Page 16

DEREK

T here are few things in this world that unnerve me.

War. No.

Blood. No.

Even death, that old bastard, doesn’t rattle me anymore.

But him?

This polished, smirking, silk-cloaked prince of the Fae—he unsettles something in me I’ve spent the better part of two hundred years locking down with teeth and ritual.

He’s standing too close to her.

I watch from the edge of the courtyard, pretending to organize a crate of null wards while Hazel chats with him like she doesn’t feel my gaze drilling through the space between them.

The prince’s name is Thandor.

Because of course it is.

He’s taller than most Fae, with platinum-white hair braided down his back and eyes the color of polished amber. He wears rings on every finger and walks like the world was made just to flatter his shadow.

He arrived this morning with a diplomatic escort and a grin sharp enough to slice through veils.

And the first thing he did?

Bow to Hazel.

Not nod. Not greet.

Bow.

She laughed. Of course she did.

And now they’re in the middle of the square, her hand resting on her hip, his hand resting on his sword belt like he’s one poetic metaphor away from reciting Fae love oaths under the moon.

She says something and tilts her head, hair spilling over one shoulder in that way it does when she’s unaware she’s enchanting everyone around her.

Thandor leans in.

Smirks.

Touches her elbow.

Touches her.

And something breaks.

I move before I think.

Cross the square in three strides.

Hazel looks up the moment she senses me—because of course she does. Because she always feels me before she sees me.

“Hey,” she says, smile slipping just a little. “Didn’t know you were?—”

“Prince Thandor,” I say, voice like stone.

He turns slowly, like he already knows I hate him. “Ah. The famed Mr. Virel. So good to finally meet you.”

I don’t offer my hand.

He doesn’t offer his.

We stare.

Hazel’s eyes dart between us. “We were just talking about the ley line work.”

“Fascinating,” I say tightly. “And I’m sure Hazel’s work speaks for itself.”

“It does,” Thandor says smoothly, smile never reaching his eyes. “But her company speaks louder. Your witch is quite the marvel.”

“She’s not my —” Hazel starts, then falters.

I step closer to her. “You’re touching her.”

Thandor lifts a brow. “Am I not allowed to admire beauty when I see it?”

I bare my teeth.

“Derek,” Hazel says, warning in her tone.

But I’m not listening.

Because something primal is roaring in my chest, something ancient and dark and utterly possessive. It crawls up my throat and bursts out before I can stop it.

“She’s mine.”

The words land like thunder.

Hazel’s eyes go wide.

Thandor tilts his head. “Interesting claim.”

“It’s not a claim,” I growl. “It’s a fact.”

The air crackles.

Hazel stares at me, stunned, silent.

Then slowly she smirks.

“Wow,” she says, stepping between us. “Okay. Big dick energy, vampire edition.”

“Hazel—” I start, but she turns to Thandor.

“Thanks for the chat,” she says lightly. “You’re charming. Really. But if I stay here another minute, one of you’s going to end up hexed, and I don’t want to fill out that paperwork.”

Thandor bows again, a little more formal this time. “As you wish, my lady.”

She grabs my sleeve and yanks me toward the cabins.

Once we’re out of earshot, she rounds on me.

“What the hell was that?”

I don’t answer.

Because I’m still shaking.

Still burning.

She takes a breath. “You can’t just—say stuff like that.”

“It’s true.”

“I know it’s true, but that doesn’t mean you get to go all vampiric alpha when someone flirts with me!”

“He touched you.”

“I let him.”

I flinch.

She softens.

“Derek,” she says, stepping closer. “I didn’t want him. I wanted to see if you’d react.”

I blink. “You what? ”

Her grin is slow. Dangerous. Slightly unhinged.

“You heard me.”

And before I can answer, she walks away.

And this time?

She leaves me breathless.

I’m back in the crypt.

Not the crypt—the one beneath the Sanctum, where I laid Rowen to rest—but the small one Thorn built beneath Camp Lightring. A quiet space meant for reflection, not bodies. A place few ever come.

Which is why I’m here.

Because I need silence.

Because my thoughts are too loud.

I pace the stone floor, the only sound my boots echoing across the rune-scribed walls. Magic hums faintly here, low and steady, like the heartbeat of the camp itself.

And mine’s trying to match it.

She’s mine.

I said it.

To a Fae prince. In public. With every eye on us.

Like an animal. Like a man who forgot who he is. What he is.

I’m a vampire.

A creature bound by laws older than her family tree. I’ve buried lovers, comrades, and brothers under moons that no longer rise. I’ve killed without blinking. I’ve walked away from everything that ever dared make me feel like I was still a man.

And now—now this girl, this witch, this chaos-drenched, bright-burning hazard to my existence —has the nerve to make me hope.

Hope for mornings.

For laughter.

For the feel of her hand in mine without the threat of it turning to ash.

It’s terrifying.

Because if I love her—and I do, I do —then what happens when time remembers what I am and rips her away?

Do I turn her?

No. Gods, no.

I wouldn’t curse her like that. Immortality isn’t romance. It’s erosion.

But if I don’t —what then?

I get fifty years, maybe less. Watching her age. Fade. Burn bright and then flicker out, leaving me behind again.

And I’d do it.

I’d choose that pain.

That’s the worst part.

Because I’ve never been a coward when it came to blood.

But love?

Love terrifies me.

Because it’s not about killing.

It’s about keeping.

And I don’t know if I was built for that.

Not anymore.

But when I think of her…

When I see her in my dreams, in my shadows, I start to wonder.

Maybe I was never meant to have a future.

But maybe she is the one thing I’d let myself ruin eternity for.