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“Let’s get you inside so you can get some proper rest,” he said. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. The drive here was long—about twenty-two hours—and although she’d slept for most of it, she’d woken up frequently from the sound of traffic and the pulsing of streetlights.

She got out and walked with Darien to the house she had feared she might never see again. Up the front steps that were framed with pillars and lion statues, and through the door that was already open.

Reality finally hit as she sucked in another deep breath of air laced with more familiar smells.

Home. They really were home.

The others were already inside. Their murmuring voices were coming from the kitchen.

Loren squinted in the bright light of the chandelier—and paused mid-step as glass crunched under her shoe.

She blinked. Looked down.

Oh.

Her stomach sank as she scanned the foyer.

Hell’s Gate looked like a tornado had gone through it. Smashed glass, limen coins, flower petals, and bits of broken wood and metal covered every inch of the floor. There were holes in the walls, framed photographs that had once hung on hooks now lying in pieces.

So much had happened these past few days that Loren, to her shame, had totally forgotten about this very important detail.

Darien set down their bags by the stairs and walked left through the foyer. The living room. The dining room. And finally, into the kitchen.

She trailed behind him, minding where she was placing her feet. Her throat tightened as she watched him quarrel in silence with the reality that his home had been invaded. Trashed. Disrespected.

Jack was digging around in the cupboards under the sink. He found a box of trash bags and ripped one from the roll.

“Pass me one too, please,” Arthur requested. Jack handed him the one in his fist and retrieved another, his face grave, as Lace walked by with a broom and dustpan and began to sweep the floor.

Eyes a shining black, Darien used his sixth sense to pick apart the mess with careful attention to detail. Loren knew exactly what he was doing as he stepped up to the stainless steel fridge, his frown deepening, and trailed the tips of his fingers across the top edge.

That was where the little Hob had sat every day. Behind those cereal boxes that were now tipped over. Different types of cereal had been spilled across the floor among shards of glass, shattered dishes, and broken bits of furniture.

Darien was still touching that spot on the fridge when he said quietly, “He hung on here.” Loren had the feeling he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Everyone froze. Jack and Arthur paused cleaning up. Lace’s broom stilled mid-sweep.

He dropped his hand, his jaw flexing.

Loren’s eyes welled with tears. She tried to see what he saw, but there was nothing there that stood out to mortal eyes. Familiar Spirits did not have fingerprints, so whatever Darien was looking at must be streaks of color. Evidence that an innocent creature had clung to the fridge while some awfulperson who had no right to touch him had ripped him off, prying his fingers free with force, and stuffed him into a bag.

She hated them for doing this. For taking Mortifer. For wrecking the house that had become her home. For causing that look of unbearable agony on Darien’s face.Hatedthem. She had never been the type to wish death on anyone, no matter who they were or what they’d done, but in that moment she wanted nothing more than for whoever had done this to be brought to justice. Even if justice was delivered in the form of a bullet or a blade. In a house of Darkslayers, there was no shortage of those.

From the look in Darien’s eyes, his expression no longer pained but fierce with determination, he’d see it done.

“I’ll check the rest of the house,” he said without looking at anyone. Behind them, the others quietly resumed cleaning. “I want to make sure everything’s clear before I’ll feel comfortable leaving you by yourself for any length of time.” It took Loren a moment to realize that he was talking to her.

“You’re leaving?”

“I just meant separate rooms,” he clarified.

She blinked, because it still wasn’t very clear to her. Did he simply mean separate rooms while they went about their day to day lives, such as when she was upstairs and he was downstairs, or would they be sleeping separately now?

Her throat constricted. She knew what they both needed right now was some personal space, but she hadn’t thought this far ahead in detail. To what their lives might look like the minute they made it back home. Things weren’tnormalanymore—but they never really had been, had they? There were harsh realities, old and new, that they had to come to terms with, the biggest being her mortality. She could no longer pretend that she had forever with Darien, and neither could he. Weeks or months if she was lucky. Days if she wasn’t.

Darien added quietly, “I know you’re tired and probably want to shower.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can help, too.” But she was drained, and she knew, when his eyes finally slid to hers, that he could see it on her face. Sleep was calling to her—propersleep. Her mortal body could only handle so much. At any point in time, the Widow’s prediction could come true, and her heart could permanently stop. She had to survive long enough to make sure Darien’s wouldn’t, and sleep was exactly the thing her body needed right now.