Page 15

15

SERAPHINE

T he sun’s not even up yet, but I’m already on my feet.

I move through the apartment barefoot, the stone floor cool against my skin, the air heavy with the ghost of last night. My robe hangs open just enough to let the morning air in. Coffee brews on the counter, filling the silence with that low, soothing hiss. My hands tremble when I reach for the mug, not from cold but from everything else.

Because I let him in.

Not just my bed.

My power. My grief. My truth—at least some of it.

And he didn’t flinch.

I should feel stronger. But instead, I feel like I’m made of glass.

I hear the rustle of footsteps behind me, bare feet scuffling louder than mine.

He walks in shirtless, his jeans slung low on his hips, half-buttoned, like he didn’t bother finishing the job before following the smell of caffeine. His hair’s a mess—bed-wrecked and sticking up in places my fingers remember touching. There’s a fading cut on his jaw from where he hit the floor during the rescue. His shoulders are broad, all lean muscle and sleepless tension. The tattoo on his ribcage—the one I’d traced last night with my mouth—is still red around the edges like it didn’t quite want to heal.

Jackson Cole is a mess of bruises, scars, and that look in his eyes like he’s been chasing ghosts his whole life and just caught one between his hands.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just walks to the counter, eyes skimming over the coffee, then over me.

“So... this is awkward.”

I lift a brow. “Only if you talk about it.”

“Right.” He scratches his chest and takes the mug I hand him, his fingers brushing mine. “No talking. Got it.”

We drink in silence for a few beats. The apartment’s still dim, the curtains half-drawn. Shadows curl at the edges of the ceiling like they know better than to leave just yet.

After a moment, he says, “We should keep this quiet.”

I nod. “Agreed.”

“No one at PEACE would buy it anyway.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at me over the rim of the mug, that crooked half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because you’re an ice queen, and I’m a pain in the ass.”

“And neither of us is known for good decisions.”

“Speak for yourself.”

I roll my eyes.

But there’s something softer in the air now. Still charged, still on edge, but not as brittle.

He walks over to the desk where I’ve laid out the photos from the latest crime scenes. Spread across parchment and rune-scrawled sheets, the bodies are captured in angles only someone with a purpose would design. Arms placed. Legs twisted. Spines broken in symmetry.

Jackson squints.

“You keep this shit where you eat?”

“Where I think,” I correct. “Coffee sharpens analysis.”

He reaches down, picks up one of the crime scene photos from the last two weeks, then lays it beside one from earlier.

“You ever notice this before?” he asks.

I frown, stepping closer.

The victims—three of them—left arms all dismembered. One with the forearm bent like a hook. Another with the hand twisted back and fingers split. A third looking as if it’s missing entirely.

He shifts the photos. Lines them just right.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

They connect.

Not in the clean puzzle-piece way. More like... glyphs. Like runes.

The angles of the limbs, the positioning of the torsos, the way each piece looks wrong until you view them together—there’s a shape forming.

He grabs the others, quick now, three more. A leg. A shoulder blade flayed out like wings. A ribcage cracked wide and arranged like a letter.

Jackson mutters, “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“It’s a word,” I say. “Ancient tongue. Forbidden.”

He turns. “You know it?”

“Yes.” My mouth goes dry. “It’s spoken only in sacrifice. The language predates witches, predates even the old Fae. It’s the language of creation through destruction. ”

“What does it say?”

I swallow hard. “ Tharos al’venin. ”

“Translation?”

My lips press together.

He grabs my wrist gently. “Sera—what does it mean?”

“‘He rises by the blood of many.’”

He goes quiet.

Then, softly: “That’s a name?”

“It’s a promise.”

I walk back to the desk and pull the oldest file from my locked drawer—one even Jackson hasn’t seen. Inside is a sketch. A creature half man, half wraith. Horns of bone. Wings of ash. A shadow king who once nearly razed the old kingdoms before he was locked beneath a seal that required not magic—but language —to hold.

It required a name erased from existence.

The one that’s showing up now.

Jackson stares at it. “They’re bringing him back.”

“Or they’re trying to.”

His jaw tightens. “And we’re still pretending this isn’t bigger than all of us?”

“I’m not pretending anything anymore.”

I look up at him.

He’s standing close now. Close enough I can feel the heat from his skin again. Close enough I remember the way his mouth felt against mine last night, hot and desperate and right in a way that should terrify me.

His voice is low.

“You still think we can keep this a secret?”

I’m not sure if he means us, or the truth.

So I say nothing.