Page 10 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

The cold air hits me instantly, sharp and biting, but it’s a relief after the tension inside. I pull my beanie from my pocket and tug it over my head, ignoring him as I descend the side steps.

I stop a few feet into the clearing, the forest stretching out before me like a frozen canvas. The air is so still it feels like the world is holding its breath.

In the daylight, I can really see this place for what it is—it’s stunning.

A perfect winter wonderland. The snow covers the ground like a thick, untouched blanket, sparkling under the weak sunlight.

The bony trees surrounding the estate are coated in frost, their dark branches glittering with small pillows of snow that cling stubbornly to the tips.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill my lungs. The tension eases slightly as I stand there, the cold seeping through my sweater but somehow still comforting. This moment, however fleeting, feels like the first bit of calm I’ve had since I arrived.

Malachi’s voice pulls me back. “Admiring the scenery?” His demeanor is lighter now, less pushy, though I can still feel the curiosity simmering beneath the surface.

I glance over my shoulder at him a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. “Maybe I needed to breathe without someone watching me like a hawk,” I snap.

“You did storm out dramatically,” he says, his smirk reappearing. “What was I supposed to do, let you wander off alone in the snow?”

“Yes!” My lips twitch slightly despite myself.

He shakes his head, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. “I’m here to admire the view too. No hovering, I promise.”

I turn back toward the forest and stare out at the endless stretch of trees. Beautiful as this place is, it feels like the kind of beauty that hides something darker beneath the surface.

“Do you want to fill me in on what happened back there? Can you really talk to dead people like my father claims?” Malachi asks.

I step onto the path that runs along the edge of the forest, the snow crunching under my boots as I keep my eyes forward. I know he’ll fall in line beside me.

I glance at him briefly. “Do you remember the accident I told you about?”

He nods, uncharacteristically serious. “The one where you lost your family.”

I swallow hard, pushing the memory back down before it can surface. I don’t let myself linger on that day—not for more than a second. “When I woke up in the hospital, that’s when I saw my first ghost. My gift… It’s changed over the years, but sometimes I can talk to the dead.”

He doesn’t interrupt, his footsteps keeping pace with mine as I continue, “If it’s someone who passed a long time ago, it’s usually easier to communicate with them.

They’ve had time to settle into the spirit world.

But cases like this?” I shake my head. “When they’ve died recently—and violently—it’s different.

Difficult. Sometimes they haven’t fully crossed over or haven’t accepted what happened to them. That makes everything…messy.”

I look down, admiring the snow beneath my feet, its pristine blanket so surreal. It sparkles like the world’s been dusted with starlight. I could look at it for hours if I weren’t in the middle of this nightmare.

“So what do you do with cases like this?” Malachi asks. “If you can’t talk to them, then what?”

I let out a long breath, watching it plume into the frosty air like smoke. “I have to try to decipher whatever images or words I’m able to get from them. And if that doesn’t work…” I don’t want to say it and admit where this might lead.

“If that doesn’t work, then what?” he presses.

“Then I’ll have to try other tactics,” I say quietly. “More draining ones.”

His footsteps halt behind me, and I pause too, turning enough to catch the look on his face. “Why do you let them treat you like this?” he asks. “Why do you let my father tell you what to do?”

I gape at him, the absurdity of his question hitting me like a slap. A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “I’m not sure how things are done wherever it is you came from,” I say, shaking my head, “but clearly you’ve been gone too long if you think I have any choice in the matter.

“This isn’t a life of options, Malachi. It’s survival. And that means playing by your father’s rules.” I turn and keep walking, not waiting for his response.

Behind me, I hear the crunch of his boots as he catches up, his silence speaking louder than anything he could say.

I circle the mansion, the path winding in and out of the frost-covered forest. It’s beautiful in a haunting way, but the cold seeps through my sweater, making my breath visible in the air.

I pull my beanie lower over my ears and head back to the front steps.

Then I hear the hum of an engine. A car pulls up the long driveway, and Orin steps out, his sharp gaze finding me immediately.

He closes the distance between us with purposeful strides.

“Who let you out?” he snaps, his hand grabbing my arm in a bruising grip. He yanks me hard toward the front steps, dragging me along like I’m nothing more than a troublesome pet.

I don’t fight him. I’ve learned better. Orin thrives on resistance—he lives for the chase and the punishment that comes after.

He’s the most deranged of Marco’s family, and I know firsthand how much he enjoys inflicting pain.

He carried out my punishments when I tried to escape, and it wasn’t duty—it was pleasure.

Every bruise and scar came with his twisted laugh echoing in my ears.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Malachi’s voice cuts through the icy air.

He rounds the corner of the house, his eyes narrowing as he sees Orin’s hand locked around my arm.

He’d been keeping his distance like I’d asked, but now he looks furious, his eyes narrowing and his movements quick as he closes in.

Orin sneers, his grip tightening as he jerks me closer to him.

“You were supposed to be watching the little bitch, not letting her wander around like this is a fucking vacation,” he growls at Malachi.

His nails dig into my skin, and I wince as he turns back to me.

“Do you even have anything useful to report yet?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Let go of her arm,” Malachi says, glaring.

He’s pissed—really pissed—and for some reason that makes the knot in my stomach twist tighter. I don’t need a savior, and I sure as hell don’t need him. He lied about who he was, showed up here thinking we could be friends, and now he’s playing the protective act? It’s infuriating.

“Oh shit, are you actually catching feelings for this little pest?” Orin laughs, his grin wicked and mocking. “Dad’s going to love this.” But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens.

“I’m looking after her,” Malachi says, his voice razor-sharp now. “Now let go of her fucking arm.”

Orin’s smile falters, twisting into something darker. He wants the fight. It’s written all over his face, the way his stance shifts slightly, preparing for a physical clash.

“Stop,” I yell, “I don’t want you looking after me, and I don’t need you sticking up for me either. Go back to wherever you came from.”

Something soft flickers in Malachi’s eyes—something I don’t want to see. But it vanishes quickly.

Anton’s gravelly voice booms from the front steps, catching all of us off guard. “I think you’ve had enough air.”

We all turn to see him standing there. His dark eyes sweep over the scene, unreadable but heavy with authority.

“I will be taking Miss Sinclair into my care until this investigation is complete,” he declares. “If you have a problem with it, speak with Viktor.”

My stomach drops. Great. This whole thing is spiraling out of control, even by my standards.

“It’s settled then,” I say, ripping my arm out of Orin’s grip and stepping away, the tension still crackling between the brothers. Orin is still locked in a silent stare-off with Malachi, but I don’t stick around to watch it play out.

Without waiting for anyone to stop me, I follow Anton back into the house, the cold air finally replaced by the oppressive warmth of the mansion. I don’t look back.

Anton shoves me into Carmen’s room with all the subtlety of a battering ram and barks out his decree, “Stay here until you have something to report.” The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of bleach and an overwhelming urge to punch something.

The asshole doesn’t even understand how this works. I don’t need to be in this room to contact her. I already saw her face and have her photo tucked away. That’s all I need. But let him think he’s cornered me. At least in here I’m free of Malachi’s watchful gaze and Orin’s insufferable presence.

Malachi.

My teeth grind together at the thought of him. What is his deal anyway? One moment, he’s trying to flirt with me, acting like he’s above all this family bullshit, and the next he’s every bit the enigma his father likely trained him to be. Who is he really? Why does he even care?

He’s probably no different than the rest of Marco’s men, perhaps better at hiding it. My gut twists with suspicion every time I think about him, like there’s a shadow behind his eyes I can’t quite make out. Something about this place and this case feels wrong.

Off.

Like the air itself is too thick with secrets.

My thoughts are interrupted by a voice that sends a cold ripple down my spine.

“I’d like to get a piece of you.”

I snap my head up, eyes wide. And there he is—leaning against the wall like he’s been here the whole time. Damien.

His presence is sharper, darker, more tangible than Carmen’s had been. His translucent form glows faintly in the dim room, and I can feel the weight of his spirit pressing against me like a cold hand on my neck. This is not a man whose company I’d have enjoyed in life.