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Let them.

Alistair brings food. Quiet. Efficient. He doesn’t try to charm me. Doesn’t ask questions. He places the tray, nods like a ghost in mourning, and waits. That’s it.

He’s the only one I tolerate. The others—I can hear them beyond the hall sometimes. Dorian’s smart mouth. Theron’s manic laughter. Vaelrik snarling like he wants to tear flesh from bone. Soren, when he came to the door, looked like he wanted to tear something else. He leaned against the frame like the world belonged to him and smirked like sin had a voice.

“You’ll come out eventually, sweetheart,” he’d said, tongue practically in his voice. “The Void doesn’t let anything stay untouched.”

I slapped him before he could finish the thought.

He left laughing.

And then—nothing. Just Alistair. Just food. Just me.

Until today.

Today the mansion shifted. I felt it. The walls tightened around my lungs, a pulse beneath the floorboards, like somethingwoke up. Something old. And then—his voice.

Severin.

Outside the door.

“You’ve made quite the impression,” he drawls. His voice is too smooth. Too deliberate. Like he knows the effect it has and is trying to pretend he doesn’t need it. “They’re all talking about you now. Dorian’s started dreaming in riddles. Theron keeps drawing you in his spellbooks. And Vaelrik’s halfway to biting someone just to cope.”

I stay seated on the floor, back against the wardrobe, knees drawn up. I could stand. I could scream. But I won’t give him that.

“I didn’t ask for attention,” I say flatly.

He hums low, amused. “You didn’t have to. That’s the beauty of it. You starved them better than I ever could.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

He always speaks like he’s dancing, even when the music is cruel. And I hate how much of my breath I have to hold when he’s near.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Because something’s changed. You felt it.”

Yes.

But I don’t admit it.

“The Council has offered us a… reprieve,” he continues. “Thirty-one days in the mortal world. A performance, of sorts.”

I laugh under my breath. “You performing? You mean lying.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“I never claimed to be honest, Layla. Just persuasive.”

His voice wraps around my name like it’s laced in honey and venom. I hate the way it makes my fingers twitch.

“You expect me to be your pretty little handler?” I ask, rising slowly to my feet. I move toward the door, not opening it, but close enough to hear him breathe.

“I expect you to come out,” he says. “I’m done feeding ghosts through a door.”

“And I’m done being bait.”

Silence. Then softer: