. She wasn’t just kind. She was curious. Fierce. She wore her heart on her sleeve like armor and made space for things she didn’t understand just because they needed space.

She’d brought me back.

And I was scared to death I’d cost her everything because of it.

I should try to leave. I knew that. Whatever was coming, I’d faced it once—and barely survived. She wouldn’t. Not if she stayed near me. Not if it decided to finish what it started.

But gods help me... I couldn’t move.

Because even as the fear knotted my stomach and burned behind my eyes, I couldn’t stand the thought of walking away. Of watching her smile at someone else. Of hearing her laugh through a closed door that I wasn’t allowed to open. Of her lying still, cold, gone—because of me.

I looked down at her again.

She didn’t know. Not yet. Not how deep this ran. How dark it could get.

But I did.

And I’d be damned—again—before I let anything touch her.

Even if it cost me everything I had left.

So I stayed. Awake. Watching the ceiling fade to gray as morning crept in behind the storm.

And with her hand over my heart, I promised silently into the dark:

Never again.

It was just past six.

The sky outside was the color of watered-down ink, a soft bluish-gray leaking through the curtains. Rain still ticked at the windows, gentler now, like it had finally tired itself out. The house was quiet.

Dahlia was still asleep, her head tucked beneath my chin, one arm draped loosely over my ribs. Her breath warmed the fabric of my shirt, slow and even, like the night had finally wrung itself out of her.

Sunny, the orange tyrant, had claimed the pillow next to mine as his throne. He was curled like a smug croissant, tail flicking against my temple every now and then in a passive-aggressive reminder that he was the true ruler of this bed.

I didn’t move.

Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to. For the first time in… Gods, centuries, maybe… I didn’t feel haunted. Just heavy. Grounded. Like if I moved too quickly, this fragile moment would shatter and vanish.

And then the door exploded open.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!”

Thea’s voice shot through the room like a cannon blast.

Dahlia bolted upright like she’d been launched, hair wild and tangled, the pajama shirt she had on halfway off her shoulder. Her eyes were wide with that freshly-woken guilt only people who haven’t technically done anything wrong can conjure.

“I—what—Thea?!”

Sunny leapt off the pillow with an offended yowl, landing on my stomach before launching himself out of the room in a blur of orange fluff and betrayal.

Thea stood in the doorway like an avenging goddess in borrowed flannel pants and a faded “Hex the Patriarchy” t-shirt, her hair sticking out in about seven different directions. Her expression was a storm cloud of confusion, judgment, and not enough coffee.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Is it customary in this century to kick in doors without knocking?”

“Don’t even start with me, Locket Dracula,” she snapped. “I wake up, Dahlia’s gone, and this is what I walk in on?”

Dahlia, still blinking like she hadn’t fully rebooted, stammered, “I—You were snoring and flailing—and I couldn’t sleep—and then he had a nightmare and I just—It’s not like that!”

“Not like what?” Thea narrowed her eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”

I sat up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist, and fixed her with what I hoped was my most intimidating glare. “She slept. That’s all. You, however, seem intent on making that a crime.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t bring a stake.”

“Gods, she really does think I’m a vampire,” I muttered under my breath.

Dahlia scrambled out of bed, clutching the edges of her shirt and running a hand through her curls in a futile attempt to fix the chaos. “Okay! Okay! Everyone breathe. Thea, I’m sorry I left the bed without saying anything. I just didn’t want to get roundhouse-kicked in the kidney again.”

Thea crossed her arms, unrepentant. “You could’ve left a note.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, because when escaping a sleep assassin in the dead of night, one always takes the time to pen a courteous farewell.”

Dahlia looked between us, exasperated. “Can we not fight at dawn, please?”

A long silence stretched. Thea sighed, tension slowly draining from her shoulders. “Fine. But we’re talking about this. Later. Preferably when I’m caffeinated and less homicidal.”

She turned and stomped out, muttering something about making a damn pot of coffee before anyone else crawled into bed with an ancient magical war criminal.

I collapsed back against the pillow with a low growl. “Your friend is insufferable.”

Dahlia dropped onto the edge of the bed with a groan. “She’s just protective. And very... Thea.”

“I noticed.”

“Thanks for not snapping at her harder.”

I smirked up at her. “You were defending me before you even had your eyes open. Consider us even.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and for just a second, the storm of chaos passed.

Then, from the kitchen: “AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE YOU STOLE MY BLANKET, MOORE!”

Dahlia winced. “I might need to bake her a peace offering.”

“Bake two,” I muttered. “One from me.”

She laughed, soft and sleepy, and I felt it again—that quiet, terrifying pull in my chest.

Gods help me.

I was already gone.

Chapter 15

Dahlia

By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, Thea was already camped at the table, mug in hand, glaring into her coffee like it owed her money.

She didn’t say anything when I walked in—just raised an eyebrow, then took a long, scalding sip. I muttered a vague, sheepish “Good morning” and reached for the pancake mix.

“You’re on thin ice, Moore,” she grumbled into her cup. “And don’t think I won’t bring this up every time I want to win an argument.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing the eggs and milk from the fridge. “You woke up and chose drama, that’s what happened.”

“You abandoned me,” she deadpanned. “In a bed that’s probably possessed. Do you know what it’s like to wake up hugging a pillow that smells like your shampoo and betrayal?”

“I’m making pancakes,” I said, setting the bowl on the counter like a peace treaty. “That’s my apology.”

“Better be the fluffy kind.”

Behind me, footsteps creaked across the floor, and I turned to see Kieran slinking in, barefoot and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair was a chaotic mess, like the night had tried to wrestle him and mostly succeeded. He looked at Thea with barely veiled suspicion, then at me.

“She always like this in the morning?” he asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Yes,” Thea and I said at the same time.

Kieran gave a long-suffering sigh and slid into the seat furthest from her, like she might throw her mug at him. Sunny followed close behind, leaping up into the chair next to him like they were war buddies and this was their morning debrief.

I cracked an egg into the bowl and glanced at him. “You ever made pancakes before?”

He tilted his head. “Is that the flat cake that looks like a poorly summoned griddle loaf?”

“That... might be the most dramatic way I’ve ever heard it described, but yes.”

“I helped make something similar once. Oats and honey, cooked over an open flame. It was part of an offering ritual.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

“Okay, well,” I said, handing him the whisk, “today’s ritual involves not burning the kitchen down. You in?”

He looked at the whisk like it might bite him. “You trust me with this?”

“You made breakfast once. With fire. And garden carrots. And no supervision. I figure a mixing bowl and my watchful eye are an upgrade.”

He hesitated, then rolled his shoulders like a man about to face battle. “Alright. Teach me your dark, syrupy ways.”

I grinned.

We mixed the batter together, Kieran was surprisingly patient once he got the hang of it—his brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred, flicking flour off his wrist when it got too enthusiastic. I showed him how to ladle the batter onto the skillet and flip it once the edges bubbled, and he got this incredibly focused look, like every pancake was a spell he had to cast perfectly.

“You’re enjoying this,” I teased, nudging him with my elbow.

His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

Thea, from the table: “Great. Vampire Paul Bunyan over here.”

“Still not a vampire,” Kieran muttered.

I leaned in and whispered, “You do kind of have ‘brooding lumberjack’ energy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“It’s supposed to make you blush.”

It didn’t. Of course. He just went back to flipping pancakes with that annoying, regal calm of his. But I did catch the corner of his mouth twitching up, just a little.

We made a towering stack of golden pancakes, and I set the table while he carefully arranged the top with a single pat of butter like it was sacred. Thea perked up immediately.

“I’m still mad,” she said, grabbing her plate. “But I accept this peace offering.”

“Gracious of you,” Kieran deadpanned.

We ate in relative silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just soft. Familiar. The kind of silence that says, We’re figuring this out, but for now, pancakes.

After the plates were rinsed and stacked and Thea had declared herself “functionally human again,” the morning settled into a softer sort of rhythm. The sunlight had finally started to filter through the rain-smeared windows, painting everything in golden streaks.

Henry’s store wouldn’t be open for another hour. Thea was nursing her third coffee on the couch, still buried in her laptop, muttering things like “encrypted archive” and “bastard probably had a secret journal.” Kieran had disappeared into the living room with Sunny following him like a strangely loyal bodyguard.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the canister of loose-leaf tea with a frown. I was almost out of peppermint. Again.

“Of course,” I mumbled, digging through the jars. “No way I’m surviving the rest of today without it.”

I popped my head around the doorway. “Kieran?”

He looked up from the floor where he was sitting with Sunny stretched across his lap like a smug heating pad. “Hmm?”

“Could you do me a favor and grab some peppermint from the garden? I want to dry it. You know, before the rain comes back.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “For more tea?”

“Yes.”

He made a face like I’d just suggested we set the garden on fire. “That beverage tastes like boiled regret.”

“It’s soothing,” I said, hands on my hips. “And if you’re nice, I’ll make you something that doesn’t ‘taste like lies’ later.”

With a long-suffering sigh and a dramatic sweep of the cat off his lap, Kieran rose and headed for the back door. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume the peppermint plant has claimed me in vengeance.”

“Noted.”

I rinsed my favorite mug and set the kettle to boil again, trying to decide if I had enough honey left for the good stuff. A few minutes passed. The sound of the screen door creaked open, then shut again.

And then—nothing.

No footsteps. No sass. No annoyed muttering about “modern herb gardens.”

I glanced toward the door.

“Kieran?” I called.

No answer.

I dried my hands and walked toward the back, stepping out onto the porch, and found him standing completely still in the yard, about five feet from the edge of the herb patch. He was frowning, one hand outstretched like he’d just run into a wall.

“Kieran?” I repeated, concern blooming.

He turned slowly, brow furrowed. “It’s... smaller.”

“What?”

“The boundary,” he said quietly. “Of the locket. I could reach the far edge of the garden yesterday. Now... I can’t step past here.”

My stomach dropped a little. “Wait, it shrunk?”

He nodded, jaw tense. “It’s like walking into glass. Just now, when I reached for the peppermint, I felt it. The same resistance. But closer.”

I stepped forward, heart thudding, stopping just short of the invisible line. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to punch the air. “It didn’t hurt this time. But it felt… wrong. Like something twisting.”

Thea’s voice drifted from the back door. “Did you say it shrunk?”

We both looked at her. She stood framed in the doorway, her expression already hardening into problem-solving mode. “That could mean the binding is weakening. Or changing. Or reacting to something.”

“Like what?” I asked.

She shrugged, but her jaw was tight. “You. Him. The Rite. The weather. Hell if I know. But we need to find that book in Henry’s shop, and fast.”

I reached for Kieran’s hand without thinking. His fingers laced into mine automatically, the motion so natural it made my chest ache.

“Come inside,” I said gently. “We’ll get the peppermint later.”

His eyes lingered on the invisible barrier for one more second before he nodded and followed me back toward the house—his steps slower, more deliberate, like he could feel the walls closing in.

Whatever was coming... it wasn’t waiting.

It was barely past nine, and we were all still in various stages of “morning disarray.” Thea had thrown on her combat boots with a ratty old hoodie over my plaid pajama pants, looking like an off-duty monster hunter. Kieran, barefoot and brooding, wore the loose black drawstring pants and soft t-shirt I’d pulled from the bottom of my “ex-boyfriends or Halloween costume?” drawer. And I… well, I still had on my oversized moon-and-stars nightshirt and fuzzy socks with a hole in the toe.

It would’ve been comical if it didn’t feel so serious.

“All right,” Thea said, stepping out onto the porch with a pen and notepad. “Let’s find the invisible wall like a bunch of weird, magical sleepwalkers.”

I held the locket at my chest, absently fingering the now-warm metal. “Kieran, just walk slowly that way—toward the garden. Stop the second you feel it.”

Kieran gave me a sidelong glance. “And what if I accidentally walk past it and burst into flames?”

“You won’t,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Probably.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “this is how curses get worse,” but he started walking.

We watched him move across the grass, barefoot and wary, like he was stepping through fog no one else could see. Sunny trailed after him a few feet before flopping down dramatically in a sunbeam, as if to say Good luck, loser.

“Okay,” Thea called out, flipping a page in her notebook. “You’re at about ten feet from Dahlia.”

He kept walking.

“Fifteen.”

Still going.

“Seventeen…”

And then it happened.

Kieran staggered mid-step, jerking back like he’d walked into an electric fence. His breath caught sharply, and he turned to look at me, eyes wide.

“That’s it,” he called. “Right here.”

I took a step forward, instinctively concerned, and he immediately took another step back—and flinched again.

“Oh shit,” I murmured. “So it’s not just distance. It’s from me, not the house.”

“Confirmed,” Thea said, scribbling furiously. “We’ve got a magical leash situation. Love that.”

“Can you mark the spot?” I asked. “Just so we know.”

Kieran bent to grab a rock and set it on the edge of the grass. “There. Beyond this, it’s like… pressure. Not pain, but like the air thickens. Like I’m trying to walk through glass syrup.”

I grimaced. “Gross.”

He turned, walked back toward me, and the second he crossed the line, his shoulders relaxed. The tension drained from him in visible relief.

“That felt wrong,” he muttered. “Smaller than before. It wasn’t this close yesterday.”

I reached for his hand again, and he took it without hesitation.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, even though my stomach twisted.

Behind me, Thea made another note and then looked up. “We need to find that book. Whatever’s happening with the boundary... It’s tied to something. It’s changing. Reacting. Probably to you.”

“Awesome,” I muttered. “Me and my cursed jewelry are ruining everything again.”

Kieran squeezed my hand. “It’s not your fault, Flower.”

“Tell that to the invisible leash wrapped around your soul.”

He smirked. “Bit poetic, even for you.”

We stood there for a moment in the soft morning light—barefoot, pajama-clad, and deeply cursed—but somehow... together.

Thea flipped her notebook closed and sighed. “Okay. Let’s get dressed, caffeinated, and raid Henry’s shop.”

“Gods help Henry,” I muttered, already heading for the back door to get dressed. “He’s about to have the weirdest Sunday of his life.”

Chapter 16

Kieran

The drive to the bookstore was quiet, although not peaceful. You could feel the tension like electricity throughout Thea’s SUV—crackling just under the surface of every breath. Dahlia sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, one hand absently toying with the locket at her throat. Thea drove like she was hunting something, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror, her jaw tight.

Brookside on a Sunday morning was the definition of stillness. A few early risers milled about near the fountain in the town square, clutching coffee cups and chatting in that slow, syrupy rhythm small towns seemed to breed. The streets were otherwise empty, save for the sharp clicks of our footsteps on the pavement.

We had to park down the street. Thea’s behemoth of a vehicle didn’t stand a chance at fitting in the narrow space in front of Whitaker’s. So we walked, boots on old cobblestone, my senses pulling tight the closer we got.

That’s when I saw the door.

Ajar. Barely. Just enough to show a crack of shadow where sunlight should’ve been blocked.

Dahlia noticed at the same time I did. Her breath hitched.

“Henry never leaves the door open,” she said, her pace quickening.

I caught up with her easily, falling into step. My hand hovered near the small of her back without touching—ready, just in case. Thea pulled ahead, lifting the hem of her jacket just enough to reveal a firearm tucked into a holster at her hip.

She didn’t hesitate. “Stay behind me.”

I let her take point. I didn’t like it—being behind—but even I could admit she moved like someone trained, someone who expected violence and knew what to do when it came.

The moment we stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.

It smelled like... disruption. Like the sharp edge of torn paper, of something broken in the air itself. It looked like a tempest had torn through it.

Books everywhere. Shelves half-toppled. Pages drifting like brittle leaves across the floor. A rocking chair was overturned, one of its arms cracked.

Dahlia’s voice cracked. “Henry?”

Silence answered.

She moved like she might crumble if she stopped, eyes scanning every corner. I knelt beside the counter and picked up a torn page. It wasn’t just mess. It was something else.

“There were wards here,” I said. “Subtle. Old. Not much—but enough to hold peace in a place like this. They’re shattered.”

Thea moved through the stacks like a soldier through trenches, gun low and steady. “Do you feel anything else?”

“Not anymore,” I muttered. “But something came through here. Something that wasn’t meant to be here.”

“Henry wouldn’t leave without telling me,” Dahlia said, more to herself than us. “He never leaves without locking up. Never.”

I followed her gaze to the far end of the shop. That’s when I saw the book.

It was familiar—dark green leather spine, gold-edged pages fluttering in some unnatural breeze. Dahlia moved toward it like it was calling her.

She bent to pick it up, and that’s when the door behind us slammed shut with a thunderclap.

Light dimmed. The temperature dropped. And every ward in my bones screamed in warning.

Dahlia froze, the book clutched to her chest. Thea turned with her gun raised, scanning the shop like a predator waiting for something to pounce.

And I stood there, between them, the edges of the world warping just slightly—like something was watching.

Waiting.

“This wasn’t random,” I said softly. “It’s a message.”

Dahlia’s fingers tightened around the book.

Thea moved silently toward the back of the shop, where the storeroom door hung slightly ajar. Her gun stayed low but ready, her eyes scanning every corner like she was waiting for something to jump out.

“I’m going to check the back,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Dahlia nodded, her hand gripping the green leather book like a lifeline. I didn’t like the distance Thea was putting between us, but I could feel the magic in the room shift—the way the air went thick, like it was holding its breath.

“Thea,” I said, “don’t go alone—”

Too late.

She disappeared into the shadowy corridor beyond the storage door. For a moment, the shop held its silence like a threat.

Then came the scream.

Sharp. Guttural. Cut short by a crash.

I bolted. Dahlia cried out my name, but I didn’t stop.

I hit the storeroom door just as gunfire exploded—three sharp, deafening cracks. The shadows inside twisted unnaturally, curling like smoke and claws, and then I saw it.

A beast.

Blacker than black—like something carved from shadow itself, all jagged fur and burning red eyes. Its mouth was a snarling void, its claws tearing gouges in the wooden floor as it lunged for Thea, who was pinned behind an overturned table, gun smoking in her hand.

The creature turned toward me.

And charged.

“Flower, move!” I shouted, my voice thick with magic. Shadows enveloped Dahlia, obscuring her and shielding her from the beast.

I raised my hands too late—its weight slammed into me like a falling wall, knocking me hard to the ground. Claws raked across my side, hot pain blooming through my ribs. I roared and rolled, kicking up at the thing’s belly. It snarled, snapping at my face with jaws too large, too sharp.

I flung a blast of raw magic into its side—light and pressure that cracked the air—but it only staggered. Not enough.

Another claw swiped down, slicing my arm open. Blood sprayed across the floor.

And then—

It ignited.

Blue-black flame burst from the blood like it had been waiting. It crawled across the wood in wild, unnatural shapes, living flame that didn’t burn like fire, but like intent. The creature recoiled, letting out a shriek that rattled the air.

I stared at the flame, stunned. My heart pounding.

Bloodfire.

I hadn’t summoned it.

It had answered.

The beast lunged again, but I was ready now. I dragged my bleeding hand across the floor, painting a jagged rune into the wood, and willed the flame into it.

The circle erupted—light and shadow and screaming heat—and the creature howled, jerking back as if the very air had turned hostile.

It stumbled, snarling, half-consuming itself in the writhing flame. Then it collapsed into shadow—just a pile of soot and smoke on the ruined wood floor.

The room fell silent.

My breath came in short, ragged pulls. My shirt stuck wet and warm to my ribs. I pressed my hand to the gash, staggering slightly.

“Holy shit,” Thea whispered, eyes wide from behind the table. “You just—lit it on fire.”

“With my blood,” I muttered, still staring at the glowing residue etched into the floor.

Bloodfire. I’d never used it. I thought my magic was gone. But maybe it hadn’t left—maybe it had just waited for me to need it again.

But the real question wasn’t how I had it.

It was why that thing had come at all.

Dahlia rushed in a second later, skidding to a halt. “Kieran!” She took one look at me and blanched. “You’re bleeding!”

“Yes,” I said, still slightly dazed. “But I won.”

She looked at the floor, at the ashes, at the deep gouges in the wood, and then back to me.

Then she grabbed the arm on my uninjured side and muttered, “I swear to every saint and spirit, if you die on me after all this…”

“Not planning on it,” I said, and winced as she helped lower me into a chair. Dahlia was on me before I could fully catch my breath.

She dropped to her knees beside the chair I’d collapsed into, her hands moving over my side—gentle, frantic, furious.

I wanted to tell her not to worry. That I’d had worse. That blood was just the body’s way of being dramatic.

But I couldn’t get the words out.

Not with her hands trembling as they touched my skin. Not with her voice cracking like the wound was hers.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I managed. Weakly.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, glaring up at me through glassy eyes. “Don’t downplay it. Don’t pretend I didn’t just watch something try to rip you in half.”

Her hands hovered now, afraid of causing pain. I could still feel her touch, ghosting down my ribs.

“I thought—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

The words hit harder than the beast’s claws.

I should’ve said something. Anything. But I couldn’t think past the sudden tightness in my chest. The way her voice broke.

She wasn’t just upset. She was scared.

Of losing me.

My breath caught as she leaned in, her forehead pressing against mine like she needed proof I was still there. Still breathing.

“Thank the gods,” she whispered. “You’re not dead.”

I didn’t know how to hold that kind of softness. Not after everything. Not after two hundred years of silence and loss and shadows that had no names.

But I knew how to hold her hand.

So I did.

Her fingers were warm and shaking, and when I laced mine through them, it felt like something inside me gave way.

“You’d have missed me,” I said, because humor was safer than truth.

She let out a watery laugh. “I was worried about the floorboards.”

Gods. She was trying to make me feel better.

And it worked.

I laughed—short, surprised—and it hurt like hell. But I didn’t stop. Because she was still here. Still looking at me like I was more than a curse, more than a relic that fell out of a locket.

And I—
I was in trouble.

Because I didn’t just care that she was safe.

I cared that she cared that I was.

Chapter 17

Dahlia

The quiet after the fight wasn’t peaceful. It was eerie. Heavy. Like the bookstore itself was holding its breath.

My ears were still ringing from Thea’s gunshots. The smell of sulfur and scorched wood clung to the air, thick enough to taste. My heart pounded like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the danger was over. The book—the one Thea had nearly died getting—I held against my chest like a shield, fingers locked around its cracked leather spine.

Kieran sat nearby, bleeding through his shirt and trying to pretend it didn’t bother him. Thea was leaning against the bookshelf near the back, face pale, blood pooling from a wound on her forehead and one arm hanging limp. We were all wrecked. Shaken. Raw.

And then the bell over the door jingled.

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the book.

Henry walked in, holding a paper bag and a thermos, like it was any other Sunday morning.

“What in the fresh hell did you do to my store?”

He stopped dead in the doorway. His eyes swept over the room—shelves knocked over, pages fluttering in the breeze from the broken window, soot streaks on the floor. Then they landed on me. On Thea. On Kieran.

And for the first time in forever, I saw Henry truly stunned.

“Dahlia?”

I dropped the book.

“Henry,” I breathed—and before I could stop myself, I was running to him.

He barely had time to react before I barreled into him, arms flinging around his neck, hugging him like I could anchor both of us to the ground if I just held on tight enough.

“I thought—” My voice cracked. “I thought you were gone.”

Henry let out a startled grunt, awkwardly patting my back while still holding the bag between us. “Gone? I was getting muffins, what the hell happened in here?”

“Something attacked us,” Thea called from behind a shelf, her voice rough. “Something not normal.”

Henry blinked like someone had smacked him upside the head. “Not normal? Are you—are you bleeding?”

“I’m fine,” Thea said, absolutely lying, but too stubborn to admit she was two steps from collapsing.

Henry looked to Kieran next, his expression shifting from disbelief to total suspicion. “And who are you?”

“Kieran,” he said simply, like that explained anything.

Henry stared.

“And why are you in my store, covered in blood, while my girls look like they just walked out of a horror movie?”

Kieran hesitated. “I… came out of a necklace.”

I winced. “Maybe… not the opening line we go with.”

Henry’s brow furrowed deeper than I’d ever seen it. He looked from Kieran, to me, to the utter destruction of his carefully organized store.

“I’m sorry, what now?”

I pulled back, wiping my face with the sleeve of my jacket. “It’s a really, really long story. But I swear to you, we’ll explain everything. Right now, we just—Henry, we need to sit down. Thea’s bleeding, and Kieran’s worse, and if I stand here another second, I might pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Thea muttered, though she still hadn’t moved from her spot leaning heavily on the shelf.

Henry opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “This is not how I thought my Sunday was going to go.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, reaching for Thea’s good arm to help her to a chair, “join the club.”

Kieran slumped into the seat across from us, one hand still clutching his side. I could tell by the way his jaw was set that he was trying not to show pain. Or worry. Or fear.

Henry stood there a moment longer, paper bag dangling, thermos in his other hand, staring at the chaos like it might rearrange itself if he just waited long enough.

“This,” he finally muttered, “better be one hell of a story.”

I let out a tired, shaky breath. “It is. But first… can someone get me a damn towel?”

Henry sat at the small round table near the front windows, the only part of the shop untouched by the storm that had torn through everything else. His muffin bag sat unopened, his coffee forgotten. The rest of us were slowly piecing ourselves back together—Thea had one of her sleeves tied off in a makeshift sling, Kieran had pressed a folded dishtowel against the gash on his side, and I was trying not to cry again.

I’d already cried once today. That felt like enough.

“So,” Henry said, after a long, stunned silence. “You want to start explaining why my floor looks like a damn werewolf convention and why you’re suddenly playing host to a man with blood on his boots and dressed like he stepped out of a gothic painting?”

Kieran, seated stiffly across from him, muttered under his breath, “Not a host. A warden, at best.”

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus. “Henry, I’m going to tell you the truth. Or… enough of it, for now.”

He arched one of those bushy white brows. “I’d prefer the full version. But go on.”

I glanced at Thea. She gave me a tired, silent nod. Her version of, Your mess, you explain it.

I looked back to Henry. “Do you remember the necklace you gave me for my birthday?”

He frowned. “The silver one, with the crescent moon? Found it in that old box of Jane’s stuff from the storage shed. What about it?”

“Well… turns out it was a little more than just a pretty antique.”

He stared at me. “How much more?”

“It was… cursed,” I said gently. “Not in a horror movie way. More like… magically sealed shut with a soul trapped inside, kind of cursed.”

Henry blinked slowly. “Come again?”

“The man sitting across from you,” I said, motioning to Kieran, “was trapped inside it. For a long time. The necklace opened the night you gave it to me.”

Henry let out a dry laugh—just once. Then he looked between us, realized no one else was laughing, and leaned back in his chair.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Okay. So, the necklace had a man in it. That’s the part of the truth I’m supposed to believe?”

Thea finally spoke up. “We’re not asking you to believe everything. Just enough to not panic.”

“Too late,” Henry said, but his tone wasn’t angry—just tired. “And the thing that came after you here?”

I hesitated. “We’re still figuring that part out. But something very bad knows Kieran is free now. And it doesn’t want him to stay that way.”

“And my shop?”

“Collateral damage,” Thea said, expression dark. “It was coming after the book I found. The one Dahlia remembered seeing here.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “So this wasn’t random?”

“No,” I said quietly. “It was looking for something. Or someone.”

Kieran hadn’t said a word in minutes. He just sat there, jaw clenched, hands bloody, eyes locked on nothing in particular. There was a distance in him, a tension that hadn’t eased even now.

Henry looked between the three of us and finally let out a long, slow breath.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his face with one weathered hand. “Guess I won’t be selling any books today.”

I smiled, weak and crooked. “I’ll help you fix everything. I promise.”

“You better,” he muttered. “And you,” he pointed at Kieran. “If you’re going to keep bleeding on my hardwood floors, you’re also going to help me move these shelves when you’re healed.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Understood.”

Henry stared at him for another beat, then sighed. “Alright. I’ll believe the necklace thing. But if you tell me next that you’ve got a talking rabbit at home, I’m out.”

“I don’t—” I paused. “Well… Oleander doesn’t talk. But he does glare with meaning.”

Henry waved me off. “I need coffee.”

And with that, the moment broke—just a little. Enough that I could breathe again. We weren’t okay. Not yet. But we were still standing.

And Henry, bless him, hadn’t run screaming for the hills.

That had to count for something.

“I think I should come with you, you’re going to need help.” Henry sighed, standing from his chair. “I need to try and lock the store up first.” And with that, we set to work.

The air outside was heavy, damp from the earlier rain and thick with the kind of tension that wraps around your ribs and doesn’t let go. Thea had gone to pull her SUV around the back of the store to avoid drawing attention. Brookside was quiet, sure—but not quiet enough that people wouldn’t notice the front window of Whitaker’s Books looked like a hurricane had passed through.

Henry stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, watching me and Kieran with eyes that had seen more than I ever gave him credit for.

“You sure about this?” I asked him. “Coming back to the cottage with us?”

He glanced back at the wreckage of his store, lips pressed tight. “If what you said is true—and if this thing really was after that book—then I’m not staying here alone. Besides…” his eyes softened slightly as they landed on me. “I’ve got more left in me than just alphabetizing old spines.”

“You always did,” I said, voice thick with emotion.

Kieran grunted as he shifted his weight, trying to rise from the small chair he’d collapsed onto post-fight. The cut on his side had stopped bleeding, but it looked angry. I moved to help him, but Henry stepped in first.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

Kieran blinked at him in surprise. “I’m heavy.”

Henry snorted. “You’re a stick with some brooding attached. I’ll manage.”

It was strangely comforting, watching the two of them limp toward the back door together—Kieran grumbling under his breath, Henry muttering about how someone with that much attitude should weigh less. There was something solid in it. Familiar. Like seeing two unlikely puzzle pieces somehow click into place.

Thea opened the car door with a grim nod, eyeing Kieran’s injuries but saying nothing. She helped him into the backseat while I climbed in beside him, cradling the worn book we’d nearly died for like it was gold. I welcomed it when Kieran laid his head on my shoulder.

Henry drove in silence, Thea complaining about his ‘old man driving’. This time, the silence was thick with determination instead of dread.

Chapter 18

Kieran

Thea’s SUV rumbled down the wet road, its tires slicing through shallow puddles like it couldn’t get us home fast enough.

I leaned my head against Dahlia’s shoulder, the ache in my ribs sharpening every time we hit a bump. The wound wasn’t life-threatening—I’d had worse—but it burned. Not just from pain, but from everything that had come with it.

Shadow beasts. Ancient tomes. The look on Dahlia’s face when she thought Henry might be dead.

I closed my eyes. I could still feel the creature’s teeth too close, the stink of sulfur, the flicker of flame in my blood when it finally answered me. That part scared me more than the beast itself. I hadn’t used bloodfire before. I wasn’t even sure I could again.

But it had come. Like it had always been there.

And Dahlia saw it.

When we finally reached the cottage, everything was quiet—the kind of quiet that felt earned. Thea helped Henry inside. He grumbled that he was fine, but we ignored him. He was pale beneath his flannel, his hands trembling no matter how tightly he crossed his arms.

As Henry lowered himself gingerly onto the couch, a blur of fur darted out from beneath the coffee table.

“What the hell was that?” I muttered, already bracing like it might be demonic.

“Oleander,” Dahlia said, scooping up the rabbit as he lunged for Henry’s shoelaces. “He lives here too.”

Henry chuckled. “Well, aren’t you a little tuft of mischief.”

Dahlia held Oleander out toward Henry, and he licked Henry’s hand, then turned and stared at me like he knew exactly who had almost turned him into stew yesterday. She gingerly returned him to his hutch.

I narrowed my eyes. “He remembers.”

“He holds grudges,” Dahlia said sweetly. “You should sleep with one eye open.”

Dahlia hovered near me like she wanted to help, but didn’t know how. I was trying to stand straight, to not sway like a drunk in a storm. I didn’t want her to see me as weak—or worse—a burden.

“Sit down before you fall down,” she ordered, guiding me to the couch with a hand on my elbow. “And don’t argue. You’re bleeding through your shirt again.”

I blinked at the dark stain blooming on the fabric. So I was. Huh.

She disappeared down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a small basket of dried herbs, gauze, a ceramic bowl, and a kettle hissing gently in her hands.

“What’s all this, Flower?” I asked.

She didn’t look up as she arranged everything on the coffee table with quiet focus. “You’re going to teach me how to heal you.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“Nope. But you have. So you’re going to talk me through it.”

A flicker of warmth stirred in my chest. Gods, she was relentless.

I nodded slowly. “Alright. Get some mugwort. Calendula too. That’s the orange one—no, not that one. The curlier one.”

She followed my instructions like her life depended on it. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her eyes were sharp. She steeped the herbs in hot water, whispering the focus word I gave her—one of the old ones. Not Latin. Older.

Her palm pressed gently to my skin as I lifted my shirt, and I hissed when her fingers brushed the bruised, torn flesh.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s fine. Just… breathe. Let the energy settle into your hands.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“You will.”

A minute passed. Then another.

And then I felt it. A low thrum, a flicker of warmth like the first rumble of a storm on the horizon. Dahlia’s hand hovered just above the wound, the way we used to train apprentices. Not touching—just willing.

She whispered the word again.

And the pain dulled.

Not gone. But softer. Less jagged. Like the magic was stitching something in me that had unraveled far more than just flesh.

When I opened my eyes, she was staring at me with wide, stunned eyes.

“Did I do it?” she asked.

“You did.”

A smile bloomed across her face—genuine, not smug. Like something inside her had just opened and let the light in.

“Alright,” she said, bolting upright. “Your turn to rest. Thea’s next.”

From the other room, Thea groaned. “I don’t need healing. I need tequila.”

“You’ve got a cut across your forehead and probably a dislocated shoulder,” Dahlia called back. “Shut up and take the herbs like a good patient.”

“I hate this,” Thea muttered, trudging into the room like someone being marched to the gallows.

But when Dahlia placed her hands over her friend’s injuries—repeating the process with more confidence this time—the tension in Thea’s shoulders began to ease.

I watched from the couch, my own body still aching, but my chest somehow lighter.

She was learning.

She was powerful.

And gods help anyone who tried to take her from me.

Thea flexed her freshly-mended shoulder with a grunt, the pain clearly fading. “That’s… damn impressive,” she muttered, wincing like admitting that physically hurt her.

“Thanks,” Dahlia said, still kneeling beside her. Her hands dropped to her lap, trembling—not from magical burnout, just nerves. Doubt. She didn’t need to worry. She’d done it.

I could still feel the echo of her spell in my bones, warm and steady like sunlight after fog.

Thea pushed herself up and flopped onto the couch without ceremony, muttering something about aspirin and snacks. I let her have her comforts.

Dahlia rose unsteadily. I caught her elbow as she wobbled, steadying her.

She looked up at me, flushed and breathless. “So… what’s next, Professor?”

I should’ve told her to rest.

But she was looking at me like I had all the answers.

“Next,” I said, gently releasing her arm, “we ward the house.”

“Wards? Like magical burglar alarms?”

“Essentially. Think of it as carving ‘piss off’ into the bones of the place. Keeps out anything that means harm.”

She perked up. “Can we write that exactly? ‘Piss off’ in glowing runes on the windows?”

I huffed a soft laugh. “Subtle, Flower. Very subtle.”

She followed me to the front room, where the floorboards still creaked with old magic. The cottage had seen things. It wasn’t dead—not quite—but it was sleeping. And with what was out there now, it needed to wake up.

I dropped to one knee near the hearth and pressed my palm to the stone. Any old wards had long since faded, crumbled like ash.

“I’ll guide you,” I said. “But you’ll need to cast it.”

She frowned. “Why?”

I hesitated. “Wards that powerful need to come from someone who lives here. Someone the house recognizes.”

She blinked. “But you’ve been staying here. Doesn’t that count?”

“No,” I said quietly. “Not really.”

She didn’t press. She should have. But instead, she just nodded and knelt beside me.

I steadied my breath and began tracing the sigil in the air between us, glowing runes hanging like smoke. “Repeat after me. Focus on your breath. The house. Your intent. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.”

She followed with surprising precision. Her fingers carved the runes I whispered—old syllables with bite. Magic hummed beneath her skin, rising like it had been waiting for her voice.

The final symbol flared bright, then sank into the stones. The air shifted—thicker, warmer. Safe.

Dahlia let out a shaky breath. “Did it work?”

The wind rattled the windows, then stilled. The hearth flared briefly without flame. And beyond, I felt the ripple spread like a tide brushing the edge of the boundary.

I gave a small, honest smile. “It worked.”

She beamed at me, her face flushed with triumph.

And I—gods help me—I wanted to kiss her. Not out of lust. Something deeper. The kind of wanting that lives in the marrow.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stood and stepped back.

“You’re protected now,” I said. “You and everyone inside. As long as the wards hold, nothing with ill will can cross.”

“And what about you?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but sharp. Too perceptive.

I forced a crooked smile. “I’m just the relic that came with the locket.”

She frowned—but didn’t argue.

That was worse.

Later, after the wards settled and the fire crackled to life on its own, I sat by the window and watched Dahlia make tea with hands that still shook faintly from magic.

She belonged here.

I didn’t.

And the longer I stayed, the more I feared the house would know it too.

Chapter 19

Dahlia

By the time the clock in the kitchen crept toward noon, the cottage had settled into a strange sort of stillness.

The chaos from the last three days—the attack, the healing, the locket flaring to life like a second heartbeat in the room—had faded into something quieter. Heavier. Like the house was holding its breath.

Thea had claimed the armchair with a heating pad slung across her shoulder, and Sunny curled up on a decorative pillow like some tiny, furred tyrant.

Sunlight slanted through the windows in dusty stripes, catching on dust motes from me being lazy with the duster. Henry and I sat at the kitchen table, him hunched slightly over his cup, the steam curling around his glasses. He hadn’t said much since his arrival. Just polite nods, soft grunts, and the occasional wince when his back twinged.

Kieran stood in the doorframe, arms folded, looking like a half-wild statue in borrowed clothes and bandages. His hair was a mess, his shirt still dark where the wound had bled through despite the healing, but his eyes were sharp. Focused.

And they were fixed on Henry.

“Who drew the runes in your shop?” Kieran asked.

His voice wasn’t accusing, just… curious. But the kind of curious that came with teeth.

Henry looked up, blinking like he hadn’t been following the conversation. “What’s that?”

“The runes,” Kieran said again, tilting his head like he could see them in his memory. “Etched near the doorframe, above the back window, under the threshold. Protection symbols. Wards. Old ones.”

Henry frowned thoughtfully. “Oh. Those scribbles? That was Jane, my wife. She used to doodle them all over the place. Said she liked the way they swirled. Thought it brought a little charm to the shelves.”

Kieran stilled. And I mean completely. Like the air around him held its breath, waiting.

“She drew them by hand?” he asked, a little more quietly now.

Henry nodded. “Freehand. Wouldn’t let me paint over them either. Said they ‘held the space together.’ Whatever that meant.”

Kieran leaned forward slightly, voice gentler now. “Henry… your wife was a witch.”

The mug in Henry’s hand paused mid-sip.

“Come again?” he said.

“Not the broomstick kind,” I offered, trying to soften the blow. “The quiet kind. The kind who loved people enough to protect them without ever needing credit.”

“She was warding the shop,” Kieran said, gaze distant, like he was pulling meaning from memories not his own. “You probably never noticed when they were working, because they worked. Subtle magic like that doesn’t draw attention. It just… holds things at bay.”

“But she never told me…” Henry trailed off, his mouth falling slightly open. “She never said anything like that. I would’ve remembered.”

“She probably kept it hidden for a reason,” I said. “Some magic skips generations. Some goes dormant. And some… some people just keep it secret because they don’t know if they’ll be believed.”

Henry sat back in his chair slowly, like the weight of his wife’s silence had finally landed on his shoulders. “She always said the shop made her feel safe. She didn’t like going out much, not since the fire next door. But in there… she was always calm. Like something was holding her up.”

Kieran’s voice dropped. “She was. Her own magic.”

I watched him as he spoke—his brow drawn in concern, his jaw tight with knowing. Not just from reading about magic, but from surviving it. Feeling it. Carrying it in his blood.

And something fluttered low in my chest.

It wasn’t just that he looked beautiful in that sad, carved-from-stone way. It was how careful he was. How much he respected a woman he’d never met, just because she’d once cast something gentle to protect the people she loved.

“I didn’t know,” Henry said softly. “She kept journals, though. Dozens. Piled them in the attic after she got sick. I couldn’t bring myself to read them. Not after.”

Kieran’s head snapped up. “She wrote it down?”

Henry nodded. “Maybe. I never looked. Just… packed them up. Tied the boxes shut.” His fingers tightened around the cup. “It hurt too much.”

I reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to read them. But if you’re alright with us looking… we might be able to piece together what she was trying to do.”

Henry was quiet for a moment, then gave a short nod. “They’re in the attic. I’ll show you.”

Kieran looked at me then, just briefly, and something passed between us—unspoken and strange. Like we’d stepped onto a path we couldn’t turn away from.

I held his gaze, and for once, I didn’t look away.

Not when I felt my face flush. Not when my heart picked up speed. Not even when he blinked and his mouth curled into something small, almost unsure.

The runes were only part of the mystery.

But the part of me that was unraveling?

That was a different kind of magic entirely.

Chapter 20

Dahlia

Kieran was pacing.

He did that when he was thinking, long, slow strides across the living room like his thoughts needed distance. He kept glancing toward the door, toward the windows. Watching shadows that weren’t there.

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “You’re restless.”

“I’m thinking,” he muttered, not looking at me.

“About what?”

He stopped mid-stride and turned toward me, eyes shadowed. “Henry’s house.”

That caught Thea’s attention, too. She lowered her book.

I frowned. “Do you think—?”

“I don’t think there’s anything left to protect it,” Kieran said, voice tight. “If his shop’s wards failed… his house likely has nothing. Especially if Jane was the one who made them.”

Silence rolled over the room like a slow thunderclap.

Thea straightened. “You think Henry’s house is exposed.”

“I think,” Kieran said, “that if something were hunting him, it wouldn’t have had to try very hard. And after this morning, it might already be looking.”

I felt the chill roll down my spine. “Then we keep him here.”

Kieran nodded. “It’s the only place that’s shielded now. Yours was empty for long enough, so nothing bothered reinforcing it. But now it’s awake. Now it’s holding.”

“And you’re sure he’s not already in danger?” Thea asked.

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “No. I’m not sure at all.”

I didn’t wait for a vote. I grabbed my coat. “Then we go now, get the journals, whatever else he needs.”

Kieran was already reaching for his boots. “I’ll speak to him. He trusts you, but he’ll listen to me if I explain the magical dangers.”

“Good,” Thea said, tossing the heating pad aside. “Because I’ve got a bat in the trunk, and I swear to god, if anything even attempts to breathe on that man—”

“We won’t let it,” I said.

And I meant it.

Henry was family.

And from now on, family stayed where the magic still held.

Henry was still sitting in the kitchen, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched us fidget in front of him. His tea had gone cold on the table, untouched.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, voice low and steady. “You three want me to stay behind. In this house. While you run off into god-knows-what, facing down monsters and who-knows-how-many other curses?”

Kieran’s tone was calm, but firm. “It’s safer here, Henry. The wards are holding. You’re protected—”

Henry snorted, sharp and unimpressed. “I didn’t sit in a jungle in ‘68 with bullets singing past my ears just to spend my twilight years babysat like a china doll.”

The room went quiet.

“I’ve seen real hell, son,” he said, eyes narrowing at Kieran. “Hell with guns and napalm and friends who didn’t make it back. And I came home. Built a life. Loved a woman with fire in her blood and stars in her eyes. If you think some shadow beast’s gonna scare me into hiding under a damn quilt, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I took a step forward. “Henry… It’s not about fear. It’s about—”

“It’s about doing something useful,” he interrupted, gentler now. “If Jane’s journals can help, I want to be the one to get them. I know where she hid things. What she left unsaid.” his voice softened, grief catching in the edges. “She deserves that. Not strangers poking through her memories.”

Thea sighed. “He’s not going to budge.”

“No,” Henry said, standing up with a quiet groan. “I’m not. So if you’re storming my house for magical homework, I’m coming with you. End of discussion.”

Kieran glanced at me, clearly biting back his frustration, but I only nodded.

“Alright,” I said. “Just keep close.”

Henry smiled grimly, eyes flicking to the door like he was already halfway there. “Good. Now let’s go. And someone better remember the cookie tin.”

Henry’s street was quiet when we pulled up, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel natural. Overcast skies loomed low, casting everything in a pale gray wash that made the world feel like it was holding its breath. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.

The house looked unchanged from the outside—same creaky porch, same faded paint, and windchimes that clinked in the breeze. But the longer we sat there, the more it felt like something had shifted. Something invisible. Watching.

Thea was already unbuckling her seatbelt. She checked the gun at her hip, then the one strapped under her coat.

“I’m going to scout ahead,” she said, popping her door open. “Make sure nothing’s squatting in your kitchen or waiting to eat our faces.”

Henry grunted. “If someone is squatting, they’re gonna wish they picked a different house.”

Thea ignored him. She turned back toward us with her usual grim flair. “If you hear gunshots or screaming, pick Henry’s old ass up, throw him in the car, and tear ass back to the cottage. Don’t wait. Don’t check. Just run.”

I gave her a look. “You really know how to inspire confidence.”

She winked. “It’s a gift.”

Then she was gone—silent footsteps up the walk, her black jacket blending with the gray light. The wind kicked up, tossing leaves across the pavement. I watched her disappear around the back of the house, my stomach twisting.

Kieran stood beside the car, scanning the tree line, the roof, and the windows. “Something feels off.”

“It’s probably just nerves,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. Not really.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s too still.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Or maybe it’s just a Sunday and I want my books back.”

Kieran didn’t respond. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set. I stepped closer, drawn to the way his eyes never stopped moving—sharp, focused, coiled like a spring.

“You okay?” I asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at me. “Not until we know what’s inside that house.”

A beat passed. Then another. Still no sound from Thea.

I turned toward Henry, trying not to let my unease show. “When we go in, we grab the journals, anything else you need, and we’re out. Fast. No lingering.”

Henry nodded. “I know where everything is. Jane kept the attic tidy.”

We started up the walk—Kieran in front, Henry behind me. The porch creaked under our feet. I reached for the doorbell out of habit, then stopped.

The door swung open before I could touch it.

A man stood in the threshold. Tall. Broad. Older, though he wore the years like armor. His golden hair was silvered at the temples, but his posture was rigid, controlled. His coat was dark, tailored, sharp at the edges.

But it was his face that made me stop breathing.

Not because it was familiar.

Because it looked like Kieran’s.

Kieran went utterly still. Like someone had frozen the air around him.

“Silas,” he said, voice low and cold.

Chapter 21

Kieran

Son of a bitch. That vile son of a bitch.

Silas.

Time had shaped him—broadened his shoulders, silvered the gold at his temples—but I’d have known him in a crowd of ghosts. My brother. My betrayer.

For one impossible second, my heart clenched with a stupid, staggering kind of relief.
He was alive. He’d made it out.

But that second passed.

And the storm came rushing in behind it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” I growled, stepping forward.

His eyes—so much like mine—flicked between me and Henry, then settled on Dahlia. He didn’t smile. Didn’t threaten. Just looked. Calm. Measured. Controlled.

That alone made my skin crawl.

“I could ask the same,” he said coolly. “But I imagine the answer is more complicated for you.”

I moved faster than thought. In an instant, shadows surged from beneath my boots, twisting up in an instinctive wall between Dahlia and him. Thick and dark as smoke. My body followed, blocking her with mine, shielding without question.

She startled behind me, but didn’t step away. Brave as always.

Silas’s expression barely flickered. “Still using fear to speak, little brother?”

“Don’t call me that.” My voice was low and vicious, my hands curled into fists that ached with restraint. “You don’t get that anymore.”

His gaze lingered on the shadows coiling at my back. “You’ve grown stronger.”

“Don’t pretend you’re proud.”

“I’m not,” he said softly. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think the locket would leave enough of you behind.”

“You chained me to it,” I snapped. “Left me to rot in that artifact while you walked free. Don’t act like you mourned.”

“I did what I had to—”

“Spare me,” I cut in, stepping forward again. The shadows moved with me, thickening like a second skin. “You sent that thing after her. That hellbeast. You knew I’d follow if she was hurt. You used her.”

Silas blinked, then shook his head. “I didn’t send anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

“Why not?” My tone turned razor-sharp. “Too busy burning down another family?”

He didn’t rise to it. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at me with a tiredness I didn’t remember from before. Something old and brittle behind his eyes.

“Because I have no magic left,” he said. “Not a flicker.”

I stared. “What?”

“When I tampered with the Rite... when it extended my life—whatever pieces of our power I had left, they burned away. It was part of the price.” He looked down at his hands like they still shocked him. “I’m alive. But I’m empty. No runes. No spells. No shadows. I haven’t conjured a spark in over two centuries.”

I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him.

“You expect me to swallow that?” I asked. “That you sacrificed everything, not for power, not to save anyone, but just to exist?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t my intent. Maybe my cowardice. But I swear to you, I didn’t send the creature.”

The words hung there, brittle as glass.

I looked over my shoulder, just briefly, to make sure Dahlia was still behind me. She was. Her hand hovered near my back, not quite touching—respecting the barrier I’d built—but there. Always there.

I turned back to Silas.

“Then who did?” I asked.

His jaw flexed. “That’s why I’m here. To warn you of what is coming. Some skeletons don’t stay in their closets, and some people don’t stay dead.”

I didn’t lower the shadows. Not yet. I couldn’t. I needed them like armor.

“I don’t trust you,” I said. “I don’t forgive you. And if you so much as breathe the wrong way near her—”

“I know,” he said. “And for what it’s worth… I don’t blame you.”

A gust of wind rattled the porch rail. Somewhere inside the house, a floorboard creaked.

Before I could ask what the hell Silas meant by some people don’t stay dead, the porch shifted again.

But this time it wasn’t the wind.

Silas’s eyes darted to the side a half-second too late—just as Thea stepped from the shadows behind him and drove a stun gun into the side of his neck.

The crackle of electricity split the air. Silas seized once, his body rigid, then dropped like a felled tree with a grunt.

Dahlia gasped. Henry swore.

Thea didn’t even blink.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered, crouching beside his crumpled form. She yanked a pair of zip ties from her coat pocket, bound his wrists in two sharp tugs, then pulled off the red scarf around her neck and shoved it firmly into his mouth.

Silas groaned as she knotted it behind his head. “That’s for showing up uninvited,” she hissed. “You get bonus points for trauma-dumping, though. Really classic villain shit.”

“I was questioning him,” I growled, still breathless from the whiplash of fury and confusion in my blood. “We could’ve—”

“He’s not dead,” Thea said flatly. “Which means we can question him later. Somewhere he’s not standing in a doorway like the fucking Crypt Keeper.”

Henry stared down at the now-gagged man. “I, uh… have questions.”

“Get in line,” Thea replied, already hauling Silas toward the porch rail. “Someone open the back of the SUV. We’re taking him home.”

I couldn’t argue. Not really. My mind was still spiraling.

He was alive. Magicless. And not the one who sent the beast.

Which meant someone else had. Someone worse.

“We still need the journals,” I muttered.

Dahlia nodded, swallowing hard. Her hand was on my arm now, warm and steady. “I’ll help Henry gather them. Thea can keep your shadow-cloaked psycho calm.”

I snorted. “That could apply to either of us.”

She smiled—barely—but it grounded me all the same.

Henry led her inside with a weary glance back toward the porch. “We’ll need at least two boxes, maybe three. I’ll grab Jane’s old trunk. And the cookie tin.”

“You really keep cookies in that thing?” Thea asked from the driveway, where she was wedging Silas into the backseat like awkward luggage.

“Cookies and some things that go better with whiskey,” Henry called over his shoulder.

I watched them disappear into the house—watched Dahlia touch the doorframe Jane once warded, as if feeling the echoes of what still lingered.

Then I turned back to my brother, trussed up like a lamb for questioning, blood humming with shadow and doubt.

We’d come for the books with answers to our questions, but just ended up with more.

Chapter 22

Dahlia

Silas was still groggy when we got back to the cottage. Thea tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of laundry, and fireman carried him inside without ceremony.

She plunked him into one of the kitchen chairs, then tied his ankles to the legs and looped another length of nylon rope around his chest and the chair back. With casual efficiency, she double-knotted it for good measure.

“There,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Not going anywhere.”

Henry wandered in behind her with an impressed whistle. “You sure you weren’t deployed? We could’ve used someone like you in ’Nam. Your knots are better than half the grunts we had.”

Thea shrugged. “Girl Scouts.”

He chuckled. “I believe it.”

I set the trunk of Jane’s journals down on the table with a grunt and opened the heavy book we’d recovered—The Hollow Veil. Kieran stood just behind me, his presence a steady hum in the room, watching silently with shadows flickering faintly at the edges of his sleeves. Henry excused himself to start another pot of coffee. Thea sat dutifully in a backward-facing chair.

We flipped through the brittle pages together. Rites. Symbols. Orders long since fallen. The ink on many pages had faded to near-invisibility, but some remained legible.

And then we reached a section where the edges were blackened. Burned.

The parchment crumbled at the corners, scorched away with precise intensity—magic fire, not accidental. The surrounding text blurred and frayed, as if the page had resisted erasure but lost the fight.

Kieran exhaled sharply. “These were the pages on the Rite.”

“The one that trapped you?” I asked quietly.

He nodded. “It’s gone. Someone burned it.”

I opened one of Jane’s journals, heart racing. The handwriting inside was careful, looping—her voice in ink. Protective, precise.

There, just a few entries in, we found it.

I’ve read it again. The Rite of Soul Preservation. Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it. I know what it promises. What it demands. The balance of want and suffering, anchored by sacrifice. One willing. The rest must be unwilling. The one at the center always gets what they want—but the cost ripples like a stone dropped in fate.
I couldn’t let it stay intact in the book. I burned the pages with runes laced through the fire. I won’t be responsible for someone finding it and thinking they’re clever enough to survive it. Not again.

My stomach turned. “She knew.”

“She recognized it,” Kieran said, voice low. “And she destroyed it.”

“She must’ve seen something—maybe another coven that used it, or some kind of residue left behind.” I looked over at him. “She knew how dangerous it was.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “The rules match. One willing. The rest… weren’t.”

“Who was at the center of the circle?”

I could see Kieran’s heart drop to his feet.

“Calliope was in the center.”

The scarf muffled Silas’ groan before he even focused his eyes.

Silas stirred in the chair, head lolling, jaw working at the fabric Thea had shoved between his teeth. His wrists flexed against the ropes, but the knots didn’t budge.

Kieran didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He just stood across the room, arms folded, shadows curling lazily around his boots like smoke sensing a spark.

“Should we un-gag him?” I asked.

“Depends,” Thea said flatly. “You want lies with your tea?”

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Kieran murmured, though his voice sounded like it’d been dragged over broken glass.

I reached forward carefully and untied the scarf. Silas coughed, jaw clenching, before he looked up and locked eyes with his brother.

He didn’t speak right away. Just breathed—slow, steady. Like he was gathering something brittle and dangerous in his throat.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he rasped.

Kieran’s face didn’t change. “Didn’t mean for what?”

“For you,” Silas said, “to be trapped.”

Silence.

Then Kieran took one step forward. Just one. The shadows pulsed.

“Explain.”

Silas looked at all of us, but settled back on Kieran. “Calliope was going to use you. She was always going to use you. She didn’t love you, Kieran. She loved your power. She planned the Rite from the beginning. She needed a willing soul, one strong enough to anchor the magic. That was going to be you.”

Kieran’s voice was low. “I was willing.”

“I know,” Silas said, voice cracking. “And that’s why I had to stop it. I tried to rewrite the outer runes—quietly, subtly—so the spell would break mid-casting. I thought if I rerouted the core tether, it would consume her instead. I wanted her to pay the price.”

My stomach twisted.

“And me?” Kieran asked, barely above a whisper. “You just gambled with me?”

“No,” Silas said fiercely. “I tried to rewrite it so you’d survive. I thought I had it right. I thought you’d be cut free, your soul untouched. But…” He looked down at his hands, at the burned, magicless skin. “Something went wrong. It bound you instead. Sealed you into the locket.”

Kieran’s expression shattered—just for a second. “You tampered with the Rite and left me trapped for two hundred years?”

“I tried to save you, I damn sure didn’t mean to bind you to that locket,” Silas shot back. “And I did kill her. That part worked.”

“You don’t get credit for killing someone you helped bring to power,” Kieran growled. “You betrayed both of us.”

“I chose you,” Silas said, his voice rough now. “And I failed.”

“If you chose me, why did you walk away? Why did you fucking leave me?!”

“Because I am a coward! I thought if I interfered more, we all would have died!”

He slumped back in the chair, bound and worn. No magic. Just a man with too much history and a handful of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

I looked at Kieran. He hadn’t lowered his shadows. His hands were fists at his sides.

“You could’ve told me,” he said hoarsely. “You could’ve stopped me before it started.”

“I didn’t know how,” Silas whispered. “You were in love. You would’ve fought me.”

“You should’ve let me.”

Kieran turned away then, shoulders tight with a rage that had no clear edge—only the bruised weight of everything lost. The door to the guest room slammed close so hard, several things fell off the fireplace mantle.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, the house had fallen into a restless hush. Thea was outside splitting firewood like it owed her money, and Henry had passed out in the armchair, snoring softly with Sunny curled on his chest like a purring paperweight. Silas stayed silent in the kitchen, still tied to the chair, though Thea had moved the gag to let him drink some water. “I don’t believe in cruel and unusual punishment. I’m not a monster.” Henry had turned the TV on for him. He hadn’t said a word since.

I couldn’t sit still anymore.

The tension in my bones needed somewhere to go, so I dragged myself into the kitchen and started pulling out pans like they might answer for something. Cooking had always calmed me. Measuring, chopping, seasoning—it was like casting spells with butter and heat.

I didn’t even care that it was early. Everyone had been running on adrenaline and trauma, and we needed something grounding. Something warm. Something with cheese.

Lasagna felt like the only right answer.

I diced onions, smashed garlic, and browned meat in the pan until it sizzled just right. The smell of oregano and basil drifted through the house, weaving through the tired silence like a peace offering.

The sound of a door creaked behind me.

I didn’t turn. I just stirred the sauce and said softly, “There’s no shame in slamming doors. But you better not slam my cabinet drawers.”

A quiet pause.

Then, “I wasn’t aiming for the door. I was trying to collapse the wall with sheer disappointment.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Kieran stood in the doorway, barefoot, shirt wrinkled from sleep—or rage—and his hair a glorious mess. The bruised anger in his eyes had faded into something else. Something heavier. Quieter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, turning back to the stove.

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I lost my temper. Again. And I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I glanced up at him, letting the silence stretch a beat longer before I offered, “You didn’t scare me. But you did make the salt container jump.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—maybe guilt, maybe humor. “I’ll apologize to the salt.”

I handed him a wooden spoon. “Apologize by learning to make béchamel.”

He blinked. “That sounds like a spell.”

“It’s butter, flour, and milk. Which, honestly, might be more powerful than half the spells in your blood.”

He moved closer, cautious but curious. “You’ll teach me?”

“If you behave.” I gestured to the stovetop. “Grab that whisk. You’re on sauce duty.”

What followed was clumsy, chaotic, and weirdly tender. He measured by instinct, which drove me nuts, and stirred like the pot called him an unforgivable name. But he listened. Asked questions. Watched my hands. And when the roux finally thickened into a perfect, creamy béchamel, he looked stupidly proud.

We layered noodles, spread meat sauce, and cheese like a well-oiled machine, and Kieran grated parmesan with far more enthusiasm than necessary.

Then I tossed him a loaf of bread. “Slice that. We’re making garlic bread.”

He caught it easily. “This is bread, it’s already cooked?”

I handed him a bowl of softened butter, garlic, parsley, and salt. “This is the magic.”

The kitchen filled with laughter and warmth, with the clatter of pans and the low hum of a man trying very hard to slice bread evenly.

Chapter 23

Kieran

The scent of garlic, basil, and something unmistakably comforting curled through the air like incense. I sat at the table, a plate of lasagna steaming in front of me, a generous slab of garlic bread on the side. My second real homemade dinner in over two centuries, and it tasted like something out of a dream. Creamy, savory, rich—Dahlia’s doing. Of course.

She moved around the table, serving seconds, checking on drinks, fussing like she didn’t just rebuild my faith in the modern age with cheese and butter.

And then she stopped in front of Silas.

He was still tied to the kitchen chair, wrists secured and ankles bound to the legs—Thea’s work, which I begrudgingly had to admire. But he'd been let off the gag, and Henry, ever the gentleman, insisted he be allowed a plate “so long as he doesn’t try to hex anyone with a spoon.”

He didn’t get a fork, obviously.

Which meant Dahlia—sweet, maddening, kind Dahlia—sat beside him and began to feed him. Bite by bite. Patiently. Like he wasn’t the reason my soul had been locked in a locket for two centuries.

“Careful, it’s still hot,” she murmured, blowing on a forkful before holding it to his mouth.

Silas, the bastard, leaned forward obediently, eyes closed like he was savoring the moment, like he hadn’t burned our entire life to ash.

I gripped my fork a little too tightly.

He chewed. Smiled faintly. Nodded in approval. “That’s incredible,” he said, like he had any right to taste it. “You’re very talented, Miss Moore.”

Dahlia blushed.

And something deep and dark in me said absolutely not.

I reached for my water with one hand. With the other, I let a single, almost imperceptible thread of shadow slink across the floor beneath the table—thin as silk, dark as pitch.

It coiled up the leg of Silas’s chair.

Slipped beneath the plate balanced on his lap.

And with the barest nudge—

The lasagna tipped.

Right into his lap.

Silas yelped.

Dahlia jumped. “Oh! Oh no—did it spill? It’s hot, I’m so sorry—”

“I—it’s—ah, it’s fine,” he stammered, lifting his bound hands awkwardly as steam rose from his thighs. “Just… very warm.”

“Oh God, hang on—” She scrambled for napkins, nearly knocking over her glass. “Don’t move. I mean—well, you can’t, but—still—”

Henry chuckled behind his cup. “That’s what he gets for betraying his brother. Karma’s a spicy meatball.”

I took a long sip of my water, the corners of my mouth twitching. “Shame about that plate. Gravity’s a cruel mistress.”

Thea raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t say a word. Her eyes flicked to the shadows pooled around my chair and then back to my face. Her mouth twitched. She looked back down at her plate.

Silas looked directly at me—expression unreadable, mouth tight, pride slightly burned along with his thigh.

I raised my brows and offered him a cool smile.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s plenty more.”

He didn’t answer.

But his next bite was cautious. And not just because of the temperature.

Chapter 24

Dahlia

Night came slow and heavy, the way it always did after long days full of revelations, old ghosts, and an alarming amount of cheese. The house had finally started to settle. Thea set up camp in the armchair, her boots planted wide and arms crossed, eyes locked on Silas like she expected him to turn into a demon mid-snore.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered when I offered her a blanket. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Or when he is. Whichever comes first.”

Henry accepted the offer of my bed without fuss. “Only if it’s no trouble,” he said, already halfway down the hallway, Sunny tucked under one arm like a fuzzy hostage. “My hips won’t forgive me if I take that couch.”

“No trouble at all,” I promised, grabbing an extra blanket from the linen closet and hugging it to my chest. “Kieran and I can share.”

Kieran, who had been silently rinsing dishes at the sink, went utterly still. “We… can?”

I glanced over at him, giving what I hoped was a casual shrug. “We slept together last night. You’re not exactly a stranger anymore.”

He turned slowly, water dripping from his hands, expression unreadable.

“If you'd rather, I can sleep on the couch,” I added, “But you'll have to fix my back.”

He smirked. “No need.”

We said our goodnights, each voice softer than the last, the cottage dimming room by room. I led the way to my guest room—his room, technically, by occupation—and kicked off my shoes near the door. The bed was already made from this morning, the sheets cool and smooth beneath my hand as I pulled back the covers.

Kieran stood in the doorway, watching me with that quiet, observing stillness he wore like a second skin. He looked tired. Not just from the day, but from the years behind it.

“You okay?” I asked gently.

“I will be,” he said.

He moved closer, and I could see the way his body favored his side. The healing spell had helped, but the deeper bruises—those took time. Especially with him pretending they didn’t exist.

I sat on the edge of the bed and patted the mattress beside me. “Shirt off. Let me check your wound.”

He hesitated.

“I taught you how to make lasagna,” I said. “Let me have this.”

That made him snort—just a soft breath of amusement—but he obeyed. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. I swallowed when I saw the bandages, the bruising still shadowing the skin around his ribs. His body was a map of quiet suffering, marked with fading pain and old strength.

I stood in front of him and peeled the bandage back with careful fingers. “Still tender?”

“A little.”

“Let me know if I need to stop.” I grabbed the salve I’d tucked into the drawer earlier and smoothed it across the bruises, my fingertips moving lightly. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet my eyes either.

After a long silence, he murmured, “That lasagna didn’t fall on its own.”

I paused. “What?”

He cleared his throat, gaze fixed on a knot in the wooden floorboards. “Silas. The spill. That wasn’t gravity. That was me.”

I stared at him.

“You used magic to dump lasagna in your brother’s lap?”

He nodded once, solemn. “Yes.”

I blinked.

And then I laughed.

It wasn’t a dainty giggle or a breathy chuckle—it was full and probably a little bit unhinged from everything we’d been through. But once it started, I couldn’t stop. I leaned my forehead against his shoulder and my hands on his thighs, still laughing, and felt him exhale like he’d been holding it in.

“I thought I was being subtle,” he said dryly.

“You were!” I wheezed. “That’s the worst part. You were so smug and serene while his thighs were burning. I thought he was going to cry.”

“I hoped he would.”

I looked up at him, the last of my laughter fading into something softer. “That was wildly petty. And I think I love you a little bit for it.”

The words slipped out before I could catch them.

He stilled, eyes searching mine.

My heart dropped.

“I mean—” I tried to backpedal. “Love you like… in a hypothetical, lasagna-justice kind of way, not—”

“Flower.”

His voice was gentle. Firm. And warm. Too warm.

I stopped talking.

He didn’t move to kiss me. Didn’t rush the moment. Just smiled, small and crooked.

“Thank you,” he said. “For patching me up. For feeding me. For letting me be petty.”

Fuck it. Now or never, Dahlia.

I stepped in close—right into his space—and before he could speak, before I could second-guess the way my chest felt like it might explode from the pressure, I grabbed his face with both hands and slammed my lips to his.

Hard. Hungry. Reckless.

He froze for half a heartbeat—shocked—but then his hands found my waist and clutched like he’d been drowning for centuries and just broke the surface.

I didn’t kiss him like I was asking permission.

I kissed him like I’d been waiting my whole damn life and had just now realized it.

The kiss turned brutal, then reverent, then brutal again. Teeth, tongue, gasps too loud in the quiet room. He backed me up until my knees hit the mattress, then came down over me slow. Slow, like he was afraid I'd vanish if he rushed. The way he held me—tight, possessive—his calloused hands dragging down my hips like he was memorizing my very bones.

The pull between us snapped taut, heat arcing like magic itself had been holding its breath. I tasted tension, longing, two centuries of secrets and one strange, shared spark that had only ever made sense in the way it made no sense at all.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless.

Kieran stared down at me, stunned, lips parted slightly like he wasn’t sure if the world had tilted or just us.

I didn’t let him speak.

“I feel it,” I whispered, still holding his face between my palms. “Whatever this is. I feel it, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

His voice came out hoarse. “I’ve been trying not to want this.”

“Then stop trying.”

We crashed again—less fury this time, more ache. Like the edges of something too long restrained finally breaking free.

"You smell like warm earth and honey,” he rasped, breath hot against my jaw. “No wonder they named you after something that grows wild.”

I blinked, dizzy with want. “You’re really leaning into this nickname thing, huh?”

He traced my cheek with his thumb, eyes molten. “No. I’m leaning into you, Flower.”

The way he said it made my skin break out in goosebumps. Not just the word. The reverence in it. Like I was something rare. Precious.

His fingers curled around the back of my neck, pulling me deeper into the kiss. That was the moment I knew, knew I wasn’t the only one who felt it, the heat, the burn. Like someone had set my soul aflame. Scorching me from the inside out.

He tasted like fire and sorrow, something ancient I couldn’t name. Like magic smoldering on his tongue.

When I finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, I whispered, “You kiss like you already own me.”

Kieran’s forehead pressed to mine, his voice hoarse. “I do.”

“You make me want things I have no right wanting,” he murmured, voice frayed, like the words were ripped from deep within him.

My chest tightened, throat thick. “I’m not asking you to deserve me. I’m asking you to try.”

The last vestiges of his restraint splintered in that moment.

He dragged his mouth down my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me mewl. “Mine. You understand that? You’re mine, Flower. And if the world forgets it—I’ll remind them.”

His hands mapped my skin like he owned it—slowly, thoroughly, trembling with restraint. When he finally pushed into me, it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep—a claiming. A shudder ran through him like it hurt to feel so much at once. I wanted all of him—chaos, darkness, past, and all. Because there was something about this man that had always felt like a covenant, even before I knew his name.

He eased out, then pressed in again with deliberate care, slow and grinding, like he needed to feel every inch of me. Like the drag of my body against his was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He moved like he was committing every breath to memory. Every gasp. Every time my hips arched into him, he murmured against my skin—sweet, filthy things that made me dizzy.

When I pulled him closer, when I let him take me with a slow, aching rhythm that made my bones tremble—I wasn’t thinking of curses or covens or locked-away pasts. I was thinking of us. Right here. Right now. The way he looked at me like I was the center of his universe. The only thing he believed in.

And when it came—when I unraveled beneath him—I did it with his name on my lips and his shadows consuming my heart.

I bloomed for him.

It was the only word that fit. My body trembled, hips rising, breath catching like petals torn open by heat and want. And he felt it—felt me—and leaned down, voice cracked and reverent.

He dragged his mouth along my collarbone, hands spread across my hips like he was holding something fragile but holy.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Blossoming for me. Sweet. Swollen. Shaking. My flower.”

I was still shaking.

Breath shallow, skin slick, thighs trembling. But Kieran wasn’t finished. Not with me. Not even close.

His hand curled around my hip like he was anchoring himself, using my body to tether him to this moment. And when he leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear, I felt it once more—that rush of heat, of knowing. Of him.

“You bloomed for me,” he whispered, voice rough and almost disbelieving. Like he hadn’t expected it to wreck him as much as it did me. “Like a flower blooming in the morning sun… mesmerizing.” He murmured reverently against my skin, lips grazing, breath hot.

I should’ve told him I couldn’t—should’ve begged for space to breathe, to recover—but all I could do was gasp when his fingers slipped between my thighs again. Gentle. Insistent. Worshipful. Ruthless in how he brushed against where I was still burning.

“I want to see it again,” he murmured, dragging his lips across my collarbone. “Want to feel you come undone on me. For me. Every shudder. Every twitch. I want you blooming around me until it drives us both mad.”

A whimper escaped me, body humming with leftover pleasure, already drifting back into its grasp. My body wasn’t listening to reason—it was listening to him. To the low, reverent rasp of his voice, to the fingers that circled and pressed until flames licked up my spine.

And gods, when he slid back into me—slow, deliberate, impossibly deep—my mouth fell open in a silent cry.

“Kieran—” His name was nothing more than a ragged breath, raw and unraveling.

“I know, Flower,” he groaned, and the way he said it—dark and covetous—made me clench around him. “You feel so fucking good. Like this—this—is where I’m meant to be. Inside you. Watching you fall apart.”

He thrust again, slow and steady, and I could feel him watching me. Studying the way I arched, the way I bloomed around him again—hapless, starving, straining for more. I didn’t just feel pleasure—I drowned in it, and gladly let it consume me. He held me there, cradled in his hands like I was something sacred, a holy relic, something that had bloomed for no one else.

Every time he moved, it shoved me higher—past logic, past shame, past anything I thought I could feel.

“I can’t—” The words trembled on my lips, but I didn’t even know what I was trying to say.

“Yes, you can,” he growled. His fingers dug into my hips, guiding me back into his thrusts. “You will. For me. One more time, Flower. Let go.”

I imploded with his name on my tongue, my body bowed, breath caught, hips rising and falling with the rhythm he gave me. My orgasm tore through me like fire through dry petals—violent, beautiful, and too much all at once.

I bloomed again.

Gods help me, I bloomed for him, full and hot and wrecked.

Kieran groaned—one harsh sound torn from his throat—and then he followed, spilling into me with a curse, his entire body trembling as he held me close, like I was a sacrament. Something he’d built an altar to without even knowing.

And when it was over, when we lay tangled and breathless, his chest rising and falling, he drew me close, and wrapped his arms around me, whispering into my hair,

“Look what you do to me. You wreck me completely.”
A kiss at my temple.
“You bloom once and I forget everything.”

I didn’t care what came tomorrow. Tonight, I belonged to him. And maybe, just maybe… he belonged to me too.

Chapter 25

Kieran

For the first time in… gods, maybe centuries—I woke without dread clawing at the edges of my mind.

No screams.
No fire.
No locket-shaped coffin snapping shut behind my eyes.

Just warmth.

Soft sheets. Steady breathing. And her—curled beside me, one arm flung across my ribs like she owned me.

Maybe she did.

Her hair was a mess, wild curls strewn across the pillow, cheek smushed adorably. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Real.

And I felt… light.

My body ached in the familiar way—bruises blooming under the skin from a life that hadn’t slowed—but my chest didn’t feel like it was collapsing in on itself. For once, I didn’t wake up with my fists clenched.

I turned my head and pressed a kiss to Dahlia’s forehead, lingering there a beat too long. She made a soft sound, something between a sigh and a murmur, and burrowed deeper into the blankets.

I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to break the spell.

But old instincts pulled me to my feet.

I stretched as quietly as I could, pulling on a shirt and combing my fingers through my hair before I padded out of the room barefoot, shadows trailing lazily behind me like smoke still not ready to rise.

The cottage was wrapped in early morning hush.

I found them where I expected—in the living room, cloaked in that strange half-light that comes before full dawn.

Silas was still tied to the chair, head tilted back against the wall, lips slightly parted in sleep. He looked older this way. Less dangerous. Less like the brother who’d shattered my life and more like a man who’d simply survived too long.

Thea sat across from him, legs crossed, her hoodie sleeves bunched around her arms and a thermos cradled in her hands. She didn’t look tired, but she didn’t look awake either—her gaze locked on Silas like a hawk watching a snake sunning itself on a rock.

Her eyes flicked up when I entered. She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

I crossed the room, slow, cautious, like the quiet might break if I breathed too loudly. I crouched near the hearth, stoked the coals Henry must’ve banked the night before, and added a few logs with practiced ease.

The flames caught quickly. Steady. A heartbeat in the silence.

Behind me, Thea finally muttered, “He talks in his sleep.”

I looked over my shoulder. “What’d he say?”

“Names. Mostly. Yours. A woman’s. Sometimes it’s just… nonsense. Runes. Pieces of something broken.”

I nodded.

“I don’t think he’s lying about losing his magic,” she added after a beat. “But he’s still dangerous.”

“I know.”

She looked me over—really looked, brow raising slightly at the shirt I’d borrowed from Henry and the distinct lack of fury in my posture.

“Sleep okay?”

I nodded again. “Better than I have in years.”

She smirked faintly, sipping her coffee. “Yeah. You look like a man who got thoroughly comforted.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Just watched the fire catch fully.

Silas snored softly, slumped in the kitchen chair like some overly dramatic villain caught halfway through his monologue. The rope bindings—still taut across his chest and arms—rose and fell with every breath. It was the most peaceful he’d looked since we dragged him through the front door.

Too peaceful, apparently.

A soft thump-thump of paws made me glance over. Oleander had hopped into the room like he had business to attend to, ears perked and nose twitching. He paused just short of Silas’ boots, then lowered his head, sniffed… and lunged.

With all the focus of a creature on a personal mission, Oleander sank his teeth into one of Silas’ leather bootlaces and started to chew.

I blinked. “Uh… Thea?”

From her perch on the couch, Thea didn’t even look up from where she was sipping her coffee. “Let him.”

“Let him?”

“I mean, what’s he gonna do—hop into the black market with one boot and an attitude? If the rabbit wants a snack, the rabbit gets a snack.”

“Oleander,” I whispered, half amused, half horrified, “those boots probably cost more than you’re worth.”

Oleander, predictably, didn’t care.

Another lace snapped with a soft snick. He moved to the second one without hesitation, teeth working steadily through the leather like it offended him personally. The rope around Silas’ ankles remained intact—for now—but his dignity didn’t stand a chance.

I glanced back at Thea. “He’s really doing it.”

“That’s what he gets for calling me stabby,” she said, deadpan.

Silas snorted in his sleep, muttered something unintelligible, and shifted slightly. Oleander froze for half a second, then went right back to chewing.

I let the silence linger a moment longer—let the crackle of the fire be the only sound in the room.

Then I stood.

Crossed the space with slow, deliberate steps.

And kicked the leg of Silas’s chair.

Hard.

He jerked awake with a grunt, blinking groggily as his head snapped forward, hands tugging instinctively at the restraints that still held him fast.

“Rise and shine,” I said coldly. “We’re done letting you nap off your treachery.”

Thea sipped her coffee like it was a front-row seat to a very predictable show.

Silas squinted up at me, his voice hoarse. “Morning to you, too.”

I crouched in front of him, arms resting on my knees. Close enough to make a point. Far enough not to kill him by accident. “Time to talk, brother. Really talk. I want everything you didn’t tell me yesterday. Start with what happened after.”

He blinked. “After?”

“The Rite,” I growled. “After you shattered it. After you left me in the locket and Calliope dead at the center.”

A shadow passed through his face—brief, but real.

“When I woke up,” he said slowly, “there was blood. Smoke. Burned grass and broken bodies.” He swallowed. “The circle was empty. Your body—your soul—was gone. But so was hers.”

“Gone how?” I asked. “Explain.”

“She wasn’t dead,” he said. “Not completely. The Rite didn’t finish the way I planned. I thought I’d undone her tether, rerouted the power, but when I came to... her body was missing. And the locket was gone.”

I stared at him, the breath in my chest turning to stone.

“I spent years,” Silas continued, voice fraying, “decades, trying to figure out where it had gone. What happened. There were rumors. Whispers. The Order Calliope belonged to-The Order of Alecto-they didn’t let her stay dead. They resurrected her.”

I reeled. “That’s not possible.”

“They found a way. Or something found them. All I know is, she came back. Changed. Less human than before. But still her. Still cunning. Still cruel.”

I stood slowly, fists clenched at my sides. “And the locket?”

“I never found it,” he said, shaking his head. “She wanted it. Desperately. Said it was unfinished business. But it vanished. Some say it was stolen. Others claimed it was cursed. But no one knew where it ended up—not until now.”

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Because I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say next.

Silas looked up at me, guilt painted like bruises under his eyes. “Calliope’s still looking for it. For you. She’s been looking for a long time. And now that you’re free…”

He didn’t have to finish.

I turned to the fire, jaw tight, mind already racing ahead. “She’s going to come for me.”

“No,” Silas said quietly. “She’s going to come for her.”

I glanced back at him.

Dahlia.

The locket’s new keeper. The woman who had woken me. The only tether I had left in this world.

My shadows responded before my heart could catch up, curling out like smoke searching for a target. Protective. Possessive. Furious.

Thea finally spoke, her voice dry. “Well. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.”

I was still staring into the fire, every muscle wound tight beneath my skin, when soft footsteps padded into the room behind me.

Dahlia.

She wore one of my shirts—again—and sleep still clung to her eyes in soft smudges and slow blinks. Her hair was a wild halo around her face, and there was a faint pillow crease on her cheek. She looked warm. Unbothered. Perfect.

She rubbed at her eye with the back of one hand. “Why does it sound like someone’s plotting our deaths before breakfast?”

I turned slightly, catching her gaze. “Because someone is.”

Her brow furrowed. She came to stand beside me, fingers brushing my arm lightly. A grounding touch. One I didn’t realize I’d needed.

Silas let out a breath, the sound scraping raw through his throat. “The locket—your locket—I finally tracked it down a few weeks ago. That’s how I knew where to find you.”

Dahlia crossed her arms. “You tracked it to Henry.”

He nodded. “Word came from a former contact in the Black Veil—someone who owed me more favors than I’ll ever see repaid. He said an artifact had resurfaced. Something old. Bound. Dangerous. A silver locket carved with moonlight and blood.”

Her hand drifted unconsciously to the chain at her throat, now empty.

“I followed the trail straight to Brookside,” Silas said. “To Henry’s shop.”

I clenched my jaw. “You weren’t just looking for the locket. You were looking for her.”

Silas’s gaze flicked to Dahlia, then back to me. “I didn’t know who had it. Just that someone had broken the seal. That someone had woken you. And that if Calliope found out before I did... she’d burn everything to the ground to claim it.”

Dahlia didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. I could feel her pulse ticking under her skin like a war drum.

Silas went on. “There’ve been whispers. For years. That Calliope survived the Rite. That she didn’t just rejoin the Order—she took it over from the inside. Quietly. Ruthlessly. Anyone who challenged her disappeared.”

Thea gave a low whistle from her chair. “And here I thought your exes were dramatic.”

Silas ignored her. “She’s risen through the ranks of the Hollow Court—what remains of it. The old bloodlines bent the knee. Or bled.”

My chest tightened.

He looked directly at me now. “She won’t stop. Not until she’s reclaimed the locket. Not until you’re dead. Not until she—” he nodded to Dahlia “—is bled dry and bound into the Rite again.”

“She wants immortality,” Dahlia said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Real, complete, untethered. And she thinks I’m the key.”

“You are,” Silas said. “Because you’re the only one who’s ever opened it. The locket. It shouldn’t have responded to anyone. Not after all this time.”

Dahlia swallowed. “But it did.”

“Which means you’re part of this now,” Silas finished grimly. “Whether you want to be or not.”

The fire popped, a coal cracking open in the grate.

No one spoke.

Then I turned to Dahlia, her face pale but steady. Her jaw was set, her shoulders squared. She didn’t look afraid. She looked ready.

And gods help the world if they tried to take her from me.

I stepped closer, just enough that our arms touched.

“We protect each other,” I said quietly. “No more lies. No more running. We find out how to stop her—and we end this.”

Dahlia nodded once. “Together.”

Thea kicked her boots up onto the coffee table and pulled a dagger from her belt. “I always did hate secret societies.”

Silas leaned his head back against the chair with a weary sigh. “Then you’re going to love what comes next.”

Chapter 26

Dahlia

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, but the room felt warmer than ever, thick with tension and truths we weren’t ready for.

Silas’s voice broke the silence first, quieter now. He looked older in the low light. Tired, despite everything he claimed not to regret.

“There is a way to stop this,” he said. “To stop her. But it starts with breaking the bond between Kieran and the locket.”

Kieran stiffened beside me. I felt it through his arm, tight muscle and the twitch of unease. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the storm behind his silence.

“Break the bond?” I asked, voice catching. “Won’t that… hurt him?”

“It might,” Silas said honestly. “But if you don’t… she’ll use it to control him. She could twist the tether, bend it to her will. It’s the last leash she had on him. The locket is both prison and key.”

I hated how much sense that made.

“And you think you can help?” Kieran asked, his voice like frost. “After everything?”

Silas held his gaze. “I spent two hundred years trying to undo the damage I caused. If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave. But you’ll need someone who knows how this magic works. And right now, I’m the only one alive who does.”

My heart thundered behind my ribs. I didn’t want to trust him. Neither did Kieran. But the look in Silas’s eyes was stripped of all pride. He wasn’t begging. He was offering a debt.

Kieran’s jaw worked silently for a beat. Then he gave the smallest nod. Not forgiveness—just permission to proceed.

Before I could say anything, the hallway creaked.

“Good. Because if you’re all planning on stopping a power-hungry witch and her murder cult,” Henry said from the doorway, voice gravelly and sharp, “you’re gonna need more than grimoires and grudges.”

He shuffled into the room in his robe and slippers, Sunny perched on his shoulder like some kind of sleepy fur collar.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I said, startled.

“I was. Until I heard ‘secret society’ and ‘immortality’ in the same breath.” He sniffed and sank into the armchair Thea had vacated, Sunny sprawling across his lap. “Calliope wants you dead, and that’s reason enough to get my boots muddy again.”

Henry turned his eyes on me then. Warm, but firm.

“You need training, Dahlia.”

I blinked. “Training?”

“You’ve got power,” he said simply. “And you’ve got instinct. But instinct isn’t enough. You couldn’t stop that hellbeast at the shop. You won’t stop what’s coming unless you’re prepared to fight.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

He wasn’t trying to hurt me, but they still stung. Because they were true. The only reason we were still alive was luck and borrowed magic.

“I’ll help,” Thea added from across the room. “Weapons, combat, evasion, breaking and entering—you name it. Kieran and Silas will have to teach you the magical woo-woo shit.” She gestured with her hands, fingers wiggling like she was casting a spell.

Henry pointed at her. “That’s why she’s one of my favorites.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”

Kieran reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. His shadows curled around our wrists like a quiet vow.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he murmured. “You have us now.”

I nodded, but deep inside, I knew something had changed.

This wasn’t just about me finding answers anymore.

It was about surviving what came next—and making damn sure we didn’t break before Calliope did.

The rope hit the floor with a soft thump.

Silas flexed his fingers slowly, shaking them out like he’d just finished a round of yoga instead of spending the night trussed to a kitchen chair. “Well, that was charming. My thanks to the hospitality committee.”

Thea stood behind him, still holding the knife she’d used to cut him loose. “I can put them back on.”

He gave her a half-smile. “You say that like it’s not a tempting offer.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You say that like you’re not two seconds from being hogtied with piano wire.”

“Noted,” Silas muttered, rubbing his wrists.

I turned away from the increasingly weird standoff and stared into the depths of the fridge. I’d had a plan, once—something about eggs and toast and not spiraling into stress-induced culinary chaos—but now I was just standing there like the breakfast fairy might appear and bail me out.

“Kieran,” I called over my shoulder, “is it morally acceptable to make pancakes from a box mix when the fate of the world might be hanging on our carbs?”

“I’m pretty sure the box says ‘just add water and impending doom,’” he said, padding over barefoot. His hand brushed the small of my back as he passed, lingering for the briefest moment. “And you’re allowed to take the easy win.”

I exhaled and pulled out the mix. “Okay. Pancakes it is. Nobody complain. Nobody die. That’s the rule.”

“I accept these terms,” Henry said from the table, cradling a mug of coffee like it was life support.

Silas, now free and clearly feeling too at home, leaned one hip against the counter. “So what you’re saying is—you’re hand feeding me again?”

My eyes narrowed.

Kieran, standing right beside me, didn’t say a word. Didn’t even twitch.

He just swung his arm back and landed a solid, precise punch right into Silas’s stomach.

Silas doubled over with a noise that could only be described as oof-adjacent, arms wrapping protectively around his midsection. “Gods—okay—what was that for?!”

Kieran’s voice was calm. Almost bored. “Try that tone again and I’ll aim higher.”

“I was joking,” Silas wheezed.

“That was me laughing.”

He turned to go back to the batter, but paused. Looked over his shoulder. “You owe her an apology.”

Silas blinked. “For…?”

“For speaking to my Flower like a common servant,” Kieran said. “And for nearly getting her killed. You want to work with us? Start by respecting her.”

Silas opened his mouth, probably to argue. But then he looked at me—really looked. And for once, he didn’t smile or deflect.

He nodded once, slow and solemn. “You’re right.”

Then he turned to me.

“I’m sorry, Dahlia,” he said. “For all of it. For dragging you into this world sideways. For underestimating you. And for the lasagna.”

“The lasagna wasn’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “But I was still a jackass about it.”

I blinked. “…Okay. Thanks.”

Kieran seemed satisfied. Silas, mildly humbled. Thea, utterly unimpressed.

“Eat,” she told Silas, dropping a plate in front of him.

“Marry me,” he muttered, staring at her.

Kieran raised his hand again.

“Kidding,” Silas said quickly, stabbing a bite of pancake.

The kitchen buzzed with quiet sounds—silverware clinking, the low murmur of voices, and Sunny meowing from Henry’s lap. It was the most normal we’d felt in days. And maybe that was the scariest part. The calm before something worse.

But still, I looked around at them, all of them. My strange, mismatched, not-quite family. And I felt… not safe, exactly.

But not alone.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 27

Kieran

The fire was nothing but a whisper now—just the faint crackle of coals and the low hiss of shifting wood. Afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen windows, streaking long golden lines across the floor like some soft promise we didn’t deserve.

Dahlia sat beside me, curled in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her and a mug of tea cradled between her palms. She was tired—really tired—but alert, her gaze bouncing between the book in my lap and Henry’s slow pacing across the room. Her presence kept me anchored. Her warmth reminded me the world hadn’t ended, no matter how it sometimes felt like it had.

The Hollow Veil rested on my knee, its spine creaking with every shift in weight. We’d spent the better part of the last hour reading through it again, hoping some overlooked scrap might surface now that we had context. But the pages remained stubborn. Whatever had been burned away by Jane’s spell was gone for good.

Silas, still unbound but under no illusions of trust, leaned against the wall near the front door, arms folded and expression unreadable. He hadn’t said much since breakfast, and I liked it that way. Dahlia’s laughter still echoed in my head from earlier. So did the sound of my fist hitting his ribs.

Thea was gone. She’d taken her keys and vanished an hour ago, claiming she had “things to grab to help with training.” No explanation. No further details. Just a vague promise that if we touched her snack drawer, there’d be hell to pay.

“What kind of training things?” Dahlia had asked.

Thea had only smirked. “The kind that hurts and teaches you something. Or kills you. We’ll see.”

Now, in her absence, the silence had filled back in like a tide.

“I still don’t understand why she’d burn the pages,” Dahlia said quietly, her finger tracing the edge of her mug. “Why not just hide them?”

Henry sighed, settling into the armchair beside her. Sunny jumped up almost instantly, curling up in his lap like it was a designated throne.

“She didn’t just burn them,” I said. “She laced the fire with runes. That’s not a half-measure. That’s obliteration.”

I frowned. “You knew her. Do you really think she was afraid someone would find it?”

Henry’s gaze dropped to his lap. For a moment, he looked ancient, not in years, but in weight.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “Not about this. About her being a witch.”

We all looked at him. Even Silas straightened a little.

“She never told me,” he continued. “Not once in all our years together. I just thought she liked weird books and had a thing for herbs. But I’ve been reading these journals, and I think… I think she used magic on me.”

“What kind of magic?” Dahlia asked.

“A memory spell,” he murmured. “To make me forget. Or not notice. Or maybe both.”

I felt the air shift.

“Why would she do that?” Dahlia asked, her voice gentle.

Henry looked up. His eyes weren’t sad—just… hollow.

“She says in here,” he tapped the journal in his lap, “that it wasn’t because she didn’t love me. It was because there was someone she feared. Someone unsavory, she says. A name she wouldn’t even write. Said the less I knew, the safer I’d be. That if they ever came looking for her, they’d see a harmless old man who had no idea what she really was.”

I glanced at Silas, who remained still.

“Do you think it’s connected?” I asked him. “To Calliope? To the Order?”

Silas nodded slowly. “Probably. There are only a few groups dangerous enough to make someone hide magic like that. And Calliope’s—the Order of Alecto—they don’t just kill witches. They erase them.”

Dahlia shivered beside me. I reached over and laced our fingers together.

“There’s more,” Silas added. “The Rite wasn’t just about immortality. It had roots. Deep roots. It needed to be anchored to something… old. Something vast. There’s a site—an ancient one. We used to call it the Temple of the Unbound. It’s near my home in Europe.”

“You think we’ll find answers there?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll find the final piece. The way to break the bond between you and the locket. The magic began there. And it will end there.”

The room was quiet again.

Dahlia looked between us. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“You,” Henry said gently. “You’re not ready.”

She blinked at him. “I—what?”

“You have power. Maybe more than any of us. But you don’t know how to wield it. You couldn’t stop the hellhound. If Kieran hadn’t—”

“I know,” she said softly.

Henry leaned forward. “I don’t say that to hurt you. But if we’re going to that place—if we’re facing what’s coming—you have to be able to stand your ground.”

“She will,” I said. “I’ll help her. We all will.”

“She’ll need combat, too,” Henry added. “Not just spells. Real defense. Thea will train her.”

“And if you two fall apart,” Silas said, eyeing me with something almost like sympathy, “we’re all dead.”

I glared at him. “Noted.”

But part of me knew he was right.

And whatever waited at the Temple?

It wasn’t going to wait.

The group broke apart a few minutes later, scattering like embers. Silas went out back to “get air,” which probably meant brooding and pissing off Thea when she returned. Henry wandered to the kitchen to make tea, humming something old and war-worn.

I stayed where I was, watching Dahlia collect the last of the books. She looked distracted, quiet in a way that wasn’t entirely peaceful.

I stood and gently reached out, brushing her arm. “Walk with me?”

She nodded, and we slipped onto the back porch in silence. The sun had started to dip just slightly, casting long shadows over the backyard. The grass looked gold at the edges, like it had caught fire and didn’t know it.

We stood side by side, not touching, not needing to. The quiet between us felt like something sacred.

Finally, Dahlia said, “Do you think I can do it?”

I turned toward her, startled by the vulnerability in her voice.

“Do what?” I asked, though I already knew.

“All of it,” she whispered. “Learn to fight. To use magic. To face her. I feel like I’m… always behind. Always barely catching up.”

I stepped closer, brushing my knuckles against her hand. “You’re not behind, Dahlia. You were thrown into the deep end and still haven’t drowned.”

She let out a shaky breath. “But you’ve seen real witches. Real power. What if I don’t measure up?”

I lifted her chin gently until our eyes met. “You don’t need to measure up. You just need to be you. And you’re stronger than you know.”

I wanted to say more. That the thought of losing her scared me more than the Order. That the bond between us had started in magic but had grown into something far more dangerous.

But I just kissed her forehead and held the silence like a promise.

I didn’t know what would come next.

But I knew I’d face it with her.

Chapter 28

Dahlia

Thea returned like a storm front, kicking open the door with one boot and dragging a massive trunk behind her. Her eyes scanned the room with immediate suspicion, especially when she spotted Silas, very much unbound and leaning against the fireplace with the smuggest look I'd ever seen on a man who once spent the night tied to a kitchen chair.

"Hope no one developed a conscience while I was gone," she said flatly, dropping the trunk with a heavy thud.

Silas straightened, arms spread like he was welcoming a long-lost friend. "Miss me, sunshine?"

Thea didn’t answer. She just reached into her jacket, pulled out a throwing knife, and flicked her wrist.

The blade buried itself in the wall two inches from his head.

Silas blinked. Smiled. "Still got it."

"You're still on my list," Thea replied, brushing past him like he was part of the furniture.

Henry let out a long-suffering sigh and muttered, "It's always the ones who fight the most that end up sharing bunk space." He didn’t sound surprised. Just tired.

I hovered by the trunk, curiosity piqued. "What is all this?"

"Training gear," Thea said simply. She opened the lid and began unpacking: weighted daggers, padded vests, smoke bombs, and a map that looked like it belonged in a dungeon crawl.

I stared. "Are we preparing for a battle or starting a weird medieval gym class?"

"Both," she replied. "You nearly got your face clawed off at the bookstore, and if you think that’s the last monster we’ll see, you’re delusional. This? This is insurance."

Kieran joined me by the trunk, brushing his fingers briefly along my back. The contact grounded me.

"We'll go slow," he said. "Start with the basics."

Silas crossed his arms. "Slow won’t be good enough. Calliope doesn’t take days off."

"Still talking," Thea muttered, pulling out what looked like a set of well-used brass knuckles.

"Flirtation noted," Silas replied.

She glared at him like she could set him on fire.

Henry and Thea took me outside to the field behind the cottage. It wasn’t much, but the open space gave us room to move. Thea didn’t go easy. Footwork drills, evasive rolls, knife technique. Henry shouted corrections from the sidelines while sipping coffee like he was watching Sunday football.

And I was terrible at it.

I tripped. I fell. I dropped the knife. Twice.

By the time we finished the second round of footwork drills, my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat, and my legs burned. My arms trembled every time I lifted the dagger. But I didn’t quit. Even when I hit the ground hard and Thea offered me a hand up with that knowing look, I took it. And I got back up.

Inside, Kieran worked with me on magic. His voice was calm, instructions clear, but his eyes never left me.

"Focus on the flame," he said, guiding my hand over a candle. "Don’t control it. Invite it."

The flame bent, flickered, then swelled. I gasped.

"Good. Again."

Sometimes the flame barely moved. Sometimes I couldn’t feel the magic at all. But I kept trying.

Hours passed like that—drills, bruises, short breaks, small wins. When the sun began to dip lower, I collapsed onto the back porch, gulping water and letting my lungs catch up.

Kieran followed, settling beside me with a slow exhale. We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that said more than words.

"Kieran," I said finally. "I don't think I can do this."

He turned toward me, brow furrowed. "You're wrong."

I gave a weak laugh. "You didn’t even hesitate."

"Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. You will get it."

"Even if you thought I wouldn't get it, you’d lie, wouldn’t you?"

He touched my chin, gently turning my face to his. "No. But I’d never stop trying to make it true."

His kiss was soft. Brief. Just enough to promise more.

Behind us, Thea shouted from the treeline, "Less kissing, more practicing!"

I groaned and stood, flashing Kieran a wry grin. "Back to it?"

"Back to it," he said, and I felt his gaze follow me all the way across the yard.

Chapter 29

Kieran

Evening settled in slow and golden, the way it does after a long day of blood, sweat, and insult-laced motivation from Thea. The field had been full of clumsy footwork, blistered palms, and one very satisfying moment when Dahlia managed to knock Silas flat on his ass during a ward-breaking exercise. I was proud of her. Painfully so.

She wasn’t a prodigy—thank the gods for that. She was better. She was persistent.

After the last round of drills ended and Dahlia all but collapsed in the grass, I slipped inside to get a jump on dinner. Something simple. Something warm. Something to make up for the fact that every single person in this house was a stubborn, overachieving maniac who thought hydration and rest were optional.

I made it three steps into the kitchen, then hit the wall.

Not physically. Not visibly. But I felt it. Like walking into a web of cold air and static, a shiver beneath the skin. I’d nearly forgotten about it.

The locket’s boundary.

I stopped short, eyes narrowing.

Dahlia was still outside, near the far edge of the yard. But that wasn’t possible. The last time we’d measured the limit, I couldn’t get past the middle of the kitchen without feeling the tether yank. This—this was nearly back to the distance I remembered from the first day.

I turned slowly, stepping outside, eyes finding her figure silhouetted in the yard.

She was farther than before. And I wasn’t in pain.

Behind me, Silas appeared from the hallway, arms crossed like he hadn’t just been the recipient of a magical shove strong enough to knock over a tree.

“What is it?” he asked.

I didn’t look at him. “The boundary shifted.”

He nodded. “Then it’s expanding again.”

I finally met his gaze. “Why?”

Silas moved closer, voice low. “She’s growing. Dahlia. Her magic’s developing fast. Strong. If she’s the tether anchoring you here, it stands to reason that as she expands her reach, so does yours.”

I hated how much sense that made.

“She’s not ready for what’s coming,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “She thinks she is, but she’s not. And I’m dragging her deeper into it every time I breathe near her.”

Silas tilted his head. “You think you have a choice?”

I glared at him. “Don’t start.”

“No, really,” he said. “You think you’re dragging her? Look at her, Kieran. She’s sprinting into it with her eyes open. You didn’t pull her into this. She chose it.”

I wanted to argue. But my throat tightened.

Because he was right. And that made it worse.

She was brave enough to meet the storm. I was the one who wanted to turn her into something untouchable. Shielded. Safe.

But safe people didn’t break curses.

I stepped into the kitchen again, only to halt as something soft collided with my ankle.

Oleander.

He’d apparently claimed the tile near the fridge as his domain, and glared at me like I’d trespassed.

“Move,” I told him. He didn’t.

I summoned a shadow tendril. He bit it.

“He’s going to be the death of me,” I grumbled, stepping over him as he flopped dramatically in protest.

I walked back outside, toward her. She looked up, eyes glassy with exhaustion, but she smiled when she saw me. Even now. Even like this.

“You look like someone told you I put poison in the pancakes,” she teased.

I dropped down beside her on the grass and picked a long blade of grass and twirled it through my fingers.

“You’re expanding the boundary,” I said.

Her smile faded. “That’s good, right?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “It means your magic is adapting. It’s… syncing with mine.”

Her face went stony. “You’re scared.”

“I’m always scared when it comes to you.” I exhaled. “Not because I doubt you. But because I don’t know if I can protect you from this. From me. From what it means to be bound to something you didn’t ask for.”

Dahlia didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Instead, she leaned in, forehead resting lightly against mine, her voice steady despite the tremble in it.

“Kieran,” she whispered, “you keep saying I didn’t ask for this. But what if I want it?”

I blinked, breath catching.

“I want the bond,” she said, firmer now. “Not because it’s romantic or magical or tragic—though, let’s be honest, it’s all of those things. But because it means something. Because it connects us. And not just you and me—all of us. This weird little family we’ve built.”

She touched my chest, right over the place where the shadows always lived beneath my skin.

“I want to protect them. I want to fight for Henry, and Thea, and maybe even Silas when he’s not being a pain in the ass. And I want to fight for you.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “But I can’t do that if I’m sitting on the sidelines while everyone else bleeds for me.”

I opened my mouth, but she pressed her fingers to my lips, shaking her head.

“I don’t want to be someone you have to protect, Kieran. I want to be someone who stands next to you. Who makes the cost of this curse worth it.”

Her hand slid down to mine, threading our fingers together.

“So don’t tell me I didn’t ask for this,” she murmured. “I’m asking now.”

The air shifted. Like it heard her too.

Chapter 30

Dahlia

Dinner smelled like comfort—garlic, rosemary, and the kind of warmth you only get when food’s been made with real effort. The kind you make for people you want to keep safe. My arms were jelly, my thighs ached like I’d gone ten rounds with a god, and I was pretty sure I’d sprained a joint or two—but the chicken came out perfect.

I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to roast an entire chicken after a day of getting my ass handed to me in training, but here we were. Kieran had tried to help. I’d banished him from the kitchen after he sliced a carrot into something resembling a crime scene. The man could summon shadowfire, but a julienne? Apparently not.

Now we were gathered around the table, bowls passed hand to hand, silverware clinking, and tension softening under the weight of good food and shared exhaustion.

Silas leaned back in his chair with the kind of smugness that made me wish the wine bottle had a cork to throw at him.“If I survive this war,” Silas said, flashing Thea a grin, “I expect a medal. Or a dinner without the threat of impalement.”

Thea didn’t even blink. “If you survive this war, I’ll personally stab you. Just to keep you from getting your hopes too high.”

Henry let out a long, theatrical sigh as he poured himself more wine. “Kids, not at the table.”

I bit back a laugh and caught Kieran’s eye. He was trying to hide a smile, which only made mine worse. Sunny chirped from her perch on the windowsill like she wanted in on the toast.

Silas lifted his glass anyway. “To tradition, then.”

Thea matched him, all deadpan. “To me not poisoning your wine. Yet.”

Gods, we were a mess. But it was our mess.

The conversation quieted for a beat as Henry rose slightly in his seat, lifting his glass.

He looked around like he was taking a mental snapshot of us—Thea sharpening a knife at the table, Silas nursing his third helping of potatoes, Kieran beside me with a steady hand on my thigh under the table.

“To witches,” Henry said, voice gravelly but warm. “To weirdos. And to the ones who keep getting back up.”

My throat closed a little.

“And,” he added, nodding toward me, “to the one who keeps feeding us. Bless her chaotic soul.”

Laughter rippled around the table, glasses raised. Even Thea gave me a rare, genuine grin. I raised my own glass, cheeks flushed and heart embarrassingly full.

We ate. Talked. Teased. Silas claimed he could out-spar Thea with one hand tied behind his back. Thea told him she’d be happy to tie both and bury him in the backyard. Kieran murmured something filthy under his breath when I leaned past him to grab the salt, and I choked on my water. Henry pretended not to hear any of it.

It was loud. Ridiculous. And perfect.

When the food was gone and the candles burned low, I leaned into Kieran’s side, exhaustion dragging at my limbs like a weighted blanket. He pressed a kiss to my hair without saying a word.

Silas finally stopped talking. Thea kept her eye on him, sharpening her knife with slow precision. Henry dozed off in his chair, a mug in one hand and Sunny curled in his lap like a purring nap accessory.

The laughter faded slowly, like smoke curling off a blown-out candle. The table was a mess of empty plates, crumpled napkins, and half-drunk glasses. But nobody moved. Not really. Not for a while. I think we all wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that we weren’t at the edge of something terrifying.

The training didn’t stop after that night.

It went on for several brutal, unforgiving weeks.

The first few days, I thought I might actually die. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache. My arms felt like lead weights. My legs refused to move in straight lines. Thea had me dodging, rolling, striking, blocking—over and over again until I could barely lift my hands to untie my boots. I got hit. A lot. Silas knocked me off my feet more times than I could count. The ground and I became very well acquainted.

And magic? That was no kinder.

Kieran was patient—so patient—but even he couldn’t shield me from the frustration of failure. I could summon a spark one minute and fizzle out the next. Sometimes the power came easily. Sometimes it felt like grasping smoke.

But I didn’t stop.

Every fall, I got back up. Every missed spell, I tried again. And little by little, it started to click. My body moved faster. My reflexes sharpened. I could feel the magic settling into me like it belonged there. I wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But I wasn’t the same woman who’d almost fainted trying to light a candle on command.

And neither was anyone else.

Henry hadn’t left the cottage in days, buried in Jane’s journals, muttering about old glyphs and forgotten names. Thea spent every spare minute sharpening blades and glaring at Silas like she might finally take him out. And Kieran—gods, Kieran—he gave me everything. His knowledge, his time, his strength. He never let me feel like a burden, even when I knew I was one.

But there were limits.

He didn’t teach me the dark stuff. Not the blood-bound rites or soul-binding curses. I saw it in his eyes when I asked—hesitation edged in fear.

“This magic,” he said one night, his voice quiet and tight, “it backfires if your heart skips the wrong way. If you lose focus for a second, poof. Done. I’ve seen it burn through stronger witches than me. And I can't watch it burn through you.”

I wanted to argue, but he wouldn’t let me.

“You’re adapting faster than any of us expected,” Kieran murmured. “It’s like your blood remembers what your mind hasn’t learned yet, but I will not risk your life.”

So I didn’t ask again.

I just trained harder.

We all did.

Because whatever was waiting for us at the Temple of the Unbound, it wasn’t going to care how many push-ups I’d mastered or how many sigils I could trace from memory. It would want blood. And I’d be damned if I let it take mine without a fight.

Chapter 31

Kieran

Oleander was chewing on the corner of Silas’s stolen boot again.

The damn rabbit had developed a vendetta against his laces—or maybe just a sense of comedic timing. Every time Silas nodded off, Oleander reappeared like a furry curse and went for the footwear. Thea watched from the armchair, amused and entirely unbothered, flipping her knife lazily between her fingers.

I couldn’t focus on the book in my lap. Not really. Dahlia was dozing against my shoulder, warm and worn-out from training, and I’d spent the last half hour keeping still just to let her rest. She made a quiet sound in her sleep, something like a sigh, and I pressed a kiss to the crown of her hair.

Peace. Almost.

Then Sunny, from his spot on the windowsill, yowled.

Not a chirp. Not a meow. A warning.

I was on my feet before I realized I’d moved. Shadows rippled beneath my skin, coiling like instinct. I crossed the room in two strides and shoved aside the curtain, eyes narrowing against the darkness outside.

And froze.

There was a figure beyond the ward line.

No breath. No movement. Just… flame.

It was shaped like a person—tall and rigid, head bowed, one arm extended to hold a torch like an offering.

But it wasn’t fire, not really. It flickered wrong. Too steady. Too quiet. No warmth reached the glass. No light moved.

“Dahlia,” I said low. She stirred, then sat upright, already alert.

“What is it?” Silas asked from the hallway.

“Get over here,” I snapped.

Thea rose without a word, already gripping her blade.

Together we stared out the window at the thing that shouldn’t exist.

It didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Then—gone.

Just like that.

But the torch? The torch remained.

I didn’t wait. I was halfway to the door before Dahlia caught my arm. “Don’t cross the wards,” she said.

“I just want to see it. I won’t touch.”

The others followed me to the edge of the boundary. Dahlia hovered close, fingers brushing mine like she didn’t quite trust me to keep that promise.

The torch was embedded in the ground—stabbed through the grass like a knife through cloth. It wasn’t wood. Not really.

Bone. And blackened vines.

The flame still burned, but it wasn’t a flame. Not like I understood it.

Inside, I saw—

Myself. Screaming. Bound. Shadows pouring from my skin as I fell.

Silas, blood streaming down his face.

Thea crawling across a floor littered with ash.

Henry collapsed beside his books, unmoving.

And Dahlia.

Alone. Knees in the dirt. Clutching the locket to her chest and sobbing like the world had already ended.

My chest cracked open.

Henry took a step forward, yanked off his jacket, and tried to smother it.

The fire surged upward with a hiss. Like it liked the fight.

“Don’t!” I growled. “It’s magical.”

Silas crouched beside it, tracing the shaft with one finger. The blood drained from his face.

“These are names,” he whispered. “The Voss coven. Every last one. Carved into the bone.”

Then we heard her.

Calliope.

Her voice curled around the flame and into our bones.

“You think you’ve gathered strength? You’ve only gathered kindling. Come to me, Kieran. Or I’ll burn every thread you love.”

The flame flared once—then snuffed itself out.

Smoke rose in a spiral and vanished into the sky.

For a moment, no one said a word.

Then I spoke, low and hard. “She knows where we are.”

Dahlia’s hand found mine. I held it too tightly. I didn’t care.

I wanted to burn something down. I wanted to drag Calliope back from whatever pit she’d crawled into and make her feel everything she’d done.

Instead, I said, “We leave. We go to the Temple. Tonight, if we can.”

Silas nodded. “Agreed.”

Dahlia didn’t hesitate. “Then let’s pack.”

But Henry stepped forward, and Thea was already shaking her head.

“We’re not going,” Thea said. “The cottage needs guarding. And you’re not dragging Henry into a cursed ruin.”

Henry’s smile was grim. “Besides, someone has to keep up with Sunny and Oleander. And keep an eye out for torch-wielding hallucinations.”

My jaw tightened, but I knew they were right.

I turned to Dahlia, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I’m not letting you do this alone,” she said. “So don’t even try.”

Gods, I loved her.

Even if loving her meant watching her walk into hell beside me.

Because that’s what this was now.

War.

And the first torch had just been lit.

Chapter 32

Dahlia

We were supposed to be packing.

And technically, we were. My suitcase sat half-filled on the bed, flanked by a growing pile of things I might need and an even bigger pile of things Kieran insisted I didn’t.

“Why do you need three sweaters?” he asked, holding one up like it had personally offended him. “We’re going to Greece, not a frozen tundra.”

I snatched it back. “It’s called layering, you prehistoric lint trap. Some of us like options.”

“Options,” he echoed, eyes flicking to the stack of books on the dresser. “Is that what we’re calling dragging your entire library now?”

I stuck my tongue out at him and shoved the sweater into my suitcase. “They’re research materials.”

“You packed a book about poisonous herbs.”

“That’s for morale.”

Kieran chuckled and moved to fold another shirt—badly. I leaned over and redid it before it gave me a nervous breakdown.

He watched me for a second, his smile softening into something gentler. “You’re really doing this.”

I paused. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Crossing the sea with a cursed man and his war-criminal brother. Not exactly the European getaway most girls dream of.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said lightly. “I heard curses are the new sexy.”

His smile turned crooked, dangerous in the way that made my stomach do something entirely inappropriate.

“You think I’m sexy?” he asked, voice low and playful.

I bumped him with my hip. “I think you’re full of yourself.”

“And still, you’re packing an entire suitcase just to follow me into an ancient ruin.”

“You’re the one who crawled out of a necklace into my kitchen, remember? I should be charging you rent.”

“You want me to pay in coin or eternal devotion?”

The look he gave me made my heart trip. He reached out, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear with surprising tenderness. His hand lingered at my jaw, and for a moment, the world slowed down.

“I mean it, Flower,” he said, voice quiet. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe me any of this.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to. You’re not dragging me. I’m walking beside you, like some kind of warrior queen.”

He kissed me then—gentle, reverent, like I was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.

And maybe I was.

He pulled away, chuckling. “Okay, we’re seriously gonna have to go back through and pack only essentials, Flower.”

I smiled slow and wide, like a secret. “Well then…” I let my voice drop, just a little husky, just enough to catch him. “Why don’t you teach me what’s essential?”

He paused. Just a beat. Then looked at me like he’d been waiting for that invitation all damn day.

“Oh, I’ll teach you,” he said, walking toward me with that easy, hungry confidence that always made my breath catch. “But you better be ready to learn.”

My heart kicked up. I bit my lip, deliberately, and looked up at him with mock innocence.

He didn’t buy it for a second.

His hand found my knee, then slid up under my dress like it belonged there—which, by now, it absolutely did. I leaned back onto my elbows as he loomed over me, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.

"Essentials," he murmured, fingers curling around the hem of my dress. "This? Not one of them."

With a slow, teasing tug, he pulled the dress up and over my head, leaving me bare, flushed, and already aching for his hands.

My breath caught, the cool air ghosting across my skin as his eyes roamed. He made a low sound in the back of his throat—part reverence and part possession.

"Two..." he said, palming my breast, thumb brushing over the peak. My spine arched like it had a mind of its own. "...you. Absolutely essential."

God, I loved him when he got like this—focused, intent, like I was his only mission. He laid me down, his mouth trailing fire from my throat to my belly, lower, lower still, until his breath was warm against the place that throbbed with anticipation.

I moaned when his tongue finally touched me, slow, deliberate, circling like he had all the time in the world to make me lose my mind. I threaded my fingers into his hair, panting, body already trembling.

“Kieran—”

“Shhh.” His voice vibrated against me, wicked and soft. “Just bloom for me, Flower.”

And I did.

It came over me all at once, a rush of white heat, my hips bucking, hands gripping the sheets. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his mouth and the way his fingers coaxed me deeper into it, until I bloomed for him—shameless, loud, unrestrained.

My thighs quivered. My lungs forgot how to work. When I finally opened my eyes, he was crawling back up my body, his mouth wet with me, eyes dark and smug.

“Lesson one complete,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against my cheek, then my lips. “Still think you’re packing essentials?”

I laughed, breathless, pressing my palm to his chest. “If this is what I get for overpacking... I might do it every time.”

He leaned in, teeth grazing my ear. “Careful. I might start charging you for private tutoring.”

I shivered as his breath feathered over my ear, those words coiling down my spine like a promise and a threat.
“Private tutoring, huh?” I murmured, fingers dragging along his chest, teasing the hem of his shirt. “Do I get a syllabus, or are you more of a… hands-on instructor?”

He gave me that look—the one that always meant trouble. One brow raised, a lazy smile spreading across his face, slow as honey.

“Oh, Flower.” He leaned closer, his voice rough against my throat. “I believe in experiential learning.”

Then his mouth was on mine again—hungrier this time, deeper, no longer sweet and reverent. This kiss tasted like something we weren’t going to come back from for hours. I moaned into him as he shifted over me, his knee pressing between my thighs like he already knew exactly how to undo me all over again.

The friction made my breath hitch. I rocked into him, hips seeking contact, greedy now. My hands slid beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his stomach, the ridges of muscle tightening beneath my palms.

“You’re wearing entirely too much,” I said, tugging at his shirt. “Highly nonessential.”

He chuckled low in his throat, and I felt it vibrate through me as he sat back just enough to strip it off. Gods, he was beautiful—scarred, lean, golden in the light like something carved from memory and need. His hair was a little wild, and his eyes burned with that heat he always tried to hide when we were around other people.

But here—here, in our little chaos of clothes and laughter and want—he didn’t hold anything back.

His gaze dropped as he unbuttoned his pants, letting them slide down slowly, deliberately, revealing the full extent of what he was working with—and exactly what I was about to get reintroduced to.

“Still want that lesson?” he asked, voice rough and laced with amusement.

I reached up and curled my fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down so our foreheads brushed. “Only if you grade on a curve.”

“Oh, I’ll curve,” he muttered, guiding himself between my thighs, “you’ll be the one begging for extra credit.”

And then he pushed into me, slow and deep, like he meant to carve himself into the walls of my body. I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets as the stretch hit me just right—familiar and still dizzying, still overwhelming. He filled me perfectly, like we’d been made for this exact moment, like we’d done this a hundred times and somehow it still managed to feel new.

Kieran groaned into my mouth as he bottomed out, his body flush against mine. We stayed there, suspended, the heat between us unbearable.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rasped.

“I’m perfect,” I breathed. “Move.”

And gods, did he.

Each thrust was deep and purposeful, dragging pleasure out of me in waves. He kept his mouth on my skin—my neck, my collarbone, the shell of my ear, whispering things that made my core clench around him. Things only I got to hear. Things that belonged to no one else.

“You feel so good, Flower… fuck, you take me so well…”

Every movement wound me tighter. The pressure built, my body already close again, already desperate for that edge.

“Touch yourself,” he said roughly, catching my hand and guiding it down. “I want to see you bloom again.”

I obeyed, fingers slipping through wet heat, circling the spot that made my toes curl. His eyes locked on mine, and gods, the way he watched me—like he was starving and I was the feast—made everything worse. Better.

“Kieran—” I gasped, spiraling, my body tightening like a bowstring about to snap.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Give it to me. Let go, Flower.”

I shattered—no warning, no mercy. My body arched into him, every muscle clenching as I bloomed around him, again and again, crying out his name as the world fractured into heat and white light and too much.

He groaned, the sound guttural, and then he was coming too, hips stuttering as he spilled into me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was our breathing, tangled and uneven.

Then he laughed softly, brushing a kiss against my temple.

When we broke apart, he cleared his throat and looked down at the open suitcase. “Still not bringing three sweaters.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Touch my knitwear and perish.”

Kieran held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough, Flower.”

Chapter 33

Kieran

It didn’t feel real until I held the passport in my hand.

Killian Marsh.

Born in 1987. Canadian. Organ donor.

It was absurd. And yet, here it was. Official. Laminated. My face next to a name that wasn’t mine, wrapped in government-approved lies.

"Killian," I muttered, flipping the passport shut. "I sound like a failed poet who teaches kayaking to retirees."

Thea didn’t look up from where she was oiling a dagger. "Could be worse. The other option was James."

I stared at her.

"James," she repeated, unbothered. "Screamed midlife crisis. You lucked out."

Dahlia snorted softly from where she was rolling socks into tight little bundles. "You do have the brooding vibe. Killian works."

I held the passport like it might bite me. "How did you even manage this?"

Thea didn’t answer right away—just gave Dahlia a slow look, the kind that said everything without needing words.

Dahlia sighed, already resigned. "Right. Don’t ask about Thea’s job."

I arched a brow. “She’s terrifying.”

“Unclear if she works for the government or against it,” Dahlia muttered, rolling another pair of socks. “But she always delivers.”

Thea smirked faintly and went back to oiling her dagger.

There were worse things to be called than a bad poet.

Still, I wasn’t used to being anyone but myself. For all my years of hiding, I’d never had to forge an identity. Never needed to. Now, every part of this felt off. The clothes. The flight plan. The idea of sitting in a metal bird with strangers and trusting it not to fall from the sky.

Silas strolled in, far too relaxed for a man who’d just been threatened by a flaming torch of magical malice. "Well, we’re booked. First-class, Athens direct. We leave at dawn."

"You booked under your real name?" I asked.

He smirked. "Of course not. I have a dozen aliases across a dozen more countries and currencies. Besides, my art collection in Zurich just sold. We’re traveling like cursed royalty."

Thea rolled her eyes. "Remind me to pickpocket you before you leave."

"Don’t bother. I tip well."

I looked between them, then at Dahlia. She caught my gaze and gave me a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She was nervous.

So was I.

But beneath it, something more simmered. Determination. A thread pulled tight.

Later, after the others had filtered out to check gear and finalize last details, I found myself standing beside her at the edge of the room. Her fingers grazed the corner of her suitcase.

I reached into my coat and pulled out the passport again, flipping it open to that ridiculous name.

Killian Marsh.

Her laughter was soft. Warm. "You’ll be fine. Just remember to look haunted and mysterious. That’s kind of your thing."

I stepped closer, voice low. "I've never flown before."

"I’ll hold your hand," she offered.

My throat went tight. Gods, how did she always know?

"And if I panic halfway over the Atlantic?"

"Then I’ll somehow summon a small hurricane and crash us into the ocean."

I blinked.

She grinned. "Joking. Mostly."

I brushed my knuckles down her arm. "You’re terrifying."

"You like that about me."

"Too much."

She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed me once, brief but anchoring.

And just like that, I could breathe again.

Maybe I wasn’t Killian Marsh. But for her, I could pretend. For her, I’d board a plane. Face an ancient curse. Fight whatever waited in the ruins of our past.

When it was time to leave, the cottage was quiet, the air too still. Outside, the sky was dark, just a shade lighter than night, like the world hadn’t quite made up its mind to go to sleep.

Our bags were by the door. The car Silas had “borrowed” was idling in the driveway. There was nothing left to check, no excuse to stall—just the inevitable weight of goodbye pressing down on the threshold.

Thea stood with arms crossed, her ever-present knife tucked into her boot. Henry leaned on the doorframe beside her, cradling a steaming mug with Sunny curled like a scarf around his neck. Oleander sat in the middle of the walkway like some kind of judgmental little sentinel, eyeing our bags like he knew exactly what they meant.

Dahlia hesitated. “You’ll make sure they’re okay?” she asked, nodding toward the animals. “Sunny needs the soft food at night, and Oleander’s got that weird twitch in his—”

Henry waved a hand, smiling. “Go save the world, sweetheart. We’ve got it handled.”

Thea gave a slow nod, but her gaze lingered on us—on Dahlia in particular. “Don’t get killed. I’d hate to have to raise the dead just to yell at you.”

“Noted,” Dahlia said softly, and I could hear the crack in her voice even if no one else could.

There were no long hugs. No speeches. Just a final glance back as we stepped off the porch—Dahlia’s fingers brushing mine, Silas already unlocking the car with a jaunty whistle like we weren’t on the edge of something terrible.

The door closed behind us. The cottage disappeared into the trees.

And just like that, we were on our way.

Chapter 34

Dahlia

Airports were weird.

Too many people. Too much noise. Nowhere to sit without someone’s suitcase bumping your leg or a baby shrieking like a banshee at gate nine.

Which is probably why Silas, with a grin and a flick of his wrist, said, “Good news—we’re not flying commercial.”

We followed him past the main terminals, through a discreet security checkpoint that absolutely should’ve required more ID than it did, and out onto a private runway.

There, gleaming like an overcompensating credit card ad, sat a sleek black jet with silver accents and leather seats visible through the windows.

“A friend owed me a favor,” Silas said, like people just lent out private planes the way most people lent out lawn chairs. “He’s terrible at poker. Excellent at laundering favors.”

Kieran looked like he wanted to punch something out of sheer principle. “You really are allergic to doing things normally.”

“I consider it a strength.”

The cabin was small but luxuriously appointed. Leather seats, rich wood paneling, soft lighting, and a stocked bar at the back. The only other person onboard was a silent, competent-looking pilot who nodded once before locking himself in the cockpit.

I slid into one of the seats beside Kieran and immediately pulled my legs up underneath me. He dropped down beside me, tense but trying not to show it. His fingers found mine. Didn’t let go.

Silas plopped across from us, legs stretched out like he owned the plane. Which, knowing him, he might.

“Gods,” he said, grinning. “Private air travel. The only way to fly.”

“You would’ve hated TSA,” I told him. “Too many questions. Not enough dramatic exits.”

He winked.

We took off smoothly, the roar of the engines quieter than I expected. Once we leveled out, Kieran finally let himself lean back a little. Not relaxed. But less ready to throw himself out the emergency exit.

Silas cracked a drink from the bar, tossed Kieran a sideways look, and said far too casually, “You’ve gone soft.”

Kieran didn’t blink. “I’d burn the world to keep her warm.”

Silas actually shut up for a second.

It wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t even romantic. It was Kieran—fierce and quiet and absolutely, irrevocably mine.

After a moment, Silas took a sip of his drink. “You were always the serious one. The golden boy. Mom adored you.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “She adored your games until they got us all killed.”

Silas winced, but didn’t argue. “Yeah. I wasn’t great at consequences.”

“You still aren’t.”

“And yet,” Silas said, waving his glass, “here we are. On a plane together. Like a family vacation, if the family was cursed and the vacation involved ancient death traps.”

Kieran groaned. “Remind me why we’re not throwing him out mid-flight.”

“Because he knows where we’re going,” I reminded gently.

“Regrettably,” Kieran muttered.

Silas leaned back and smirked. “Good thing I packed snacks,” he said, smug again. “You still like honey almonds?”

Kieran stared at him.

Silas shrugged and tossed a small bag into his lap. “Old habits die hard.”

I watched Kieran’s fingers tighten around the bag. He didn’t open it. But he didn’t throw it away either.

Progress. Or something like it.

Eventually, Silas rummaged around in a leather satchel and pulled out a battered notebook, two pens, and something that glowed faintly around the edges.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s plan.”

Kieran sat up straighter. I turned toward them, our knees bumping beneath the narrow table.

“First stop,” Silas said, flipping open the notebook, “my villa.”

“Of course you have a villa,” I said.

“Tucked into a cliffside. Spectacular view. Possibly a ghost in the pantry.”

Kieran gave him a look. “You’re insufferable.”

Silas beamed. “We’ll grab supplies, check the wards, and make contact with Lysandra.”

“The one who might help unbind him?” I asked, nodding toward Kieran.

Silas’s grin faded a little. “Yeah. Old blood. Brilliant. Temperamental. Keeps messenger crows instead of a phone.”

I stared. “Crows.”

“She says they’re more reliable than people.”

“She’s not wrong,” Kieran muttered.

“Do you think she’ll actually help?” I asked.

Silas shrugged. “She’ll ask for something. But if anyone knows how to undo a Rite that’s supposed to be permanent, it’s her.”

Kieran didn’t answer. Just squeezed my hand beneath the table. I squeezed back.

We stayed there, huddled in the warm glow of the cabin lights, as Silas started sketching out routes, contingency plans, and supply lists.

My world used to be quiet. A little cottage. A sleepy town.

Now I was flying across the world with two ancient sorcerers, planning a magical jailbreak from a curse no one had ever survived.

And weirdly?

It felt right.

Kieran leaned close, pressing his forehead to mine for just a second.

“We’ll figure it out,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “Just wish I knew how much time we had to do it.”

Silas looked up from the notebook, his tone unusually serious. “Then let’s not waste any of it.”

And for once, all three of us agreed.

Chapter 35

Kieran

The key didn’t glow. It didn’t shimmer. It just clicked.

A plain brass thing on a weathered iron ring, turned by hand.

Silas opened the villa doors like a man with every right to be worshiped—shoulders back, smile lazy, eyes glinting like polished obsidian. But there was no magic in the gesture. No hum in the walls. Just good old-fashioned, soul-grinding ego.

“Welcome to the only place in Greece where you can sip wine beside a petrified goddess and read Cicero in the original bloodstains,” he said, pushing the door open with one palm.

Dahlia’s breath hitched audibly beside me.

The place was—unfortunately—breathtaking.

Vaulted ceilings. Mosaic floors that told stories older than memory. Sculptures and scrolls. Heavy golden light spilling through carved archways. The villa looked less like a house and more like the spoils of a thousand doomed empires, arranged by a man who’d lived too long and felt too little.

We stepped inside, and there it was.

The statue.

Nine Muses, carved from what could only be god-tier marble, arranged in an elegant spiral—arms upraised, gowns flowing, each face serene and impossibly perfect.

On top of them sat a lamp. A cheap, modern lamp.

And a coffee cup.

And—gods preserve me—a half-eaten biscotti.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered.

Silas closed the door behind us and dropped the keys into a bowl shaped like Cerberus’s head. “What? It’s structurally sound. They’re very supportive.”

Dahlia stared in open-mouthed horror. “You’re using sacred divine art as a side table.”

He shrugged, already sauntering deeper inside. “They don’t complain.”

“I might,” I said.

“You always do,” he called back.

Dahlia stepped around the statue like it might bite her. “This is insane. Is that a spear from the Greco-Persian wars?”

“It’s a replica,” Silas said, without looking. “The original’s in the hall closet. Near the cursed chess set.”

Dahlia leaned in, wide-eyed. “I think I just saw a chalice made of obsidian.”

“You did,” I muttered. “And it’s probably cursed.”

She grinned, sharp and delighted. “We should steal it.”

Gods help me, I was in love.

Silas threw himself onto a sun-bleached chaise like he hadn’t just dragged us halfway across the world. “Make yourselves at home. Everything’s authentic except the espresso machine and the fire suppression system. I’m not a complete savage.”

I scanned the room again—no wards, no sigils, no magical protections humming beneath the surface. Just stone, salt air, and history bought with centuries of boredom and too much coin.

“You’ve got no magic here,” I said aloud, voice flat.

“Not anymore,” Silas said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Had to get creative. Money buys more than spells these days.”

Dahlia shot me a glance, brows raised. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. The sight of this place—of him—sitting smug in a palace of stolen divinity while our coven’s ashes were buried gods-know-where—it made my jaw ache.

“Which wing’s safe?” I asked, already walking.

“West wing’s fine. Avoid the cellar. Some things down there bite.”

Dahlia looked entirely too pleased. “I hope it’s a basilisk.”

“It’s probably a metaphor,” I muttered.

She turned to me, eyes bright. “Do you think there’s a library?”

“There’s always a library,” I said, sighing.

And, gods help me, I followed her.

Because as much as I hated this place, this marble crypt of pride and long-dead glory—I liked watching her walk through it. Like she might unravel it all. Like she might wake the dust and make it mean something again.

Even if Silas didn’t deserve it.

We wandered deeper into the villa.

The corridors grew quieter the farther we walked. No more glittering artifacts. No statues. Just long stone halls with tall, shuttered windows and the occasional painting that looked like it could whisper if you stared long enough.

Dahlia trailed her fingers along the smooth walls, silent for once, eyes alert.

It was her who found the door.

Not gilded. Not ornate. Just a tall wooden thing, slightly ajar, tucked between two marble busts I didn’t recognize.

She glanced at me. “Do we knock?”

I shrugged. “When has that ever stopped you?”

She pushed the door open.

The smell hit first—old paper, candle wax, something faintly metallic beneath. The lights buzzed overhead—modern ones, harsh and buzzing, a complete break from the aesthetic of the rest of the villa. This room didn’t belong to an immortal showman.

It belonged to someone desperate.

Long rectangular table. Dozens of chairs. Papers stacked in unruly piles. Strings connected clippings on a corkboard that ran the entire back wall. Notebooks. Maps. A hand-drawn diagram of the locket, annotated in Silas’s familiar, tight scrawl. And in the corner, what looked like an old blackboard, covered in names.

Dahlia stepped inside first. I followed, slower.

This wasn’t decoration. It wasn’t part of the performance.

This was real.

I walked to the board and stared at it.

Names.

Each one from the coven. Some crossed out. Some circled. One underlined—twice.

Kieran.

Below it, in small, almost frantic writing:
“Gone. Not dead. Bound. Location unknown. Locked. Locked. Locked. Locked.”

My breath left me.

Dahlia hovered near the corkboard, reading silently. Her eyes flicked from string to pin to paper—handwritten letters, newspaper clippings, sketches of magical sites. Everything led back to two things:

The Order of Alecto.
The Locket.

One map was marked with a series of red dots. Greece. Rome. North Africa. Northern France. One in the Midwest United States.

Another was scorched at the edges, as though someone had nearly burned it in frustration—but then thought better of it.

“It’s like he was trying to track you,” Dahlia said quietly.

I turned toward a desk in the corner, papers stacked high beside an untouched mug of something long gone cold. At the top of the pile was a letter I recognized.

My handwriting. Or what was left of it.

A goodbye I’d written days before the Rite. Silas had kept it.

“I didn’t know he…” I swallowed. “He looked for me.”

Dahlia turned to me, something soft in her eyes. “You really thought he didn’t care.”

“I watched him walk away,” I said. “That night. At the circle. He stepped back. He chose to leave.”

She said nothing. But her hand reached for mine.

I didn’t stop her.

The table was littered with diagrams—of runes, of binding circles, of reconstruction attempts. Failed rituals with scribbled corrections in red ink. Several had been slashed through. One page had the word "useless" scrawled across it five times in different directions.

Silas hadn’t just been collecting. He’d been grieving.

Not loud. Not weeping. But like a knife carving through centuries of silence.

There were candles burned down to nothing beside pages left open, circles drawn in the margins where his hand must have hovered. A page that read:

"If he's still in there, would he forgive me?"

I couldn’t look at it anymore.

“He was trying to fix it,” Dahlia said, voice nearly a whisper. “In his own... totally insane, chaotic way.”

“Too late,” I said, but my voice cracked on the second word.

She squeezed my hand.

“I need air,” I muttered, already turning for the door. But I paused, just once, to glance back at the board.

At my name.

Not crossed out.

Not erased.

Still there.

Still his brother.

Chapter 36

Dahlia

I didn’t follow him.

Kieran didn’t say it aloud, but I knew the look. The way his jaw tightened. The way his breath hitched on words he wanted to throw like knives but couldn’t. Not at his brother. Not when the wound was that old and still bleeding.

So I let him go.

He needed space. Not comfort. Not questions. Just… room to feel everything he hadn’t let himself feel in centuries.

I stood in the center of the research room, alone now, surrounded by decades—maybe more—of guilt and obsession. The air still hummed with everything he didn’t say.

My gaze swept back over the maps. The frantic scribbles. The layers of dust that clung to older piles Silas must’ve given up on. It didn’t feel like an obsession for power. It felt like loss. Raw and stubborn.

With one last look at the underlined Kieran scrawled in desperate red, I slipped from the room and pulled the door softly shut behind me.

Finding Silas was disturbingly easy.

I followed the sound of some orchestral thing echoing faintly through the east corridor, eventually stepping into a sunlit room that might’ve once been a music hall—or a ballroom—or both. Now it was filled with more mismatched chairs, some too fancy to sit in and others suspiciously shaped like thrones.

Silas stood barefoot on the tiled floor, sipping something from a dark green glass and watching the sea through a wide-open set of terrace doors. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and he looked—if I was being honest—a little tired.

“You don’t strike me as the orchestral type,” I said.

He didn’t jump. Just smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised. I have layers.”

“You have furniture older than democracy.”

“Also true.”

I stepped closer, folding my arms. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Silas tilted his head. “That I built a conspiracy board to track his prison and spent several decades doing obsessive magical damage control? Yes, I’m sure that would’ve gone over well over breakfast.”

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But he thinks you gave up on him. That you walked away and never looked back.”

Silas was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the music and the faint brush of wind through the terrace.

“I did walk away,” he said at last, eyes on the horizon. “But I never stopped looking back.”

I blinked, surprised by the honesty. “The room—it’s not just research. It’s grief.”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “And here I thought you’d say it was unhealthy.”

“It is unhealthy,” I said gently. “But so is burying everything under sarcasm and statues you use as end tables.”

Silas took a sip of his drink. “That room was the only place I didn’t have to pretend. The rest of the world—immortality included—wants performance. Wants poise. That room? It was just… me. Screaming into the dark.”

I moved beside him, resting my hands on the cool stone of the balcony railing. “You loved him.”

“Of course I did.”

“Then why didn’t you try harder to save him that night?”

His jaw tensed. “Because I didn’t know how. Because I was afraid. Because I thought if I stepped in, I’d be pulled into the same trap. And because some selfish, scared part of me thought maybe—if he was gone—I wouldn’t have to live in his shadow anymore.”

That last part cut through the air like a blade.

I didn’t flinch. “You don’t live in his shadow.”

“Tell him that.”

I didn’t have a good answer. So I gave him silence. And he accepted it like a balm.

We stood there for a while, the wind brushing strands of my hair across my face. The sea below shimmered like a secret.

Finally, I said, “He saw the wall. With his name. The way you wrote ‘locked.’ Over and over.”

Silas’s mouth twitched. “He was always the one who figured out my tells.”

“He’s angry. But… I think that mattered.”

Silas didn’t answer. But I caught the way his shoulders dipped—like someone finally set down a weight he’d been carrying alone.

“Don’t let the statues and smugness fool you, Dahlia,” he said quietly. “Everything in this house is haunted.”

“Good thing I’ve got a soft spot for ghosts,” I replied.

He didn’t say anything for a while after that.

We stood there, side by side, the sky bleeding slowly into lavender as the sun dropped lower over the water. The music in the background had faded to a low, aching cello. Fitting.

Silas swirled the glass in his hand, watching the liquid move but not drinking. Eventually, he said, “You know, I’d be glad to have you as a sister-in-law.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

He smirked, but it was softer this time. Less show, more real. “Of all the women who’ve ever turned Kieran’s head—and there haven’t been many—you’re the first one I’d actually wager on.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My brain had taken a sharp left turn into what the hell territory.

He tilted his head, studying me. “Not many women would hand-feed their enemy dinner and scold him into being more polite. And even fewer would show me kindness, after what he told you.”

“I’m still figuring out if that kindness was a mistake,” I muttered.

Silas chuckled. “It probably was. But you offered it anyway. That’s rarer than magic these days.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I said, “You’re being surprisingly… earnest.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, raising his glass in mock salute. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Of course,” I said dryly. “Wouldn’t want the world to think you have feelings.”

“Oh, I do. They’re just expensive and inconvenient.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the door. “I should go find him.”

Silas nodded, eyes back on the sea. “He’s not as cold as he pretends to be, Dahlia. But you already know that. Just… remind him. When the ghosts get too loud.”

I paused in the doorway. “For what it’s worth—I think he already knows I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Silas said quietly. “Because neither is he.”

Chapter 37

Kieran

The library was where I always ended up.

Even before the locket. Before the betrayal. Before the Rite.

There’s something about silence wrapped in parchment, the smell of old bindings and older secrets, that quieted the thoughts no spell ever could.

The villa’s library took up the entire northern wing. I hadn’t even realized it at first—Silas had said nothing, of course. Just let me wander until I found the narrow door tucked behind a faded tapestry of Prometheus stealing fire.

The space beyond it was cathedral-like. Cool and dark. Endless rows of carved shelves stacked with books, scrolls, and relics that pulsed faintly with old magic and forgotten names. Candles burned low in sconces shaped like serpents. A massive stained-glass window bled soft light onto the polished floors in shades of gold and wine.

It was quiet.

And I needed quiet.

I sat in one of the alcoves tucked between the shelves, a thick volume on binding sigils open but unread in my lap. My thoughts kept circling back to that room—his room. The string maps. The names. The fact that mine wasn’t crossed out.

He’d looked for me. For years.

I didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

Footsteps padded in from the hall, light and tentative.

Then—her voice. Soft. Breathless.

“Oh… wow.”

I didn’t even need to look. I knew it was her.

But I looked anyway.

Dahlia stood in the arched doorway, bathed in a soft slant of amber light. Her lips parted in a reverent little oh, eyes sweeping over the shelves like they were sacred. She took a slow step forward, then another, fingers brushing over the spines as if afraid she might wake them.

And gods help me—she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Not because of her hair, though it fell around her shoulders in loose, ink-dark waves that caught the candlelight like silk. Not because of her body, though her curves fit against the world with the kind of softness that made you want to lean in. Not even because of the way she moved—careful, curious, like she belonged in this place more than any relic ever could.

No. It was the way her eyes lit up.

Like the words were alive.

Like the room was breathing for the first time.

She reached out and picked up a thick, crumbling volume with reverence, smiling like she’d just stumbled upon a forgotten god. Her sweater slipped off one shoulder as she turned in the light, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest hint of a scar. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, completely unaware I was watching her like a man starved.

And in that moment, I realized the truth.

I loved her.

Utterly. Hopelessly. Completely.

Not just for freeing me. Not just for feeding me soup or yelling at me when I tried to eat her rabbit. But for this—this impossible softness she carried like armor, this hunger for knowledge, this kindness that defied logic, that refused to give up on me, even when I didn’t deserve it.

She was magic.

And she didn’t even know it.

“Find something interesting?” I asked, voice rougher than I meant.

She startled slightly, then turned toward me with a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“I figured.” I closed the book in my lap and nodded toward hers. “That one’s about forgotten pantheons. The section on dream-gods is decent.”

Her smile widened as she held it close to her chest. “This place is unreal. I’ve never seen this many first editions in one room. Half of these would be in vaults.”

“They probably were,” I muttered. “Silas isn’t great with rules.”

She turned in a slow circle, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s like being inside a living story.”

“You are,” I whispered. Not sure if I meant the library. Or her. Or us.

She didn’t hear me.

She was already reaching for the next book.

And gods, I didn’t stop her.

I just watched—quiet and spellbound—falling faster than I ever meant to.

She’d gathered a stack of books in her arms like she was preparing for a siege.

Old tomes bound in cracked leather. A few delicate scrolls nestled between hardcovers. One absolutely ancient volume that looked like it would disintegrate if she breathed on it too hard. She was beaming. Actually beaming.

I watched her walk toward me with the stack pressed to her chest, her sweater sleeves shoved up and a bit of her hair tucked behind one ear with a quill she must’ve stolen from one of the desks. It shouldn’t have been distracting. And yet.

She set the stack down gently on the carved wooden table beside me, then dropped into the chair across from mine, eyes searching my face.

The smile faded, just a little. Enough to tell me the shift had come.

“He didn’t give up on you,” she said softly.

I exhaled slowly, nodding once. “I know.”

Her fingers brushed the corner of a page, but she wasn’t reading now. She was studying me.

“I talked to him,” she added, voice quieter now. “After you left.”

Of course she had. Of course she would.

“And?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“He’s a lot of things,” she said, folding her hands. “Smug. Infuriating. Possibly cursed by interior design. But when I brought up that room, he didn’t lie. He didn’t deflect.”

She paused. “He said he never stopped looking back.”

I looked away, jaw tight.

“And then,” she added, tilting her head, “he said something kind of surprising.”

I arched a brow. “Let me guess—he offered to sell me to a merchant in exchange for an enchanted mirror.”

She gave me a half-smile. “Not quite. He said—he’d be glad to have me as a sister-in-law.”

That made me snap my gaze back to hers.

“What?”

“He said I’m not like the women who’ve turned your head before.” She shrugged, trying too hard to play it off as casual. “That not many people would hand-feed their enemy. Or show him kindness after what he did.”

My chest tightened. “You’re not like the women I’ve known. You’re…” I paused, the words sticking like burrs.

She didn’t push. She just waited.

“And you believe him?” I asked instead. “About the grief? About that room?”

“I do,” she said, simply. “Because he didn’t tell me what he thought I wanted to hear. He told me what he didn’t want to say. There’s a difference.”

I leaned back in my chair, staring at her, at the way the candlelight caught the gold flecks in her eyes. At the way she folded her fingers in her lap like she needed to anchor herself to something.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I said quietly.

“You don’t have to,” she replied. “But maybe you can stop being the only one holding the knife.”

That hit harder than I expected.

We sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t press too hard. She flipped open one of the books and turned it toward me—a page filled with sketches of an ancient altar.

“Want to help me dig through this madness?” she asked. “You know, if you’re not too busy brooding in dramatic shadows.”

I smirked. “Only if I get first pick of the cursed scrolls.”

“Deal,” she said, smiling again. “But if I open something that summons a demon, I’m blaming you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

And just like that, the weight didn’t lift—but it settled. Easier to carry. Like maybe I wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

Not really.

Chapter 38

Dahlia

It started with a fold in the page.

Not a dramatic ancient sigil. Not a glowing rune or a cursed whisper from a haunted text. Just a page—stuck to the next one, unassuming.

I smoothed it open gently, eyes scanning the dense, faded ink. The book was older than most of the ones I’d touched so far, the pages brittle, the spine delicate. But something about this one had drawn me in—titled Veils and Vows: Secret Orders Through the Ages. Sounds romantic, right? It wasn’t. Half of it was about blood rites and ideological schisms.

Still, that page.

“Kieran,” I said, my voice a little breathless. “Look at this.”

He was half-reclined in the chair beside me, long legs stretched out, flipping through a book on ritual binding. But he looked up instantly, eyes sharp.

I turned the book toward him and tapped a section near the middle.

“...Known meeting points of the Order’s remnants are most often located in isolated structures with a triptych of protective layers: a perimeter ward of silence, an internal obscuring sigil, and a blood-tied binding rune. The most consistent location recorded—though disputed—is a mountain monastery, abandoned since the 1600s, known locally as Eidothea’s Hollow.”

My heart kicked.

“That name,” I said. “Eidothea’s Hollow. It’s not mentioned anywhere else in the book. Not in the index. Not in the margin notes. Nothing.”

Kieran leaned forward, scanning the text with that focused look I’d come to recognize—the one that meant something old and dangerous had stirred.

He murmured the name again under his breath. “Eidothea was a sea nymph. Daughter of Proteus. A shapeshifter.”

“So a hiding place named after a being who never stayed in one form,” I said. “Fitting for a cult that vanished off the face of the earth.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “Could be real. Could be a planted story. But either way—it’s a stronger lead than we’ve had in weeks.”

I looked at him. “We should take it to Silas.”

Kieran didn’t move. “You trust him to help?”

I hesitated. “No. But I trust him to be pissed he didn’t find it first.”

That earned me the ghost of a grin.

We packed the book and the notes quickly—carefully—and I followed Kieran down the corridor with the same sort of buzz I felt right before a storm. Not fear exactly. Not excitement either. Just that prickling at the edge of something about to shift.

Silas was in the dining room, of all places. Shirt half-unbuttoned again, sitting at the long stone table with a glass of wine in front of him and an open journal beside it. He looked up when we entered, his expression unreadable.

“We found something,” I said without preamble, setting the book down in front of him and flipping to the marked page.

Kieran crossed his arms beside me, every line of his body taut and wary.

Silas read the page silently. Then again. Then looked up.

His voice was low. “I’ve read this book a dozen times. I never saw this.”

“That page was stuck to another,” I said. “Easy to miss.”

“Or easy to hide,” Silas muttered. “Eidothea’s Hollow. If it’s real… it was never documented clearly. But there are actual coordinates here. I thought it was a myth layered on top of other myths. Like El Dorado, if El Dorado also had blood rites.”

“But if it’s not…” I said.

Silas leaned back slowly, fingers steepled. “Then we may have just found the Order’s last footprint.”

The silence that followed stretched long and sharp.

Finally, Kieran spoke. “If it’s real, it’s buried in magic. We’ll need more than just a location.”

Silas nodded, eyes flicking to me. “And we’ll need her.”

The room went very, very still.

I swallowed. “You think this place is tied to the locket?”

“I think,” Silas said carefully, “that if the Order had a sanctuary, it would’ve held records. Instructions. Maybe even the source of the Rite itself. And if we want to end this—really end it—we need to go to the root.”

I looked at Kieran.

He was already watching me.

Not pushing. Not pulling. Just waiting—like whatever came next, he wouldn’t go without me.

I took a slow breath. “Then we find it.”

Silas was leaving.

Not for good—he claimed it would be a day or two, three at most—but the way he moved through the villa, quiet and focused, didn’t feel temporary. It felt like preparation. Like the calm before something broke.

I found him in one of the side rooms off the courtyard, checking the contents of a leather satchel with far more care than I was used to seeing from him. The room smelled like citrus and dust, warm sun pouring through the shutters and lighting up the fine dust motes in the air like sparks.

“You’re really going alone?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Silas didn’t glance up. “My contacts are… delicate. And prone to disappearing when spooked. It’s easier this way.”

“Delicate and dangerous aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s the fun of it.”

I folded my arms. “You’re being deliberately vague.”

“It’s a skill,” he said, buckling the satchel closed with a sharp click. “But if it helps ease your nerves, I’m not doing anything reckless. Just meeting with some old acquaintances. Scribes. Ex-Order scholars. People who know how to read between the blood and the stories.”

“And you think they’ll talk?”

“I think,” he said, adjusting the strap over his shoulder, “they’ll talk to me. If not because they trust me, then because they owe me.”

I didn’t like it. Not the way he was smoothing his cuffs or the careful way he avoided looking at me too long. He was hiding something. Not maliciously. Just... instinctively. Like someone who’d learned too often that truth got you hurt.

“I get the feeling,” I said slowly, “this is more dangerous than you’re letting on.”

That made him pause.

Silas looked at me then—really looked. The shift was small but startling. The performative edge fell away, just for a moment, and beneath it I saw the man who’d survived centuries of failure and still kept digging through the ash.

“I don’t like unknowns,” he said. “And Eidothea’s Hollow is a massive one. If I’m sending you and my brother into something that might wake the dead, I need to know what exactly you’re walking into.”

You. Not we.

I didn’t correct him. Because that choice had already been made.

Kieran and I were going. Whether the path was clean or cursed or covered in runes that wanted to eat us whole, we were going.

“Then let us help,” I said. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He gave me a long, unreadable look. “That’s kind of you, Dahlia. But if this goes wrong, I’d rather you two be alive to deal with it.”

I bristled. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“It is,” he said quietly, “if I care about you.”

And just like that, I didn’t know what to say.

After a beat, he softened the moment—of course he did—with a familiar grin. “Besides, I’ve seen the way you look at my library. I figured this was the best way to ensure the place stays standing.”

I rolled my eyes. “If anyone burns this place down, it’ll be Kieran. Probably trying to light a stove.”

Silas chuckled and walked past me toward the front hall, boots echoing on the stone floor.

I followed, slower.

At the door, he paused to pull on a linen coat and glance out toward the winding drive beyond the trees. The sun was just beginning to lower in the sky, painting everything in gold and shadow.

He turned to me, brows lifted. “You’ll keep him in check while I’m gone?”

“I always do.”

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Then I’ll be back before nightfall in two days. Three if I need to threaten anyone.”

“Be careful,” I said.

Something in his eyes flickered. “Always.”

And then he was gone—out the door, down the stairs, swallowed by olive trees and silence.

I stood in the threshold for a while, the breeze catching the hem of my sweater, the weight of his absence settling deeper than I expected.

Behind me, I heard the familiar tread of boots on tile—Kieran, always knowing when the air changed.

“He left?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I turned toward him. “He’s trying to protect us.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “He should know better by now.”

“Maybe he does,” I said. “But he’s going anyway.”

And somehow, that scared me more than anything.

Chapter 39

Kieran

It started with Dahlia’s phone buzzing on the table.

We’d been sitting in companionable silence—her cross-legged on the library rug with three open books and a notebook in her lap, me on the sofa flipping through translated rites with increasingly murderous expressions. The library smelled like old paper, candle wax, and her. It was almost enough to fool me into thinking we were safe.

Until the phone buzzed again.

She reached for it absently, barely glancing at the screen. But the second she saw the name, her body went still.

“Thea.”

My back straightened. “Answer it.”

She did—no hesitation—but her voice was already tense. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

A pause. Too long.

Then she stood. “Wait—slow down. You said Henry—what happened?”

The chill that moved through me was immediate.

I rose and crossed the room. She was pacing now, hand tightening on the phone like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“He’s what?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No, no, he was fine—”

Her eyes met mine, wide and panicked.

I took the phone from her gently and put it on speaker.

Thea’s voice came through, low and grim. “He’s unconscious. I found him at the bookstore. No injuries. No blood. Just collapsed behind the front desk like someone hit a switch.”

“Is he alive?” I asked, voice flat.

“Yes. But unresponsive. They’ve run every test they can—neurological, cardiac, you name it. Nothing. No explanation. It doesn’t read like a medical event.”

“It’s magical,” I said. “You can be sure.”

“I can’t prove it yet,” Thea replied. “But yeah. Something hit him. I just don’t know what.”

I glanced at Dahlia. She looked like someone had cut the floor out from under her.

“I’m coming,” she said quickly. “We both are.”

“Be careful,” Thea warned. “Whatever did this—if it can hide this cleanly, it might still be watching.”

I hung up without saying goodbye.

Dahlia ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Gods, he just wanted to go back. He said he just wanted to clean the place up. He should’ve stayed at the house—”

“Stop,” I said firmly, stepping in. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I just want to fix it.”

I reached for her hand. “Then we will.”

And I meant it.

We moved quickly, gathering supplies. I was already cataloguing what we’d need—spell components for divination, for cursebreaking, for anything that might peel back the magic that was layered over Henry like a shroud. But something was wrong. Not just with Henry. With the air here.

It had gone heavy.

Tight.

The moment Dahlia opened the door to the kitchen, I knew.

She stopped short.

I saw her body go rigid, her breath catching like she’d walked into ice.

I was beside her in an instant, my magic already flaring.

“…Kieran?”

Her voice was careful. Small. The kind she used when something was wrong and she didn’t want to panic me, which, of course, did exactly that.

She was staring at the far end of the island counter.

There, resting atop the clean marble surface like it had always been there, sat a tightly rolled piece of parchment, bound in black thread. A small glass dish sat beside it.

Inside the dish was something round. Clouded.

My entire body went still.

I moved fast—faster than thought.

My shadows burst outward, spiraling from my spine like smoke given teeth. They covered the room in seconds, racing across the counters, the floor, the walls. Reaching. Searching. Every dark corner, every cabinet, every space big enough to hide something human or worse.

Nothing.

No movement. No echo. No presence.

But I still didn’t trust it.

“Don’t touch it,” I snapped, stepping between her and the counter.

Dahlia didn’t argue. She didn’t have to.

Because a heartbeat later, she whispered, “Kieran… look in the bowl.”

I did.

And my stomach turned to ice.

It was an eye.

A real one. Pale and wet and unmistakably human, floating in a dish like it had been placed there with care. There was no blood—just that unnerving stillness, like it had been preserved.

But what made my pulse roar wasn’t the sight.

It was the color.

A pale gray iris rimmed faintly with green.

I knew that eye.

“Silas,” I breathed.

Dahlia made a choking sound behind me. I reached out and caught her wrist without looking, grounding us both.

Then I unrolled the parchment with shaking fingers.

A note. Written in deep red ink that shimmered like fresh blood and smelled faintly of crushed poppy and salt.

Kieran,

How sweet.
You’ve built yourselves a little life—books and soup and borrowed time.
But time is a luxury you can’t afford.

Henry was a warning.
Silas is a promise.

So here’s the question, love—

Which do you choose?
Your brother… or her family?

Bring me the girl and the locket.
Or watch them both rot.

If you delay, I’ll keep sending you parts that matter.

Let’s not pretend this ends any other way.

— C.

My shadows snarled.

They wanted blood.

So did I.

Chapter 40

Dahlia

I couldn’t stop staring at the bowl.

The water had turned a soft pink. Like it was trying to be delicate. Like the eye sitting in it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t Silas’s.

The note was still clenched in my hand. The words were burned into me—each line sharper than the last.

Henry was a warning.
Silas is a promise.
Which do you choose?

I hated her.

I hated her more than anything I’d ever hated in my life.

Because it wasn’t just the cruelty. It was the calculation. She knew exactly how to wound us. Not with pain. But with choice.

I sat down at the table slowly, the stone chair cold under my thighs, the note trembling in my fingers.

“Dahlia,” Kieran said, voice quiet. Careful. “Look at me.”

I did.

And I hated how easily the tears came when I did. Like he was the only safe place I had to fall apart.

“She’s trying to split us,” I said. “She’s trying to make us choose—”

“She knows we’ll try to save them both,” he said. “Which is why she’s forcing the timeline.”

I swallowed hard. “If we go to Silas, and Henry—”

Kieran sat across from me, his eyes burning with something that wasn’t quite rage. “If we stop Calliope, we cut off the source. The curses, the bindings—whatever’s holding them—it all comes from her.”

I nodded slowly. “And if we waste time trying to break her spell first…”

“She’ll just send another part of him.” His jaw tightened. “Or worse.”

The silence pressed down like stone.

My heart wanted to go to Henry. To fix it. To hold his hand and demand that the world give him back.

But the part of me that had seen war—the part that had watched Kieran rise from shadow and fire and still choose mercy—knew the truth.

We can’t save either of them if we don’t end this.

I looked at the eye again.

Then at the man across from me, who had lost his home, his brother, his time—and somehow still chose me.

“Okay,” I said. “We go after Silas first.”

Kieran didn’t say anything. He just reached across the table and took my hand.

And I let him.

Because this was the moment it shifted.
Not just the war.

Us.

“I am not looking forward to this phone call.” I sighed, but I had to do it; I had to call Thea and tell her everything.

I kissed Kieran’s hand and stepped out onto the villa’s back terrace, where the air smelled like old citrus and stone. The sun was low and red, bleeding into the hills like something wounded.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I pulled out my phone anyway and called Thea.

She answered on the second ring. “Dahlia?”

Her voice was sharp. Alert. Scared.

I swallowed hard. “We got a message.”

“From?”

“From Calliope.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “What did she do?”

“She sent us… a piece of Silas.” My voice cracked. “And a note. She’s got him.”

I heard Thea inhale slowly. “And Henry?”

I sat down hard on the stone step, one arm wrapped around my stomach. “She said Henry was a warning. Silas is a promise. She wants the locket. And me.”

Thea cursed under her breath. “So what’s the plan?”

I closed my eyes. “We’re going after Silas first.”

Silence.

Then her voice—sharp, furious. “Are you out of your mind? Henry is dying. You’re seriously going to run off on a suicide mission with only Kieran?”

“I have to,” I whispered. “Calliope’s the root of this. If we don’t stop her, we won’t save anyone.”

“You don’t even know where she is. You don’t know what’s waiting for you!”

“We’re close. There’s a lead. We don’t have time to argue.”

“No,” Thea snapped. “You don’t have time to walk into this alone. At least let me meet you—let me help.”

Tears slipped down my face before I could stop them.

“I can’t wait for backup. If I do, we’ll be getting pieces of Silas until there’s nothing left. And if we fail—if we’re too late—then you’re the only one I trust to take care of what’s left.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that—”

“I’m just saying it in case,” I whispered, voice cracking again. “If something happens… Take care of Henry. Sunny. Oleander. You tell them I love them.”

Thea’s breath hitched.

“Dahlia—”

“I’m sorry.”

I hung up.

The silence afterward was louder than anything she could’ve said.

I sat there for a long moment, letting the weight of it crush me. Letting it burn through every part of me that wanted to run the other direction.

Then I wiped my face.

Tied my hair back.

And stood.

Because no one else was coming. And I had a war to walk into.

Chapter 41

Kieran

Preparing to face a witch who’s already taken everything from you isn’t the kind of thing you can pack for neatly.

There was no list.

No ritual.

Just movement.

Dahlia was across the villa, gathering herbs and ingredients like someone in a trance. Her hands moved fast, but her face stayed still. Too still. The calm of someone bracing for disaster.

I didn’t interrupt her. Not yet.

I laid out what I could: warding stones, two vials of oil I’d charged with protective runes, a dagger she’d once insisted was “too pretty to actually stab anything with”. I had sharpened it anyway. Just in case.

She came into the room without a word, arms full of cloth and jars and a single silver charm I didn’t recognize.

“What’s that?” I asked.

She looked down. “Jane’s. From her journals. A ward against entrapment. Figured we could use all the help we can get.”

Smart. Of course she was.

I watched her set the supplies down, her fingers trembling just slightly now that she thought I wasn’t looking.

“You scared?” she asked.

I gave her a thin smile. “Terrified.”

She tried to laugh, but it broke halfway. I crossed the room, closing the space between us, and touched her wrist.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know,” she said, eyes searching mine. “But who keeps you safe?”

I had no answer to that.

So she stepped closer, reached up, and pressed her palm to my chest.

“We do this together. Or not at all.”

I covered her hand with mine.

Something about that moment made the rest fall into place.

The bags. The gear. The magic. It all mattered—but it wasn’t what would win this.

We were.

Sunset wrapped the room in firelight, painting the walls with long shadows and molten light. It touched her first—Dahlia—where she stood near the open window, the wind pulling gently at the loose strands of her hair. She was still in her boots from earlier, half-undressed, a map abandoned on the bed beside her.

We were leaving at dawn.

Not for escape.

For war.

She didn’t move when I entered the room, but I saw her shoulders rise with the breath she took. Heard the way her exhale trembled, just once.

I stepped behind her, my hand finding the small of her back. She didn’t turn, just leaned into me.

“The last quiet we’ll have for a while,” she said softly.

“Then I want it with you, Flower.”

She turned slowly, and when her eyes met mine, everything I’d been bracing for—the fear, the guilt, the weight of the fight ahead—quieted. She looked tired, yes. But steady. And so fucking beautiful I could barely stand it.

I kissed her without asking.

Her hands came to my chest, then slid up to my shoulders, pulling me closer with something that wasn’t urgency, but a need for something true. I held her like I’d break if I didn’t. I tasted salt at the edge of her lips. Maybe mine. Maybe hers.

Clothes came away slowly, carefully, as the sun slipped lower—warm fingers tugging buttons, soft fabric falling to the floor like petals. Her skin glowed in the gold light. She looked like dusk incarnate.

She climbed back onto the bed, pulling me with her, both of us sinking into the rumpled sheets and the weight of what we couldn’t say out loud.

I laid over her, hands exploring reverently. She arched beneath me, her thighs parting to welcome me, her breath a soft gasp against my mouth.

When I entered her, it was slow. Deep. Her eyes locked with mine, unblinking.

“We come back,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a question. It was a spell.

I held her hips, moved within her with aching precision, every thrust deliberate. I kissed her chest, her throat, her mouth. I murmured her name against her skin like it might anchor us both.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. The world kept turning.

But here, in this moment, she was all I felt.

She moaned my name, and I nearly lost myself. But I didn’t speed up. I stayed with her, in the rhythm we found between gasps and heartbeats and the fading light. I could feel her pulse around me. Her hands tangled in my hair.

When she came, it was silent—her back arched, her mouth parted, her nails digging into my back as if to keep me there, inside her, alive. I followed a moment later, body shuddering as I emptied myself into her, breath ragged and teeth clenched.

We didn’t speak for a long time after.

We just stayed wrapped around each other, her head tucked under my chin, her leg over my hip, my hand resting over her heart.

The sun finally vanished, leaving only the flicker of the bedside candle.

She traced lazy circles into my chest. “You’re not allowed to die,” she said quietly.

I smiled against her hair. “Not without you.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She lifted her head then, and I looked into her eyes—serious, tired, and burning with the same fire I’d fallen into since the first moment she unlatched that cursed locket.

“I’ll keep you alive,” she said.

“I know,” I answered. “And I’ll tear the world apart if it tries to take you.”

She kissed me once more. Slower than before. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

Just… sealed something.

We slept like that—naked, tangled, still warm from each other. Not because we were safe.

But because we were going together.

And that was enough.

We didn’t speak for the first hour.

The path was narrow, barely more than a suggestion carved into the side of the mountain. Roots and shale made the footing rough, but Dahlia never stumbled. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it. She just walked—shoulders squared, eyes focused, hair pulled back with one of my spare rune ties like it was armor.

The farther we went, the quieter it got.

Even the wind felt like it was holding its breath.

By the time we reached the ridge line, dusk had thickened into something denser. Blue and gray layered across the sky like smoke-stained silk. We were deep enough now that the road behind us had vanished. All that remained was stone and shadow.

And then we saw it.

A torch.

Just one.

Set into the mountainside with strange, deliberate precision. Twisted vines and bleached bone wove together into a shaft that should’ve long since crumbled with time, but it hadn’t. The torch burned with a steady, pale blue flame, the same unnatural color I’d seen once before.

The same torch Calliope had used outside the cottage.

Dahlia moved toward it, her expression unreadable.

“It’s the same,” she murmured. “From that night.”

I nodded. “Exactly the same. Bones and vines.”

“The first time we saw it,” she said, voice quieter now, “I thought we were all going to die.”

“And now?”

I let my hand rest near the flame. It didn’t burn. It pulsed—like it recognized me.

“Now I burn back.”

She looked at me then, and I could see the storm in her eyes. All the weight, all the choice, all the aching hope that this wouldn’t be the last time we stood together.

I stepped close and cupped her face in my hands. “Before we do this, you need to know something.”

She didn’t pull away.

“I was dead for centuries. Waiting. Angry. Hollow.” My voice cracked. “And then you found me. You saw me. And I’m not afraid to die now—but I am terrified of losing you.”

Her eyes filled, and I felt her hands settle on my waist like she needed the anchor.

“I don’t want to be brave without you,” she said.

“So don’t be,” I whispered. “Be with me, Flower.”

She kissed me.

And gods, it meant something. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a vow of another kind—pressed into skin and breath and the tremble of her fingers in my shirt.

When we broke apart, I didn’t let go.

Not right away.

She touched my chest once, softly. “Let’s finish this.”

I turned to the cliff face. The torch flickered, then dimmed as I plucked it from the ground.

And when I brought the torch close to them, the stone cracked.

The mouth of the cave yawned open, black as memory.

I took her hand.

And we stepped inside.

Chapter 42

Dahlia

The cave swallowed us whole.

It was colder than I expected. Not the kind of chill you notice on your skin, but the kind that wraps around your bones. Wet stone closed in on either side, slick with condensation, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of old magic and older decay.

The torch in Kieran’s hand gave off just enough light to keep the shadows from pressing too close. Its flame was unnatural—blue and eerily steady—but it flickered like it knew we were being watched.

The deeper we walked, the more the walls began to change. Rough-hewn stone gave way to carvings—some faded, some still sharp. Runes I didn’t recognize. Symbols that made my chest tighten.

“Some of this looks like the warding in the Hollow Veil,” I whispered.

Kieran’s jaw tensed. “And some of it doesn’t. Some of it’s older.”

We kept moving.

The tunnel eventually widened into a corridor lined with empty sconces. And yet, with each step, another torch flared to life—more of those bone-and-vine constructs, burning blue as if acknowledging our presence.

It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Each one lit with a hiss, echoing in the narrow hall. The flame wasn’t fire—it was something else entirely. Cold and alive.

And then we reached the cavern.

The torchlight died.

Not dimmed. Not flickered.

Extinguished.

The silence that followed was a vacuum. A breath held too long.

I couldn’t see anything, but I felt it.

A weight in the air. A growl that didn’t quite reach my ears but rattled my ribs.

The blue light snapped back on—one torch, then two, revealing the mouth of the cavern ahead.

And the thing inside it.

It was massive. Twisted. A chimera of stitched parts and magic gone wrong—too many limbs, too many eyes, slick with something black and glistening. Its back was hunched like a predator’s. Its front legs were claws, but its face—

Its face was a mask of bone and shadow.

Kieran stepped in front of me.

And I knew without a doubt—

That thing was the gatekeeper.

And we were not welcome.

I reached for the pouch at my side.

Battle was coming.

And if this was the threshold—

We were going to bleed to cross it.

The chimera roared, a wet, echoing sound that made my stomach twist. It surged forward with unnatural speed, claws slicing through the air. Kieran shoved me aside and slashed his arm with the dagger—deliberate, practiced. Blood spilled onto the stone and ignited.

Not fire.

Bloodfire.

It leapt from his skin like a living thing, coiling through the air in writhing red-gold tendrils. It struck the creature square in the chest—and the beast screamed. Not in pain. In fury.

The blow slowed it, but didn’t stop it.

The chimera lunged.

I rolled to the side and landed hard near something metallic. I looked down.

A Greecian sword.

Not rusted. Not abandoned.

Polished.

Waiting.

And all around us, half-buried in the stone, were bones. Skulls. Armor. Remnants of warriors from every era—Viking helms, Roman shields, Greek sandals, even a rusted WWII rifle.

This thing had been killing across centuries.

I grabbed the sword and surged to my feet, flame kindling in my palms.

“Kieran!”

He turned, shadows bristling around him, blood still dripping from his arm. “Don’t get close—”

“I’m not standing back,” I said.

The chimera charged again, its body a blur of muscle and limb and shrieking mouths. Kieran’s shadows lashed out like vipers, tangling its legs, while I slashed upward with the sword and followed with a jet of fire from my free hand.

It howled.

Still standing.

Still coming.

But slower.

We circled it. Kieran’s bloodfire carved lines into the ground—traps, sigils, barriers it couldn’t cross without pain. My flames danced along the sword’s edge, turning it into something holy.

The chimera slammed into a wall of bloodlight and reeled back, wounded now, but not broken.

“You good?” I called.

“Ask me when it’s dead,” Kieran growled.

The creature crouched low, growling with a sound like gravel and death.

And then it charged again.

We braced. Together. For the next wave. And the one after that.

It snarled and swept one massive limb toward us, catching Kieran across the ribs and sending him crashing into the wall with a grunt. I screamed, fury lashing through me, and hurled a ball of flame into the beast’s side. It barely flinched.

It lunged again—this time at me.

I ducked, rolled beneath the arc of its claws, and slashed at its belly with the sword. The blade bit deep, and black blood sprayed across the cavern floor. The chimera shrieked and thrashed, its tail whipping like a scythe. Kieran was back on his feet, his shadows wrapping around the creature’s throat, trying to drag it down.

It bit at him, snapping jaws filled with too many teeth. He dodged, barely, and slammed his blood-coated palm against its flank. A burst of bloodfire exploded across its hide, searing it, and this time it screamed—a high, keening sound that made the torches flicker.

I charged, flames wreathing my arms, and drove the sword into its shoulder.

It threw me off.

I hit the ground hard, ribs aching, vision swimming—but I rolled and came up again, battered but not broken.

The chimera reeled, now missing one eye, its movements more erratic. Kieran moved like a shadow himself, blood-slick and focused, cutting another sigil into the stone with his dagger, flinging it wide to trap the beast in a burning ring.

It howled and flailed, trapped.

We didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Strike after strike. Fire after fire. Shadow and blood and steel and fury. It lunged one more time—desperate, ragged, but still monstrous. I dodged too late. A claw tore across my shoulder, burning deep. I screamed but didn’t stop, spinning with the sword and driving it into its flank.

Kieran roared behind me, his blood igniting midair in a brilliant flare. His shadows lashed forward—twisting, snapping—binding the chimera’s legs with living darkness. It stumbled, slammed into the cavern wall, stone cracking behind it.

“Now, Flower!” he shouted.

I raised my free hand and threw every last drop of flame I had left. It wasn’t a neat stream—it was chaos, heat, rage. It hit the creature square in the chest. It shrieked, flailing, but Kieran was already there, dagger in hand, carving another sigil into the stone beneath it. The ground flared red.

The chimera reared back—on fire, bound, bleeding from half a dozen wounds—and tried to scream, but choked on its own blood.

Still, it didn’t fall.

It charged.

One last time.

I didn’t think.

I ran toward it.

Sword raised. Flame trailing my skin like a comet’s tail. I ducked under its massive swing, leapt, and drove the blade into its neck.

Black ichor exploded over me. I hit the ground hard. Rolled. Kieran's shadows grabbed the sword where I dropped it mid-fall and flung it back into my hand.

Together, we faced it again.

Bleeding. Dying.

But still alive.

Eventually, the monster faltered. Its movements grew sluggish, breath hitching, limbs dragging. It collapsed under its own weight, wheezing, bleeding from a dozen wounds where flame and bloodfire had torn it open.

Kieran stood with his chest heaving, his shadows twitching like they didn’t trust the stillness. I was shaking, bruised, and burned along one arm, the sword almost too heavy to lift.

The chimera raised its head.

Its remaining eyes were hollow now—voids flickering with dying magic.

And it spoke.

"End it," it rasped. "Please, no more time. No more pain. Let me sleep."

I stared, frozen. Its voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed like thunder.

Kieran stepped forward, but I put a hand on his arm.

“I’ve got it,” I said, voice raw.

I moved toward the beast. It didn’t flinch.

It bowed its massive head.

I raised the sword.

And with a single, merciful thrust, I drove the blade through the center of its skull.

It exhaled—one last, shuddering breath—and went still.

The moment stretched. Silence returned.

And then I fell to my knees.

My hands were slick with blood, my lungs burning. My shoulders shook, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

I sobbed.

Sobs that tore out of me like they’d been caged for years. Sobs of relief, grief, rage, exhaustion.

Kieran knelt beside me, one arm curling around my back, keeping me from breaking completely.

We were alive.

But something inside me had shifted.

And I wasn’t sure it would ever shift back.

Chapter 43

Dahlia

The chimera’s body was still steaming when we finally stood again.

I didn’t want to move.

Every part of me hurt—burned, ached, trembled. My shoulder was bleeding steadily, my arm was singed down the side, and my legs barely held me upright. The only thing keeping me from crumpling again was Kieran’s hand on my back.

He was just as bad. His shirt was torn, the wound on his ribs still oozing where bloodfire had licked too close to his own skin. His jaw was tight with pain, but he said nothing. Just stood there with his dagger in one hand and his shadows flickering like they didn’t quite know what to do without an enemy.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Eventually, I turned back to the sword—the one I’d picked up from the bones of warriors long dead. It was chipped now. Bloody. The leather of the grip was nearly worn through.

And I’d never loved a weapon more.

“Think I’ll keep this,” I muttered, my voice barely there.

Kieran raised an eyebrow. “You naming it?”

I blinked at him, then down at the sword.

“Yeah,” I said. “Her name’s Mercy.”

His lips twitched. “That feels... fitting.”

I nodded. My grip tightened on the hilt. “She earned it.”

We stepped out of the blood-soaked cavern together, shoulders brushing. The corridor ahead was narrow, winding—a tunnel of stone with flickers of that unnatural blue light leading the way.

We didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Until the voice came.

Soft at first. Then louder. A purr against the walls.

“You’re tougher than I remember, darling.”

I froze.

Kieran reached for me instantly, his shadows snapping to attention like guard dogs.

“Congratulations,” Calliope cooed. “You didn’t die. I was sure that one would do the trick. It’s so hard to find quality monsters these days, you know?”

Kieran snarled, eyes scanning the shadows. “Show yourself.”

But the voice echoed—disembodied, smug.

“You’re so close now. I can feel you breathing down my neck. Or is that just the locket pulsing again? It does like to sing when it’s near home.”

I stepped closer to Kieran, my fingers brushing his arm. He didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension vibrating off of him.

“Come find me, Kieran. Dahlia. Let’s end this beautifully.”

Silence again.

No footsteps. No flicker of movement. Just the stone corridor and our ragged breathing.

“She’s watching,” I whispered.

“She’s always watching,” Kieran said. “But she’s afraid. Or she wouldn’t be taunting us.”

We pressed on. Slowly. Every step an act of defiance against the ache in our bones.

The corridor twisted and narrowed, sloped downward, then opened.

Not into another cave.

Not into a chamber of bones.

But into a throne room.

Carved from the stone itself, massive and ancient, with a raised dais at the far end and a black throne made of fused antlers, teeth, and gold-veined obsidian. Banners hung in tatters above us, inked with symbols I didn’t recognize.

The air buzzed with leftover magic. Old. Bitter. Still hungry.

I took one slow step inside.

“We found her court,” I murmured.

We stepped forward cautiously, the echo of our steps lost to the weight of magic in the air. Every torch burned blue. Every stone was watching.

And then—

She was there.

Like a trick of the eye. One blink—empty. The next—Calliope.

She sat on the throne like she’d always belonged there.

Legs crossed.

Bare feet pale against the obsidian platform. Her dress was black silk and shadow, cut scandalously high and low in equal measure, revealing skin like carved alabaster and curves meant for distraction. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in rich, dark waves. And her eyes—those haunting, brilliant eyes—lit up when they landed on us.

At her feet, half-slumped and barely conscious, was Silas.

His shirt was blood-soaked. Wrists bound in glowing sigils. His head lolled forward, but he was breathing. Barely.

My stomach lurched.

Kieran growled beside me, shadows already stirring at his back like a storm gathering.

“Don’t,” I said quietly. But it was too late.

He took one step forward. “You—”

Calliope smiled.

Then waved her hand, lazily, like swatting a fly.

Kieran’s scream was sharp and sudden.

He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his head, a gasp caught in his throat. His shadows shriveled instantly, retreating like smoke sucked back into a bottle.

“Kieran!” I cried, stumbling to his side.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. His body bowed forward as if the air itself was crushing him.

“Now, now,” Calliope purred, tilting her head. “Is that any way to greet me after all this time? I did clean up for you.”

She gestured to herself with one elegant hand, like this was a dinner party and not the execution chamber she’d carved from the mountain.

“Kieran,” I whispered, grabbing his arm, “look at me.”

His jaw was clenched, eyes wild with pain, but he blinked once.

I turned toward her, rage rising like fire in my throat. “Let him go.”

Calliope’s smile widened—slow, feline, dangerous.

“Oh, I will,” she said, reclining slightly. “Once I’ve said hello. It’s been so long, hasn’t it?”

She looked down at Silas, nudging him with her foot like he was a discarded trophy. “Your brother has been charming company. But I was hoping for something… prettier.”

Her eyes landed on me again.

“I see you brought her. And the locket.” Her voice dropped, velvety and cold. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Chapter 44

Dahlia

Calliope rose from the throne with the elegance of a goddess and the smile of a snake.

She stepped barefoot across the obsidian dais, the hem of her black silk dress whispering against the stone. The firelight made her glow like a carved statue, all sharp edges and impossible beauty. And at her feet—barely conscious, bound in blood-stained sigils—was Silas.

She didn’t even look at him.

“Dahlia Moore,” she said, savoring my name like it tasted exotic. “It’s been such a pleasure watching you. The girl who unlocked the locket. The girl who drew blood from my chimera. The girl who ruined everything.”

“I’ve never met you,” I snapped. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” she purred, descending the steps slowly, “but I’ve studied you. I’ve felt you—through the locket, through Kieran. Through every ripple you’ve made across the spellwork I bled for.”

Kieran, still kneeling beside me, forced out a ragged breath. His shadows curled like broken wings. “She’s stalling,” he whispered. “Whatever she’s planning—she’s not done yet.”

Calliope grinned like she’d heard him.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

She turned her gaze to me, eyes flashing with something ancient and hungry. “The original Rite was meant for one thing: ascension. A soul becoming something more. It required a coven. Blood-bound. Sacrificial. Willing and unwilling.”

Her smile turned vicious.

“But covens die. Loyalty fades. And I was left with scraps.”

She raised one hand.

Blue flames surged behind her, and from the shadows, figures emerged. Hooded. Silent. Dozens of them.

The Order.

“What’s left of them, anyway,” she said casually. “Every last faithful little follower. Ready to burn for me.”

I stared, horror rising.

“You’re going to sacrifice them.”

“I’m going to use them,” she said. “And Silas. And Kieran.” Her voice softened, almost wistful. “And you… If you’ll stop struggling. You could be my conduit. The locket’s final key. One girl standing in the center of the storm.”

“No,” I breathed.

Kieran tried to stand. “You’ll kill everyone.”

Calliope didn’t flinch. “That’s the point.”

And something inside me broke.

“You’re insane,” I spat. “This isn’t ascension—it’s slaughter. You’re just a parasite wrapped in silk.”

Calliope turned fully to me now, her expression cooling.

“You want to stop me?” she asked. “Then come try.”

I stepped forward, Mercy drawn from my back, the blade catching fire at the hilt.

“I challenge you,” I said, voice sharp as the edge I held. “By blood, by bond, by whatever bullshit you need to hear. You want my life, my power, my name—earn it.”

For the first time, her smile faltered.

“You dare—”

“I dare.” I burned. “I’m not part of your Rite. I’m the end of it.”

Calliope’s lips parted—first in disbelief, then fury.

“Such insolence,” she hissed, her glamour flickering at the edges. For the first time, I saw something unpolished beneath the surface—cracks in the marble. “You ignorant little nothing—”

She raised her hand, magic lashing through her fingers in a swirl of black and crimson.

“I will turn you inside out and make Kieran watch—”

A voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Enough.”

The torches dimmed as a figure stepped forward from the shadows—one of the Order, but not hooded like the rest. An Elder. His robes were marked with runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight, older than Calliope’s twisted glamour, older than the room itself. His eyes were clouded, but his presence was razor-sharp.

Calliope’s arm faltered.

“Do not,” the Elder said, voice low and heavy with ancient weight. “You know the law. She invoked a formal challenge. You cannot strike her outside the binding.”

“She’s nothing,” Calliope snarled. “A thorn. A vessel. Not even blooded.”

The Elder tilted his head. “And yet she stood where none of your chosen have. She shed monster blood and challenged you in front of your faithful. If you deny the rite, they will see you as afraid.”

A murmur rose from the gathered Order. Barely audible. But it was there.

Doubt.

Calliope’s jaw clenched.

The Elder stepped closer, and his voice dropped. “If you refuse her, the weaker ones will question dying for you. But if you kill her in the circle, you silence them all.”

Calliope slowly lowered her hand. Her gaze cut to me like a blade.

“So be it,” she said, voice tight. “Let the blood decide.”

The floor began to tremble.

Runes flared to life in the stone beneath us, burning a deep crimson. A circle rose, etched in light, ancient and unbroken.

“The Bloodrite is invoked,” the Elder intoned, his tone final and reverent. “But it need not be immediate. A time must be agreed upon by the challenger and the challenged.”

Calliope’s gaze never left mine. “Two days.”

I nodded, fire still coiling around my spine. “Two days.”

The Elder inclined his head. “So it is written.”

A dagger rose from the center of the circle, hovering between us like fate.

Calliope stepped forward first, slicing her palm with ceremonial precision. Her blood fell onto the ring and hissed.

I stepped forward, and Kieran grabbed my arm. “Flower, don’t do this.”

“I have to.” I met his eyes. “For you. For Silas. For Henry.”

He let me go, jaw tight.

I took the dagger. Cut deep. My blood fell. The runes pulsed.

The pact was sealed.

Calliope tilted her head and smiled—slow, wicked, triumphant.

“Two days,” she purred. “Try not to die before then. I want the satisfaction of doing it myself.”

Then she turned, descending the steps with a swish of silk, her bare feet leaving no sound as she vanished into the shadows behind the throne.

Chapter 45

Kieran

The moment Calliope disappeared into the dark behind her throne, Dahlia and I ran for Silas.

He was crumpled at the foot of the dais like discarded wreckage, blood soaked into the collar of his shirt, sigils still faintly glowing beneath his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, eyes fluttering open as we dropped to our knees beside him.

“You came,” he croaked, half a smirk curling his swollen lip. “Was worried I’d bleed out without an audience.”

“Try not to die before I get the satisfaction of punching you,” I muttered, checking his wounds. Still bleeding, but the blood was clotting. His remaining eye was bloodshot and blackened.

Dahlia’s hands trembled as she brushed blood-matted hair from his face. “You look like shit.”

“Good,” he rasped. “Would hate to be pretty for Calliope.”

Footsteps echoed behind us. The Elder. Still robed in those ancient runes, still emanating the kind of power that felt older than time itself.

“He must be taken to a separate holding,” the Elder said. “He is a prisoner until the Rite is complete. Should you fail, he is hers again. Should you win… he is free.”

Dahlia’s hand clenched around Silas’s. “You’re not dying in her dungeon.”

“Wouldn’t be my first dungeon,” he winked.

Two silent Order members appeared behind the Elder and lifted Silas with practiced hands. He didn’t fight them. Just gave us a look—equal parts fear and trust—as they carried him away into the shadows.

The Elder turned to us. “Follow me.”

We obeyed without a word.

He led us through torchlit halls, past carvings that pulsed faintly as we passed. Eventually, he stopped at a wooden door inlaid with silver sigils.

Inside was… not a prison.

It was simple, yes—but far from cruel. A sturdy bed with clean linens. A wide-backed chair facing a lit fireplace. A small table with fresh water and a basin. A single door near the bed, a bathroom, I assumed. Warmth clung to the walls.

“You are not prisoners,” the Elder said. “Not while the Bloodrite binds her. You are guests. Watched, yes—but respected. We will feed you, the bathroom is through that door, but you may not leave.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Dahlia moved toward the fire, her shoulders heavy with exhaustion, but her spine still straight. Still ready.

“Why?” she asked. “Why follow her at all? Why let her rise to this?”

The Elder didn’t answer right away. He moved to stand by the door, fingers resting lightly on the frame as if steadying himself.

“She was not always what she is now,” he said at last. “She returned from death after the failed Rite with ash in her soul and prophecy on her lips. The Order was broken. Leaderless. Many were dead. The rest… desperate.”

He looked at Dahlia then, and something in his gaze softened—regret, maybe.

“She promised us rebirth. Power. A new age of magic. Some followed out of faith. Others out of fear. And some—” he paused, voice hardening, “—because they didn’t see another path.”

“She’s going to destroy everything,” I said quietly. “She thinks she’s ascending.”

“She believes she is owed it,” the Elder replied. “She gave everything to the Rite. Her body. Her coven. Her heart.”

I felt Dahlia’s hand brush mine.

“She’ll lose,” Dahlia said, calm and cold. “And I’ll make sure she remembers what she took before she dies.”

The Elder studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“I hope you do,” he whispered. And then he left, the door closing behind him with the finality of a vow.

I turned to Dahlia.

She stood in front of the fire, shadows dancing across her face, Mercy still sheathed across her back.

And in that moment, she looked like something ancient herself.

Like fire, about to meet a storm.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet, now that the adrenaline had burned out of our veins. The Bloodrite had been set. Calliope’s trap was exposed. Silas was alive—barely—and locked away under guard until this was over.

And Dahlia…

She was unraveling right in front of me.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her knuckles white against the blanket, eyes unfocused as the fire cracked and spat in the hearth. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. But I saw it in the set of her jaw, in the way her shoulders curled inward like a collapsing star.

“Flower,” I said gently.

She flinched.

Just slightly. Just enough to make my chest ache.

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

Liar.

I crossed the room and crouched in front of her, catching her hands in mine. They were ice cold. Still trembling. Her skin was smudged with soot and dried blood, her braid half-undone and tangled with ash.

“You’ve been holding everyone else up,” I murmured. “Let me hold you.”

Her eyes finally met mine.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to know,” I said. “You just have to let go.”

I stood and scooped her up before she could argue, her limbs feather-light in my arms despite everything. She didn’t fight me. Her head dropped to my shoulder with a shuddering breath.

The bathing chamber was warm, steam curling up from the still-filled tub. Some mercy from the Elder, perhaps. Or fate finally offering something soft.

I set her down on the bench and knelt to unlace her boots, peeling them away from swollen feet. Her hands moved slowly, tugging at her ruined shirt with clumsy fingers. I helped her, silent, careful. This wasn’t about desire. It was about reverence.

When she was bare, I eased her into the water. She gasped at the heat, sinking slowly, like her body didn’t know how to relax anymore.

She rested her head back against the stone edge, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’ve got you,” I said, sitting on the floor beside the tub. I soaked a cloth and began to clean the grime from her skin. Her shoulders. Her throat. Her scraped palms.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. She just let me do it.

When the water cooled, I rose and fetched a thick towel from the rack. She blinked blearily as I lifted her again, wrapping her tight in warmth.

Back in the bedroom, I laid her on the bed. She was half-asleep before her head hit the pillow.

I brushed her damp hair away from her face. She looked young like this. Raw. Like the fury had been carved from her, leaving nothing but soft edges and too much pain.

“Rest,” I whispered. “We’ll face her in two days. But tonight… you’re safe.”

She didn’t answer. Just breathed slow and deep.

I sat beside her, watching the fire.

And somewhere, behind the heat of my shadows and the ache in my chest, I made a quiet promise:

If Calliope wanted war, she was going to get it.

But Dahlia?

She wouldn’t stand alone.

Chapter 46

Kieran

Dahlia was still asleep when I left the bed the next morning.

The fire had burned low, embers pulsing faintly in the hearth like a heart trying to remember how to beat. I stood and stretched the stiffness from my spine, then crossed to the window. There was no sun here. No moon. Just an endless stretch of unnatural dark, broken only by the red glow of runes etched into the stone.

This place reeked of death and power. Old, layered power. The kind you bled for.

And we were running out of time.

Behind me, Dahlia stirred with a quiet sound. I turned to find her blinking up at the ceiling, lips parted like she wasn’t sure she was really awake.

“Morning,” I said softly.

She groaned and sat up slowly, wincing as the pain caught up to her.

I moved to her side in two steps.

“You shouldn’t move too fast,” I murmured.

She gave me a wry, sleep-rough smile. “You can keep saying that. I’ll keep ignoring you.”

I smiled back, but it didn’t last.

There was something I needed to say. Something I’d been thinking about since the challenge. Since the Elder carved that circle into the floor and she stepped forward without hesitation.

“Dahlia…” I sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

Her expression shifted. “What is it?”

I swallowed hard. My hands curled against my thighs. “When we face Calliope… I don’t want you going into that fight alone.”

“I won’t be,” she said immediately. “You’ll be there.”

“No,” I said. “Not just beside you. With you.”

She frowned.

“I want to bind my soul to yours.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to have my power—my magic—without limits. Not just what I can teach you or shield you from. I want it to be yours, Dahlia. If we lose, you’ll need every ounce of strength. And if we win…” I looked at her, everything in me raw and open. “I want to win knowing I gave you everything I had.”

“Kieran…” Her voice was a whisper, trembling.

“It doesn’t need a grand ritual. Just a few drops of blood and a vow.” I reached for her hand. “But it’s not a magic trick, Flower. It’s permanent. It means our lives are knotted together. Forever.”

Her eyes filled. “Why would you do that for me?”

I gave a soft, broken laugh. “Because somewhere between not-poison soup and nearly dying beside you, I fell in love with you.”

She stared at me.

And then she launched herself into my arms.

I caught her easily, cradling her to my chest as her arms wrapped tight around my neck.

“I love you too,” she whispered fiercely. “Gods help me, Kieran Voss, I love you so much it terrifies me.”

I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for centuries.

We sat like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the firelight casting flickers of gold and red across the room.

A knock broke the stillness.

Dahlia and I both jumped slightly—her hand still tangled in mine, her head resting against my shoulder. I glanced toward the heavy wooden door as it creaked open just enough for a guard to peer in. He didn’t speak. Just nodded once and stepped back, allowing a second figure to wheel in a small tray.

Breakfast.

If that’s what you could call it.

The tray was modest—two covered plates, a carafe of water, and a few thick slices of dark bread. No weapons, no utensils sharp enough to cause concern. Just the bare minimum of hospitality required by the Bloodrite.

“Courtesy of the house,” the guard said, barely glancing at us before turning and disappearing down the hall.

I waited until the door clicked shut behind him before I crossed the room and lifted one of the domed lids.

Porridge.

Plain, but steaming.

The second plate held roasted root vegetables, already sliced. Beneath the food, tucked nearly invisible against the edge of the tray, was a folded scrap of parchment.

Dahlia spotted it at the same time I did.

“What is that?”

I picked it up, unfolded it, and scanned the delicate handwriting.

Healing herbs are usually fairly good in food.

That was it. No signature. No mark.

But I could smell it now—faint and earthy, beneath the steam rising from the vegetables.

A mixture of ground echinacea. Witch’s ivy. A thread of bloodleaf. All blended subtly enough to go unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for.

My heart kicked.

Someone was helping us.

I threw the parchment into the fire to cover whatever trail it might leave.

I turned to Dahlia. “These… this is a full restorative blend. Whoever cooked this disguised it well. It’s everything I’d need to close your wounds properly.”

Her brow furrowed. “So someone in the Order—?”

“Someone who doesn’t want Calliope to win.” I looked down at the food, then back to her. “They risked everything just sending this.”

Dahlia’s lips parted, breath shallow. “Then let’s not waste it.”

I nodded, already moving to prepare the herbs for proper use. I wasn’t going to let her walk into that circle with half-healed burns and cracked ribs.

Not when there was even a sliver of hope.

Not when someone, somewhere in this rotting empire, still believed we had a chance.

Chapter 47

Dahlia

The fire was still burning low in the hearth when I turned to face him.

My skin was warm, the aches in my limbs dulled, and the cuts on my arms and ribs had faded to barely-there reminders. Whatever herbs had been hidden in the food—or whatever magic Kieran used to coax them to life—had worked. I felt human again. Whole-ish.

He’d healed me. Not just with blood and power, but with the kind of care that said more than words ever could.

And now we were about to do something irreversible.

I sat cross-legged on the bed, the sheets twisted beneath me like a nest, and looked at him. Really looked.

Kieran knelt in front of me, the firelight making his hair shimmer bronze at the ends, his eyes all shadow and storm.

“This isn’t a wedding,” I said, trying to smile. “But it kind of feels like one.”

He smirked. “Don’t tell Silas. He’ll cry about not being invited.”

I let out a soft laugh, then went still as he reached for me.

His hand cupped the side of my face, gentle, reverent. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“I’m already yours,” I whispered. “This just makes it official.”

Kieran’s gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. “I meant what I said before.”

“About binding our souls?”

“About what happens after.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “I want to survive this. Not just for the world, or the Order, or some twisted legacy. I want to survive it for you. So I can do this the right way. Someday. If you’ll let me.”

My heart stuttered.

“Are you seriously proposing to me before we do soul magic?”

His lips twitched. “I’m serious about you, Flower. I’ve known it since the moment I came out of that damn locket and you didn’t run.”

“That’s a low bar,” I murmured, even as my throat tightened.

“It was everything,” he said. “And it’s still everything.”

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his. “Then let’s do it. Let’s bind ourselves together. Your soul. Mine. All of it.”

He nodded, breath hitching.

Kieran reached for the dagger resting on the nightstand—his dagger, the one with the blood-worn hilt and silver gleam that had already seen too many battles. He held it between us like a sacred offering.

“No incantation?” I asked.

“Just the truth,” he said. “And blood.”

I took a breath.

And together, we began.

The dagger’s weight settled into my hand like it had been waiting for me. Smooth, cool metal. A glint of something ancient and sharp.

Kieran extended his hand, palm up, and I mirrored him.

There were no candles. No circle. No chanting.

Just us. Knees touching. Breathing the same breath. Hearts aligned.

He looked at me like I was made of stars.

“One drop,” he said, voice barely audible. “Just enough to open the door.”

I nodded.

We sliced together. Shallow. Clean. A red thread beading up on both palms.

And then, slowly, we pressed them together.

The warmth of his blood met mine.

Something shifted.

Not in the room—in me.

A pulse. A ripple. A thread winding through my spine, into my lungs, my ribs, my heart.

And I felt him.

Not just near me. In me.

Like sunlight through the cracks. Like shadows curling in warmth. Like a second heartbeat syncing with my own.

Kieran’s eyes fluttered shut, his brow knit in concentration—or awe. I couldn’t tell.

He spoke first.

“No more walls,” he whispered. “No more halves. Just us. Shared breath, shared power, shared pain.”

I echoed him, voice trembling.

“Two halves made whole. What you feel, I feel. What I suffer, you bear. Where I go, you go.”

He opened his eyes again.

“And where you fall, I’ll rise.”

“And where you break,” I said, “I’ll mend.”

The blood between our palms shimmered faintly, gold and red and laced with something older than names. It sank into our skin, sealing something unseen.

There was no flash. No thunderclap.

Just… knowing.

I felt his soul brush mine.

And he felt everything.

The ache in my bones. The fragile, burning love I held in my chest. The fear. The awe. The way I wanted him with a kind of urgency that wasn’t just physical, but forever.

Kieran’s hand moved from mine to my cheek.

His thumb wiped away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You’re with me now,” he said, voice rough and reverent. “Always.”

I leaned forward, pressed my lips to his, and felt the bond settle like a heartbeat under my skin.

Together.

No more edges between us.

Only flame.

Only shadow.

Only us.

Chapter 48

Dahlia

The floor groaned under my pacing.

I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale scraped like broken glass, every exhale tasted like bile. The fire in the hearth cracked with false calm, too quiet for the storm rolling in my blood.

Silas’s message had arrived hours ago, scrawled in a shaky hand on bloodstained parchment. They’re torturing me. If she wins, don’t let her use me. Don’t let her bring me back. There was more, a plea I couldn’t bear to reread. I’d folded the note with hands that trembled and burned.

Kieran hadn’t said a word when I handed it to him. He just sat with his head bowed, shadows pooling around him like armor waiting for orders.

But the silence ate me alive.

“They’re torturing him,” I spat, the words too loud in the stone room. I whirled toward the heavy chair by the fire and flung out my hand without thinking.

It exploded.

Black shadows burst from my palm, wild and furious, wrapping around the wood like serpents and ripping it apart in a violent snap of legs and splinters.

I stared at my hand, heaving.

Not fire. Not mine.

His.

Behind me, Kieran stood slowly. “Dahlia—”

“They’re torturing your brother, and we’re just sitting here?” I turned, voice shaking. “I know we can’t reach him. I know we’re being watched. But gods, Kieran, she’s toying with us.”

“I know.” His voice was low, raw. He crossed to me slowly, his hands loose at his sides. “I feel it in you. The anger. The pain. It’s mine, too.”

Another gust of shadows coiled around my fingers, flickering with intent that wasn’t entirely mine. The night before, we’d promised to be one—two halves of a single force.

And now it was real.

The shadows obeyed me like a second heartbeat.

“She’s going to pay for every drop of blood she’s spilled,” I growled. “For Silas. For Henry. For what she did to you.”

“She will,” he said softly. “But not tonight.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the whole godsdamned bed into the fire.

Instead, I let the shadows go. They retreated with a whisper and curled at my feet like waiting wolves.

Kieran caught me before I collapsed.

I sagged against him, fury bleeding into exhaustion. My hands were shaking. My chest ached. But the bond between us thrummed steadily, grounding.

“One more night,” he murmured into my hair. “Then we end her.”

I didn’t answer. Just nodded, jaw clenched, and let him hold me.

Because tomorrow, I would need all my fire.

And tonight, I let the shadows grieve for me.

Kieran sat beside me on the floor, his back against the stone wall, eyes shadowed by the flicker of the firelight. We hadn’t moved in a long time. His arm was around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest. It should’ve felt peaceful.

It didn’t.

My thoughts spun too fast to settle. And one kept rising above the rest—sharp and hungry.

“Kieran,” I said quietly, not lifting my head. “I need you to teach me.”

He stiffened. “Teach you what?”

“The things you said were too dangerous.” I sat up, met his eyes. “The deeper magic. The old stuff.”

He shook his head before I even finished. “No. Absolutely not.”

I stared him down. “Why?”

“Because it could kill you.” His voice was too steady. Too calm. “It was dangerous even when I had a full coven and years of training. You’ve had weeks. If something goes wrong, it won’t just backfire—it’ll consume you.”

“And if I don’t learn it?” I snapped. “Then I go into that circle with whatever tricks I’ve scraped together on instinct, and I still die. And then she wins.”

Kieran looked away. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching beneath the skin. “There has to be another way.”

“There’s not.” I stood up, pacing again, fire building in my chest all over. “You saw what she did to Silas. You saw what she is. If she completes the Rite, she won’t stop. She’ll keep going. She’ll burn everything. Everyone. You.”

He didn’t move.

“She’s trying to destroy my family,” I said, quieter now. “She sent that hellbeast to our doorstep. She’s tortured and cut out Silas’ eye. She did Gods know what to Henry. And she would’ve ripped you apart if she’d had the chance. I won’t let her win.”

Kieran rose to his feet slowly. The shadows curled tighter around him, a silent echo of the weight behind his silence. When he finally met my gaze, his eyes were rimmed with pain.

“You’re asking me to hand you a blade that cuts both ways,” he murmured. “To teach you something that once nearly unmade me.”

“I’m not afraid of bleeding,” I whispered. “I’m afraid of failing you. Failing everyone who died because of her.”

He reached for me then, hands cradling my face like I might vanish. “Flower, if you die—”

“I won’t,” I said. “But if I do… let it be with fire in my hands. Not fear.”

He looked at me for a long, long time.

And then—slowly—he nodded.

“Alright,” Kieran said, voice hoarse. “But we do it my way. No shortcuts. No recklessness. And if I tell you to stop, you stop.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Then let’s begin,” he said. “Before dawn comes for us.”

Chapter 49

Kieran

Morning came too fast.

The kind of morning that didn’t belong to sunrises and birdsong, but to war drums beating just beneath the skin.

I sat by the hearth, Mercy across my lap, the whetstone gliding in slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass left the blade keener. Cleaner. More dangerous.

I didn’t look at her yet. I couldn’t.

She was still half-curled on the bed, blanket tangled around her waist, bare shoulders kissed by shadow and scar. Her soul was tied to mine now. Her breath echoed in my chest. Her pain rested under my skin like a second pulse.

And she was walking into the circle alone.

The door creaked. One of the guards—a younger one, eyes too sharp for his own good—stepped inside without speaking and handed over a leather bracer etched with faint sigils. “From one of the older fighters,” he muttered. “She’ll burn slower with this. Maybe.”

I took it. Nodded. “Thanks.”

He left without waiting for a reply.

I turned back to Mercy and resumed the slow rhythm. Scrape. Breathe. Sharpen. Breathe.

Behind me, the sheets rustled.

“Didn’t sleep,” she said quietly, voice husky with exhaustion.

I finally looked at her.

Hair tousled. Lips dry. Eyes—gods, those eyes—heavy with fear she wouldn’t name. She was already dressed beneath the blanket, her undershirt dark with old bloodstains we hadn’t managed to wash out.

“Figured,” I said, setting Mercy aside. “Didn’t either.”

She stood slowly, limbs stiff, and came to sit across from me on the rug. The firelight painted her skin gold and red, and I had to fight the urge to pull her back into my arms and never let her go.

Instead, I offered her the bracer.

She blinked. “What’s this?”

“Something to help keep your arm intact when you burn the world down.”

She gave me a soft, tired laugh. I slid the bracer over her forearm. I adjusted the straps with care. “Stylish,” she murmured. “Goes great with homicidal vengeance.”

I passed her a cloth and the small bottle of oil I’d used on Mercy’s hilt. “Polish the bracer. It’ll hold better.”

She took it without question. Our fingers brushed. Static danced between us, not from magic. From something older. Rawer.

“I should be the one going in,” I said after a long pause. “You know that.”

“I know.” Her voice didn’t shake. “But you can’t.”

My throat tightened. “If she kills you—”

“She won’t,” Dahlia interrupted. “Because I’m going to make sure she bleeds first.”

Gods, I loved her.

I knelt in front of her and wrapped her hand around Mercy’s handle. “Then take this. And make her regret ever saying your name.”

Her hand squeezed mine. “I planned on it.”

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against mine. No flames. No shadows. Just breath and stillness.

And the weight of everything we had to survive.

A knock rattled the door like a warning shot.

Dahlia stiffened. So did I.

It opened without waiting.

Two guards entered—different from the others we’d seen. These weren’t the younger, hesitant ones. These were older. Hard-eyed. The kind that had seen things and come out meaner for it.

“Time,” one of them said, already reaching for Dahlia’s arm.

She stood before I could move. Held Mercy with calm hands. But when he grabbed her elbow, too tight, too fast—I saw it.

The flicker of pain in her jaw. The restraint in her fingers.

The restraint she didn’t deserve to need today.

I rose slowly.

“Let go,” I said, voice quiet enough to draw attention.

The guard ignored me. Gave Dahlia a small shove toward the doorway. “Move, witch.”

She didn’t cry out.

But I did.

Not with words. With shadow.

They poured from my back like wings unfurling, fast and sharp and furious. The room dropped ten degrees. The fire in the hearth shuddered out.

The guard closest to me reached for a blade—then froze as my shadows slid under his chin.

“Touch her again,” I said. “See what happens.”

The second guard scoffed. “She’s just a witchling. Harmless.”

I stepped in close, shadows rising around my feet like smoke from a battlefield.

“Say that again,” I murmured, voice ice and blade. “Slower. I want to remember the last words you ever speak.”

His face blanched, my shadows slithering up his throat.

The first guard swallowed hard and loosened his grip on Dahlia. She straightened her spine, never looking at me, but her knuckles went white around Mercy’s hilt. I let the shadows fall to her feet, content, like a hunting dog.

The second guard didn’t speak again.

They led her from the room more carefully this time. As though remembering they were in the presence of something holy.

Or cursed.

I didn’t follow. Not yet.

But my shadows did.

They’d know I was coming.

And gods help them if she came to harm before the Bloodrite began.

Chapter 50

Dahlia

The sound of my own footsteps echoed like war drums.

Each one rang out louder than the last, ricocheting through the cold stone corridor as if the walls themselves were listening, holding their breath.

I clutched Mercy’s hilt, knuckles white, heart thudding like it might tear through my ribs. The passage opened into the ritual chamber ahead, and already I could feel the heat of the bloodward etched into the floor—the magic there simmered, humming like a struck chord deep in my bones.

This was it.

If I failed… everyone I loved would die.

Henry, still unconscious in a hospital bed for reasons no one could explain. Thea, probably pacing back and forth right now, ready to burn the world down if this went sideways. Silas—bleeding and broken—but still somehow fighting. And Kieran…

Kieran, who wasn’t here yet.

A sharp breath cut through me.

I told myself it was fine. He would come. He always came. But the absence of him beside me now—the hollow where his presence should’ve been—made the fear louder. Made it real.

I stepped into the chamber.

It was massive. A cathedral carved into the belly of the earth, cold stone and open space, lit by the flickering blood-colored runes carved into the floor. At the center, the circle waited—glowing, thrumming, ancient and terrible.

And on the far side of it, just outside the boundary, was Silas.

He was on his knees, bound again in glowing shackles that pulsed with dark magic. His head hung low, chin pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking slightly with each shallow breath. Unconscious. Drained.

Alive. But only just.

My stomach twisted.

Beside him stood the Elder, his hands folded calmly behind his back, expression unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight. His eyes followed me as I entered, but he didn’t speak. Just watched.

The room buzzed with magic, with waiting, with judgment.

I took another step forward and clenched my fists, letting my breathing slow.

I was Dahlia Moore. I’d survived a cursed locket, shadow monsters, and a chimera from the depths of hell. I had fire in my veins, Kieran’s soul braided into mine, and enough fury in my heart to ignite the world.

I would survive this.

I had to.

Because if I didn’t, it wasn’t just my life I’d lose—it was everyone’s.

And Calliope… she’d burn everything.

Not if I had anything to say about it.

Not while I could still stand.

Then—

Footsteps behind me.

I turned just as Kieran reached me, breath shallow, eyes locked on mine. His shadows rippled like stormclouds around his shoulders, barely leashed. He didn’t speak. Just reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small piece of parchment, lined in tight, careful runes that shimmered faintly like they remembered the sun.

Without asking, he lifted the locket from around my neck, opened the back, and slid the charm inside.

“It’ll activate if you need it,” he said quietly, fastening the clasp again. His fingers lingered at the base of my throat. “Just… try not to.”

I stared at him.

“Kieran—”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine for a brief, burning moment.

“You come back to me, Flower. No matter what.”

I didn’t want to pull away.

Not from the weight of his touch. Not from the fierce, quiet desperation in his voice. Not from the way he said come back to me like it was a vow, like it was already tearing him in half.

But the Elder cleared his throat, and the circle pulsed again—hungrier this time.

I stepped back. Just enough.

Kieran’s hand slipped away from mine.

Then—

A gust of cold air swept through the chamber, and the torches dimmed to a dull, icy flicker.

She appeared like a shadow peeled from the wall.

Calliope.

Draped in black that shimmered like oil, her feet bare against the stone, she walked with the grace of a queen and the menace of a dagger drawn too slow. Her smile was soft. Cruel. Icy with amusement.

“Well,” she purred, eyes raking over me like I was a failed experiment. “Look at you. All dressed up and nowhere to run.”

Her gaze drifted to Kieran and the locket he’d just closed back around my neck. Her smile twitched.

“How touching,” she drawled. “A charm? From your little relic? How sweet. It’ll make such a beautiful heirloom—after you bleed out at my feet.”

I didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Just stepped into the circle and let the fire crackle in my bones.

"For someone so powerful, you sure love to hear yourself talk.”

Chapter 51

Dahlia

Calliope snarled.

The air seemed to hiss with her fury. Her glamour cracked at the edges, revealing something feral beneath the perfect skin and silver-tongued arrogance.

Twin knives flashed into view, curved and gleaming, inscribed with runes that shimmered like veins of poison. And between them, in the space her fingers danced through the air, magic coiled—red and jagged, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

She lunged.

There was no announcement. No grace. No warning.

She surged forward like a serpent, one knife arcing toward my throat, the other held low as red magic coiled between her fingers, ready to strike from both steel and spell.

I met her head-on.

My boots slammed into the stone as I ducked the first blow, twisting my body and letting the heat rise under my skin. Fire danced in my veins. My blade—Mercy—flared with a rush of magic the moment I gripped the hilt, the runes along the edge igniting like they remembered why they’d been forged.

Calliope’s strike skimmed past me, narrowly missing my shoulder. I pivoted and slammed the flat of my sword into her ribs. She hissed and stumbled back, but only for a breath.

She was fast.

She spun, low and vicious, and sent a shockwave of magic barreling across the circle. I raised my braced arm, the newly gifted leather catching most of it, though the force still knocked me off my feet.

I hit the ground hard and rolled, dragging in a breath that seared my lungs. Already, my ribs ached and my right arm throbbed.

Calliope stalked toward me, her eyes blazing. "You think you can fight me with fire and sentiment?"

I scrambled to my feet, face burning. "No," I growled. "I’m going to kill you with it."

And then I unleashed hell.

Flame erupted from my palms, wild and white-hot, lashing out in a wide arc. The heat warped the air, drew gasps from the Order outside the circle. Calliope shouted something in an old tongue, shielding herself with a burst of her own corrupted magic. The fire struck her wall and shattered—but not before pushing her back several steps.

She wasn’t invincible.

I could win this.

She snarled and thrust both hands forward. Dark tendrils surged at me—not fire, not shadow. Something older. Something wrong. They twisted in the air like fingers eager to choke.

I called on Kieran’s shadows.

They answered.

Slick and fast, they coiled from the edge of my reach like loyal hounds and slammed into the tendrils midair, scattering them in a burst of black light. My skin tingled. My bond with Kieran pulsed like a second heartbeat.

I gritted my teeth and charged, sword raised.

Our blades clashed—once, twice, three times in a blur—before Calliope snarled and shoved me back with a burst of concussive force that cracked the stone under my feet. I staggered, ears ringing, teeth rattling in my skull.

“You’re persistent,” she said with a mocking tilt of her head, circling me like a vulture. “I’ll give you that.”

I spit blood onto the floor. “You talk too much.”

She smiled like she enjoyed the taste of my defiance.

And then she vanished.

My instincts screamed. I ducked just in time—her blade sang through the air where my neck had been, her body reappearing behind me in a flash of shadow.

Dirty.

I spun and slashed, but she caught my wrist mid-swing and twisted. Pain bloomed down my arm, white-hot. I screamed as my fingers went slack and Mercy clattered to the floor.

“Oops,” she purred, twirling both blades with a flourish before using one to hook my arm and the other to launch a burst of force-magic straight into my chest.

I hit the ground hard, scraping across stone. My shoulder screamed in protest.

“You should’ve stayed soft,” she said, stalking toward me. “With your garden and your teacups. You were never built for war.”

“I was built for surviving it,” I snapped, flames licking up my arms again.

She laughed—and then kicked me, hard, in the ribs. The sound cracked through the silence.

I wheezed. Pain stole the breath from my lungs.

“You’re not a savior,” she said. “You’re just a girl who got in the way.”

I rolled to my back, barely able to lift my head, but my fire surged again. Not because I wasn’t hurt, but because I was. Because this pain, this rage, this loss—it meant something.

“And you’re just a girl who couldn’t handle not being the chosen one,” I coughed.

Calliope’s smile vanished.

“Careful,” she said coldly. “I’d hate to kill you too fast.”

She raised both hands—magic gathering fast and wicked, crimson arcs snapping between her fingers. The temperature in the circle dropped.

This was going to hurt.

I pushed up to my knees, trembling, blood dripping from my temple, my lip, my arm. I reached for Mercy with shaking fingers.

Calliope's power slammed into me like a wave. My bracer absorbed most of it, but the sheer force still hurled me across the circle again. I hit the wall hard enough to rattle my bones.

Darkness tried to take me.

But I forced my eyes open.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Kieran’s shadow stirred under my skin. Our bond flared—alive, angry, watching. I felt him, barely restrained outside the circle, fury thick in the air.

Not yet, Flower.

I clenched my jaw and rose again, teeth bloody, face battered, one eye nearly swollen shut.

“Still standing?” Calliope asked, annoyed now. “Why? What are you fighting for?”

I straightened. My voice came out raw and low.

“For everyone you’ve hurt.”

My shadows surged behind me. My fire rekindled.

And Mercy found my hand again.

My knees threatened to buckle with every step. My blood sang with fire and pain, muscles trembling, vision blurred. I couldn’t tell what hurt more—the bruises or the burn in my lungs.

But I kept moving.

Calliope’s movements had lost their precision. Her magic sputtered, growing erratic, veering between too much and too little. Her twin blades shook in her grip. She panted like a rabid animal, and her once-perfect glamour was splintering, cracking like glass beneath a hammer.

The illusion peeled back.

What remained was not the goddess she pretended to be.

It was a woman—worn and jagged. Her skin mottled with burn scars and old wounds, her lips curled into something feral. Her eyes, no longer glowing with power, flickered with desperation and hate.

Someone in the crowd gasped.

Another stepped back.

They were seeing it. All of it. What she really was.

“I made this,” she snarled, voice hoarse. “All of this. I bled for it!”

She surged forward with a scream, but her magic snapped midair, fizzling as if the room itself rejected it. She stumbled, caught herself, and let out a cry of fury. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and magic and something deeper—decay.

I raised Mercy, my whole body shaking. One more swing. One more spell. But she was already lunging again, wild, no longer calculating.

“I gave everything!” she shrieked. “And you—you stupid, useless little girl—you think you can take it from me?!”

Her eyes locked on the locket around my neck. And before I could stop her, her hand snapped forward and grabbed it.

The second her fingers closed around it, something changed.

Calliope gasped.

A sound ripped from her throat—wet, shocked.

Then she screamed.

Veins of black-blue magic crackled up her wrist like lightning. The skin along her arm began to bubble and blacken, as if the locket had set fire to her from the inside out. Her arm convulsed, and the blades dropped from her grip with twin clangs.

“What—what did you—?” she choked out, eyes wide in disbelief.

The corrupted veins slithered up her shoulder and neck. Her jaw seized. Her fingers twisted into a claw.

I stepped back, clutching the locket instinctively.

It had reacted—to her. To her touch.

To her intent.

And it had punished her.

She stumbled back, clutching her shoulder, her arm now limp and smoking at the edges.

The Order whispered now, louder than before. Voices sharp with confusion. With fear.

“She’s cursed—”

“No, look at her—she’s breaking—”

“What is that magic—?”

Calliope turned in a slow circle, her glamour flickering in and out like a dying flame. She looked at the crowd, and for a flicker of a second, there was panic in her eyes. The predator realizing her teeth had broken.

I didn’t wait.

I raised Mercy again, my voice a rasp.

“This ends now.”

Calliope staggered, clutching her useless arm. Smoke curled from her fingertips. Her eyes, once cold and cunning, were wide and wild now, panicked, unseeing. Her beauty had burned away, revealing the ruin beneath. The cracks in her façade split wide.

And for the first time… she looked human.

Terrified. Small.

But I didn’t stop.

The pain in my body blurred. The sounds around me—gasps, the shuffle of boots, the low rumble of the Elder’s voice—faded beneath the roar in my ears. All I could hear was Kieran’s heartbeat through our bond.

All I could see was her.

The woman who destroyed his life. Who stole everything from us.

Who would never stop if I didn’t end it here.

“I told you,” I said, my voice raw, fire crackling around Mercy’s blade. “You don’t get to win.”

She screamed and lifted her hand for one last spell—but her magic sparked and failed. The locket's poison had robbed her of it.

I surged forward with the last of my strength.

And drove Mercy straight through her heart.

Her body went stiff, a final gasp bursting from her lips. Her hands clawed weakly at the blade, but I held it steady, eyes locked on hers as the fire took hold.

She didn’t get a final curse. No grand last words.

Only silence.

The runes on the blade lit bright gold, and then—

Flames consumed her.

They erupted from within, swallowing her in a column of white fire. Her scream was brief, sharp, and then gone. Her body blackened, cracked, and crumbled into ash, scattering to the circle’s edge like dust in the wind.

Nothing remained. Not even the knives.

Not even her name.

I swayed, the world tilting.

My knees buckled.

I dropped to the stone floor beside the ashes, every ounce of strength gone. My sword clattered from my fingers. The blood pounding in my ears dulled and then disappeared altogether.

I barely heard the rush of footsteps.

I barely felt the arms that caught me before I could collapse completely.

But I knew it was him.

Kieran.

I let the darkness take me in his arms, knowing—for the first time—it was finally over.

Chapter 52

Kieran

The moment she dropped, I was already moving.

I didn’t care about the ash. The blood. The stunned silence around us. I crossed the circle in a heartbeat and caught her before she hit the stone, her body crumpling like the fight had poured everything out of her—and maybe it had.

“Dahlia.” Her name scraped out of me. I dropped to my knees with her in my arms, cradling her like something sacred. “No, no, no—”

Her eyes fluttered, barely open.

“Kieran…” she rasped.

“Stay with me, flower. Please.” My voice cracked. I pressed my forehead to hers, felt how cold her skin was. “You don’t get to leave me, too. Not after everything. Not you.”

“Still here,” she breathed, and that ghost of a smile—faint, bloody—nearly broke me.

I held her tighter.

The Elder approached, his face solemn. He knelt beside us, his gnarled fingers already glowing faintly with ancient magic.

“She fought for us all,” he murmured. “And she won. You both did.”

He laid a hand over Dahlia’s chest, just above her heart, and light seeped through her skin. Her breathing evened, some of the bruises fading, the worst of the cuts closing. Not all—but enough. Enough to hold her together.

I was still holding her when the doors slammed open.

Steel rang against stone.

Boots thundered.

And then—

“Thea,” I muttered, barely lifting my head.

She stormed into the chamber like a hurricane in boots and leather, fifty armed guards behind her, gun drawn, eyes blazing.

“Secure the perimeter!” she barked, not sparing a glance for anyone but Dahlia. “Shields up. Medical to the rear. Move, move, move!”

The Order scrambled. Some backed away. Some dropped to their knees. The Elder merely stepped aside, eyes brimming with something like tired relief.

Thea reached us fast, dropping to her knees beside me. Her voice shook even under the fury.

“What the hell happened?” she whispered, reaching out but stopping short of touching Dahlia. “What did that bitch do to her?”

“Dahlia won,” I said quietly. “She ended it.”

Thea swallowed hard, and for a second, I saw it—the fear. The pain. The cracks beneath her armor. She reached out and finally rested her hand over Dahlia’s.

“I should’ve been here,” she said hoarsely.

“She wouldn’t let you.” I brushed Dahlia’s hair from her face. “She didn’t want anyone else dying for her.”

Thea blinked fast, jaw tight. “She’s a goddamn idiot.”

“She’s my idiot,” I said.

And Thea didn’t argue.

Not this time.

Her gaze swept the room, took in the scattered ashes, the ruined circle, Dahlia in my arms. And then she saw him.

“Silas!”

She was at his side in an instant, knees hitting the stone hard, hands already moving.

I looked too.

Silas was slumped against the throne, barely upright. His face was a mess of bruises, his eye gone, nothing but a dark hollow left behind. Blood soaked through what was left of his shirt, and his wrists were torn raw from magic-wrought chains. But I could feel it—the hum of power returning, slow and uncertain. His magic had survived. Somehow.

“You’re bleeding everywhere,” Thea snapped, already unrolling a length of gauze. “I leave you alone for five minutes—”

Silas gave her a tired smirk, lips split and bloodied. “You should see the other guy.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but her hands were careful as they pressed to his wounds.

“I’d rather you kiss me better.”

“I will gag you,” she said sweetly, winding a bandage around his arm with far more force than necessary.

Silas hissed. “Gods above, marry me.”

“Shut up,” Thea snapped, checking his pulse, her hands surprisingly gentle despite the bite in her voice. “You’re lucky to be breathing.”

“I am,” he said, wincing as she pressed a clean cloth to the gash along his temple. “Especially now that you’re hovering over me like an avenging angel.”

“Try harpy,” Thea muttered, wrapping his injured head.

But Silas, bleeding and battered, grinned through the pain. “Woman, I’m gonna follow you into the pits of hell.”

“You're already here,” she said, tightening the wrap. “You’re lucky I followed you.”

I didn’t say a word. Just watched.

They were both ridiculous. But maybe—maybe they deserved each other. Chaos finding chaos.

I looked down at the woman in my arms.

And maybe—just maybe—I had a little chaos of my own worth keeping.

Chapter 53

Dahlia

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not the silence of a tomb or a battlefield—this was softer. The kind of quiet that came after the storm had passed, when the wind finally stopped screaming and the world took a breath. Faint birdsong drifted through an open window, and the air smelled faintly of herbs, salt, and sun-warmed stone.

I blinked up at a ceiling I didn’t recognize.

The sheets beneath me were too clean. The pillows too soft. My body, however, was a different story.

Everything hurt.

Not in the bone-shattering, soul-burning way it had during the fight, but a dull, steady throb. Like my muscles remembered every blow. I shifted and winced. My ribs ached. My arms were bruised. My lip was split. But I was breathing. I was alive.

And Calliope was dead.

That last fact came with a wave of nausea, relief, and disbelief so strong I had to sit up slowly, bracing myself against the headboard.

The room was warm, sunlit, and elegant in a quietly expensive way. Silas’ villa. I recognized the ornate sconces, the oversized windows, the lush curtains tied back with velvet ropes. Someone had tucked me in carefully, a folded blanket at the foot of the bed and a half-drunk glass of water on the table beside it. My sword—Mercy—rested on the chair nearby.

I slid my legs over the side of the bed.

Sore didn’t cover it. I moved like an old woman and hissed with every shift, but I made it to my feet. One step. Two. My knees protested, but held.

In the hallway, the faint murmur of voices carried from the living room.

Then—

“You smug, one-eyed son of a bitch, I should’ve let you rot.”

“Darling, you say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me.”

Thea.

And Silas.

I limped forward, the ache in my side forgotten as I followed the sharp edge of Thea’s voice and the ever-present grin I could practically hear in Silas’s.

“I had to threaten three guards and sedate one just to get a healer to look at you,” Thea snapped. “And what do I get in return? Jokes and innuendo.”

“I offered you eternal devotion.”

“You offered me a headache.”

I turned the corner into the room just in time to see Thea hurl a knife.

It thunked into the wall an inch from Silas’ head.

He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he turned—moving stiffly, still bandaged and bruised and missing an eye—and the moment he saw me, something in his face cracked open.

“Dahlia,” he breathed.

I didn’t get a chance to speak.

He crossed the space like a man possessed and swept me up into his arms. I yelped as my sore ribs protested, but he didn’t crush me—he held me like I was something made of gold and ash and victory.

“I thought you were gonna die,” he whispered fiercely against my hair. “You’re not allowed to die before me. It’s rude.”

I managed a breathless laugh. “I’m okay. Mostly.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his face a mess of swelling and stubble and bruises—and something warmer beneath it. “You brilliant, reckless, terrifying woman. You actually did it.”

“I had help.”

His one good eye flicked toward the hallway, where I knew Kieran had to be near. “He’ll never stop loving you for it.”

“Good,” I whispered. “Because I’m not stopping either.”

Behind Silas, Thea cleared her throat. “You done being sentimental? Or should I find another knife?”

Silas didn’t even glance at her. “You missed on purpose.”

She scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Thea hadn’t moved during Silas’s hug.

She stood just beyond him, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between relieved and furious—her brows drawn tight, her mouth a hard line. But her eyes… her eyes were glassy.

When Silas finally let me go—grudgingly, like a child forced to hand over his favorite toy—I turned toward her.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stared at me for a breath, two, like she was making sure I was real. Then she crossed the room in three precise steps and wrapped her arms around me.

No fanfare. No dramatics. Just warmth and the kind of embrace that said you’re mine and you came back and don’t you ever dare not again.

She held me tighter than I thought she would, but still careful not to crush. Her chin rested lightly on my shoulder.

“I swear to every god listening,” she murmured against my ear, her voice low and fierce, “if you ever do something like that again—if you ever step into a death circle without backup—I will rain down hellfire so brutal and relentless, you will beg for mercy.”

A small, choked laugh slipped from me. “I missed you, too.”

She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Hers were shining. “Don’t joke. Not about this.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“Damn right you are.” She paused, then added, “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I scared the shit out of myself.”

Thea shook her head and hugged me again, this time letting it last longer.

“You’re my best friend,” she whispered. “And if you die before me, I’ll kill you. Slowly. With flair.”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive just to avoid the flair.”

She snorted and pulled back, wiping at her eye like she wasn’t about to cry.

Behind her, Silas cleared his throat. “Are you two done threatening each other affectionately, or…?”

“Silas,” Thea growled, already reaching for another knife.

The sound of a door opening pulled all of us toward the hallway.

And then—there he was.

Kieran stood at the threshold like something out of a half-forgotten dream. He must have just gotten out of the shower, his hair and beard still dripped a little, a towel hung around his neck. Shadows clung to him faintly, coiled low around his bare feet like smoke not quite ready to rest.

The moment his eyes found mine, the air left his lungs.

“Flower,” he breathed.

I barely managed two steps before he crossed the rest of the distance and caught me against him.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me close like he couldn’t quite believe I was solid. Like maybe he’d wake up if he let go.

“I told you not to leave me,” he murmured into my hair.

“And I didn’t,” I whispered back. “I’m still here.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at me. His hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing the bruises on my jaw like they could erase them. His gaze was searching, intense, his voice raw. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“If one more person says that to me-” I started, but he kissed me before I could finish.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just sure.

Just real.

Just home.

When he broke away, I was dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

Behind us, Thea muttered something about needing strong liquor and disappeared into the kitchen. Silas sighed dramatically and wandered after her.

Kieran’s thumb brushed my cheek again. “I meant what I said.”

“So did I.”

“I don’t care what comes next,” he said softly. “You stay with me. That’s the only thing I need.”

“I already bound myself to you,” I said, trying to smile. “You’re stuck with me.”

He rested his forehead against mine and let out a shaky breath. “Good.”

Thea’s phone buzzed on the table.

She frowned, glanced at the screen, and immediately swiped to answer. “It’s Henry,” she said, already moving toward the window for a better signal.

My heart stuttered.

Kieran steadied me with a hand at my back, but I shook my head and stepped toward Thea, every inch of me straining to hear.

“Henry?” Thea said, her voice tight with disbelief. “You’re—? Oh, gods. Yeah. She’s right here.”

She turned to me and held the phone out silently.

I snatched it with trembling fingers and brought it to my ear.

“Henry?”

“Well it’s about damn time someone picked up,” came his voice—rough, tired, and unmistakably alive. “Where the hell did everyone run off to? I woke up, and the nurses are acting like I’ve got the plague.”

A laugh burst out of me, equal parts relief and sob. My knees nearly gave out, and Kieran eased me down to the edge of the couch while I clutched the phone like it might vanish.

“We’re okay,” I whispered. “We—we’re okay, Henry. I’m okay.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “That’s good, sweetheart. That’s real good to hear.”

“I’m sorry we weren’t there when you woke up. Things… got complicated.”

“I figured. I didn’t expect a postcard, but a heads up would’ve been nice,” he teased.

Tears slid down my cheeks.

“We’ll be home soon,” I said. “A day or two, tops. I just—had to finish something.”

“A war?” he asked, a knowing edge in his tone.

“Something like that,” I choked. “And now I have war stories of my own.”

Henry let out a soft sigh. “Then I guess I’ve taught you well.”

“You taught me everything that matters.”

A pause, and then: “I’m proud of you, Dahlia. Of all of you. Even the weird brothers. I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too,” I whispered. “More than anything.”

“Tell Thea I said no more knives in the hospital. And tell Kieran… well, just tell him to behave himself. You’ve earned some peace.”

In the background, I could hear muffled arguing—something about caffeine and doctor’s orders.

“Henry,” a nurse scolded. “You are not cleared for more coffee!”

“Then clear me,” Henry snapped back. “What’s the point of surviving if I can’t have a damn cup of coffee?”

I laughed again, wiping my face.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. “And bring back some more of those cookies I like. The ones shaped like cats.”

Then he hung up.

Thea walked over and gently took the phone from my hand. She didn’t say anything—just squeezed my shoulder.

I curled into Kieran’s side, pressing my face to his chest.

We were going home.

And Henry would be waiting.

I grinned, leaning a little heavier into Kieran’s arm, and let the moment settle in.

I had survived. We all had.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes…

We had a future.

Epilogue

Kieran

The sun was setting behind the hills in a wash of deep gold and lavender, casting long shadows over the field where rows of chairs stood in quiet anticipation. Strings of violet ribbon danced lazily in the warm breeze, weaving through the black-clad guests and candlelit lanterns that hovered just above the grass.

And in the center of it all—an arch of twisted vines and hanging wisteria, glowing gently with soft magic.

I stood beneath it, my hands fisted at my sides, trying—and failing—not to tremble.

Silas shifted beside me, his black suit rumpled just enough to make it seem intentional. He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve survived soul entrapment, monsters, and war,” he muttered. “Try not to pass out at your own wedding.”

I didn’t respond.

Because then the music started.

And I saw her.

Henry walked beside her, steady and proud, his arm linked with hers. His usual cardigan was traded for a sharp black suit with a purple tie that clashed wonderfully with the emotion in his eyes. But I barely noticed.

Because she was…

Gods.

Dahlia.

She wore black like it was spun from stars, the fabric flowing behind her in waves of silk and shadow. Purple blossoms wreathed her thick hair, pinned up with silver sticks I’d seen her use a hundred times. She didn’t look like a bride.

She looked like a force.

Like the flame that had ruined me and remade me all in one breath.

Sunny and Oleander toddled ahead of her, tiny tuxedoes affixed to their stubborn little bodies, much to Sunny’s eternal disdain. The crowd chuckled as they trotted down the aisle—Sunny with an air of grim duty, Oleander entirely unaware of the gravity of the event, stopping to munch on the floral arrangements. But even that didn’t break my focus.

Because when her eyes met mine—hazel, golden, fierce—everything else disappeared.

And I broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, uncontrollable rush of tears as I watched the woman I love walk toward me, choosing me. Again. Always.

She reached the front, Henry gently pressing a kiss to her temple before stepping back, eyes misty. Thea stood just behind her, beautiful and terrifying in a deep violet gown, holding Dahlia’s bouquet with a smirk that said, Don’t you dare faint.

I almost did anyway.

The officiant stepped forward. No robes, no holy words. Just simple clothing, warm eyes, and a voice that spoke like truth.

“We are gathered here,” they said, “to witness the binding of two souls—who have already shared fire and shadow, life and death, love and pain. Today is not a beginning, but a promise. A vow renewed, not just spoken.”

We turned toward each other.

Dahlia took my hands.

Her skin was warm. Her fingers were steady.

A cord was brought forth—black and purple, twined with silver threads—and wrapped gently around our joined hands.

And I couldn’t stop looking at her.

The officiant nodded gently. “The couple has written their own vows.”

I swallowed, my hands tight in hers.

And I began. “You were the light I never expected to deserve. You gave me more than warmth—you gave me purpose again. When I was lost in blood and ruin, you reached out your hand. And I will spend every day proving I was worth the grip. I vow to protect you, love you, and stand beside you. In fire. In shadow. In eternity. You are not my redemption. You are my choice.”

Dahlia’s fingers trembled against mine, but her voice was clear. Fierce. Hers.

“I didn’t fall in love with your darkness. I ran straight into it and dragged you back to the light. You call me your flower, but you’re the one who grew. You opened up. You stayed. You fought for me. And I vow to do the same. To be your anchor when the old gods call. To be your fire when the cold creeps in. To be your home—even when the world ends.”

The officiant spoke the final words:
“Two halves. One whole. One bond, by will and by vow. Let your lives be knotted as your hands are. Let no god, no curse, no time undo it.”

We didn’t wait for permission.

I pulled her forward and kissed her—soft and slow, but real. The kind that said we survived. We’re here. We choose each other.

Somewhere behind us, Silas wolf-whistled.

Thea punched him in the arm.

The ceremony faded into golden laughter and candlelight.

Tables were scattered under the trees, strung with fairy lights and covered in black velvet and amethyst colored glass. Music floated on the evening air—something old, something stringed, something perfect. The food smelled divine, and the wine flowed freely.

Dahlia barely had time to breathe before Henry swept her into the first dance.

“Look at you,” he said, holding her like the treasure she was. “Making me cry in public. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

She grinned. “You didn’t read the fine print.”

“I’m proud of you, kid.” His voice cracked just slightly. “So damn proud.”

I watched from the edge, heart full and useless, until she turned and beckoned me with one finger.

And just like always—I came to her.

She fit into my arms like we were built for it. Her head rested against my shoulder, her fingers trailing up my spine. We swayed slowly, the rest of the world blurring around us.

“I love you,” I murmured.

“I know.” She looked up. “You made a whole blood vow, remember?”

“I meant it.”

She kissed me. “I know that, too.”

By the second round of dancing, half the guests were drunk, Sunny was politely asleep in a chair, and someone had hired a very spirited violinist who didn’t seem to stop playing even to breathe.

Thea had downed three glasses of firewine and was swaying a little—her heels discarded, her braid fraying, her eyeing Silas like she was debating throwing a knife at him or throwing herself at him.

She chose the latter.

He was halfway through a dramatic toast about ancient betrayal and poorly aged whiskey when Thea grabbed him by the collar and kissed him so fiercely that the entire crowd whooped.

Dahlia choked on her drink. Henry howled with laughter.

Silas, to his credit, had the grace to look surprised.

When she pulled back, he blinked, lips kiss-bitten and dazed.

“Woman,” he said hoarsely, “please marry me immediately.”

Thea smirked, tugging him back by the tie. “Shut up, one-eye.”

They disappeared into the trees a few minutes later.

I danced again with Dahlia. With Thea. Even with Henry, who spun me with unexpected grace and muttered, “You better keep loving her like that, boy, or I’ll come back just to haunt your ass.”

“I’m counting on it,” I replied.

The stars came out.

The fire burned low.

And my wife curled into my side beneath a sky full of ghosts and gods, her hand over my heart.

“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered.

“It doesn’t,” I said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not ever.”

And as the moon rose over the ashes of our past, I let myself believe it.

Author’s Note

To everyone who joined me on this journey—thank you. The Locket and the Flame was born out of a love for dark magic, messy hearts, and characters who fight like hell to survive and love anyway. If you made it to the end of this book, I want you to know how deeply grateful I am. Your time, your imagination, and your heart mean everything to me.

A special thank you to my incredible husband, Alek, for encouraging me, grounding me, and giving me the space and support to write even when the house was a mess and dinner was probably microwaved. I couldn’t have done this without you.

To Mack—Thank you from the bottom of my heart for keeping me motivated, and keeping me from going crazy. Not just for this book, but for life in general. You will always be my platonic soulmate, and I am so glad I have you.

To my Long Distance Bookclub—you’ve listened to my wild plot spirals, chaotic notes, and witchy character crises like the saints you are. Jen, Jules, thank you for letting me be unhinged and for being my unofficial beta readers through it all.

And to Jessica—thank you for being both honest and kind, for printing out my manuscript to read at work, and for caring enough to tell me what needed fixing and what made your heart ache. You’ll never know how much that meant to me.

I truly can’t thank you all enough for the love and support you’ve given me. I owe you more than I can put into words.

Keep an eye on my socials for updates on Book Two of The Binding Veil series: The Blood and the Bloom—Thea and Silas’ story isn’t over yet, and I can’t wait to share what’s coming next.

With love and fire,
Reanne

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