Page 14

Kieran

Dahlia didn’t let go of my hand.

Even after she told me to go back to sleep, then laid next to me—soft and steady, like her voice could stitch the edges of my nightmare back together—she stayed. Her fingers tangled gently with mine, and when I finally lay back down, she moved with me.

She settled against my side, warm and close, one hand resting over my heart. Her breaths slowed, smoothed out. Sleep returned to her easily.

I envied that.

I stared up at the ceiling, the shadows moving like smoke across the paint.

Her hand rose and fell with each of my breaths, steady.

I could feel the delicate weight of her palm, could hear the quiet sounds of her dreams. The way her hair brushed against my arm.

How her fingers flexed slightly every few minutes, like she was still holding on even in sleep.

But I couldn’t close my eyes again.

Every time I tried, the circle came back.

The blood. The heat. The smell of burning sage and betrayal.

The way Calliope had smiled through her lies.

How I’d believed her—wanted to believe her—so badly I hadn’t seen the trap forming until the teeth were already sunk in.

And Silas… standing just outside the ritual, watching. Letting it happen.

And I let it happen, too.

I let them all die.

I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Dahlia. She murmured something incoherent and curled closer, her nose pressing into the hollow near my shoulder.

I swallowed hard.

This wasn’t just a dream. It was a warning. Or a memory. Or both.

Whatever had imprisoned me hadn’t disappeared with the centuries. Whatever dark thing had twisted the Rite, broken the laws of magic, and fed on the lives of my coven… it was still out there. Still watching. Still waiting.

And now it had a new target.

Dahlia.

My flower .

That locket hadn’t just bound me. It had found her. And not by chance. No magical object survives that long and ends up in the hands of a witch without intent. Without a thread being pulled.

And that’s what terrified me.

I turned slightly, just enough to see her face—peaceful in sleep, soft in the kind of way I didn’t think existed anymore. She wasn’t just kind. She was curious. Fierce. She wore her heart on her sleeve like armor and made space for things she didn’t understand just because they needed space.

She’d brought me back.

And I was scared to death I’d cost her everything because of it.

I should try to leave. I knew that. Whatever was coming, I’d faced it once—and barely survived. She wouldn’t. Not if she stayed near me. Not if it decided to finish what it started.

But gods help me... I couldn’t move.

Because even as the fear knotted my stomach and burned behind my eyes, I couldn’t stand the thought of walking away. Of watching her smile at someone else. Of hearing her laugh through a closed door that I wasn’t allowed to open. Of her lying still, cold, gone—because of me .

I looked down at her again.

She didn’t know. Not yet. Not how deep this ran. How dark it could get.

But I did.

And I’d be damned—again—before I let anything touch her.

Even if it cost me everything I had left.

So I stayed. Awake. Watching the ceiling fade to gray as morning crept in behind the storm.

And with her hand over my heart, I promised silently into the dark:

Never again.

It was just past six.

The sky outside was the color of watered-down ink, a soft bluish-gray leaking through the curtains. Rain still ticked at the windows, gentler now, like it had finally tired itself out. The house was quiet.

Dahlia was still asleep, her head tucked beneath my chin, one arm draped loosely over my ribs. Her breath warmed the fabric of my shirt, slow and even, like the night had finally wrung itself out of her.

Sunny, the orange tyrant, had claimed the pillow next to mine as his throne. He was curled like a smug croissant, tail flicking against my temple every now and then in a passive-aggressive reminder that he was the true ruler of this bed.

I didn’t move.

Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to. For the first time in… Gods, centuries, maybe… I didn’t feel haunted. Just heavy. Grounded. Like if I moved too quickly, this fragile moment would shatter and vanish.

And then the door exploded open.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!”

Thea’s voice shot through the room like a cannon blast.

Dahlia bolted upright like she’d been launched, hair wild and tangled, the pajama shirt she had on halfway off her shoulder. Her eyes were wide with that freshly-woken guilt only people who haven’t technically done anything wrong can conjure.

“I—what—Thea?!”

Sunny leapt off the pillow with an offended yowl, landing on my stomach before launching himself out of the room in a blur of orange fluff and betrayal.

Thea stood in the doorway like an avenging goddess in borrowed flannel pants and a faded “Hex the Patriarchy” t-shirt, her hair sticking out in about seven different directions. Her expression was a storm cloud of confusion, judgment, and not enough coffee.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Is it customary in this century to kick in doors without knocking?”

“Don’t even start with me, Locket Dracula,” she snapped. “I wake up, Dahlia’s gone, and this is what I walk in on?”

Dahlia, still blinking like she hadn’t fully rebooted, stammered, “I—You were snoring and flailing—and I couldn’t sleep—and then he had a nightmare and I just—It’s not like that!”

“Not like what?” Thea narrowed her eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”

I sat up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist, and fixed her with what I hoped was my most intimidating glare. “She slept. That’s all. You, however, seem intent on making that a crime.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t bring a stake.”

“Gods, she really does think I’m a vampire,” I muttered under my breath.

Dahlia scrambled out of bed, clutching the edges of her shirt and running a hand through her curls in a futile attempt to fix the chaos. “Okay! Okay! Everyone breathe. Thea, I’m sorry I left the bed without saying anything. I just didn’t want to get roundhouse-kicked in the kidney again.”

Thea crossed her arms, unrepentant. “You could’ve left a note.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, because when escaping a sleep assassin in the dead of night, one always takes the time to pen a courteous farewell.”

Dahlia looked between us, exasperated. “Can we not fight at dawn, please?”

A long silence stretched. Thea sighed, tension slowly draining from her shoulders. “Fine. But we’re talking about this. Later. Preferably when I’m caffeinated and less homicidal.”

She turned and stomped out, muttering something about making a damn pot of coffee before anyone else crawled into bed with an ancient magical war criminal.

I collapsed back against the pillow with a low growl. “Your friend is insufferable.”

Dahlia dropped onto the edge of the bed with a groan. “She’s just protective. And very... Thea.”

“I noticed.”

“Thanks for not snapping at her harder.”

I smirked up at her. “You were defending me before you even had your eyes open. Consider us even.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and for just a second, the storm of chaos passed.

Then, from the kitchen: “AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE YOU STOLE MY BLANKET, MOORE!”

Dahlia winced. “I might need to bake her a peace offering.”

“Bake two,” I muttered. “One from me.”

She laughed, soft and sleepy, and I felt it again—that quiet, terrifying pull in my chest.

Gods help me.

I was already gone.