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Esmara doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. She waves him out like she’s summoning a housecat. “Don’t be shy.”

Silas snorts under his breath beside me, and I jab him with my elbow because this is spiraling fast and we haven’t even gotten to the worst part.

“Is this a party?” she asks, spinning as though she's at a damned royal ball. “Did you all gather because of me?”

And because fate is a sadist, that’s the moment Lucien steps outside.

He stops dead, one boot on the threshold, eyes landing on her like she’s a demon he thought he’d exorcised centuries ago. His jaw sets, the line of it sharp enough to cut stone. “Fuck.”

I offer him a dry smile. “Good to see you, Commander. We’re being hunted by the ghost of bad decisions.”

Esmara beams at Lucien, clearly thrilled by the sight of him. “Lucien! You look positively brooding. Still giving orders?”

Lucien’s nostrils flare. His gaze slices toward me like I personally invited hell to tea.

And then—because the universe is cruel and timing is her favorite weapon—the door creaks behind us, and Luna steps outside.

Casual. Curious. Barefoot and flushed from whatever she’d been doing, wearing one of Silas’ shirts, her hair a messy halo.

The second Esmara lays eyes on her, her brow furrows. Her gaze doesn’t linger long—no spark of recognition, no sign she knows who or what Luna is—but there’s a flicker of assessment there, sharp and cutting, like she’s wondering why there’s a girl here at all.

“Oh,” Esmara says sweetly, eyes narrowing, “Didn’t realize this was a family gathering.”

Lucien shifts, every inch of him radiating that dark, lethal calm that only means one thing: he’s about five seconds from snapping.

Luna, blessedly oblivious to the complete catastrophe brewing around her, blinks at all of us, then at Esmara like she’s trying to place her. Her bond with me is wide open—I can feel her confusion, her curiosity, her growing suspicion, all tangled in a lazy sprawl across my skin.

I glance sideways at Silas. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, shoulders shaking like he’s holding in the worst joke of his life.

This is going to go badly.

And we haven’t even started.

Ambrose

There are monsters in this world. I’ve fought them. Killed them. Hell, I’ve even invited a few into my bed and tasted what made them dangerous.

But Esmara? Esmara exists in a category all her own.

She stands at the edge of the clearing like a fever dream, wild-eyed and smiling too sweetly, the edges of her madness sharp enough to slice flesh. That smile hasn’t changed in centuries—it’s stitched from obsession and brittle threads of a mind long since fractured.

I still remember the first time I catch her rummaging through our rooms back at the Academy, locks of our hair tangled in her fists like we’re collectibles she’s cataloging. She made dolls out of them. Perfect replicas—stuffed with lavender and wool, their stitched smiles grotesque, their button eyes never closing.

It isn’t until I find one shoved beneath my pillow, a bloody ribbon tied around its throat, that I start sleeping with a dagger beneath mine.

And now she’s here, smiling like we’re old friends gathering for drinks.

My gaze flicks to Elias, who looks ready to peel his own skin off, then to Silas—who, to his credit, is trying to physically shrink, as though becoming small enough will make him disappear.

It won’t.

I shift my weight, folding my arms across my chest, voice dry and clipped. “Well. That explains why the Hollow feels heavier today. I was wondering when one of our sins would show up.”

Lucien mutters something sharp under his breath beside me. Orin stands still as stone on my left, unreadable, but I can feel the weight of his stare.

And Luna—Luna hovers in the doorway like a spark pressed to powder, blissfully unaware of what’s just stepped into our orbit.

Esmara’s eyes drag to me, lingering a moment too long. “Ambrose,” she purrs, voice as light as silk. “I never finished your doll.”