Page 44

The space between us buzzes. Not with charm. Not with desire, even. Something more dangerous. Recognition, maybe. Hunger wearing the wrong face.

I don’t move back when he takes another step. He stops with just enough space for implication.

“You said something’s changed,” I say, hating the heat rising in my throat. “Speak.”

“The Council has offered us thirty-one days in the mortal world.” His voice smooths into that slippery, calculated rhythm again. “A temporary release. You’ll accompany us. Observe. Report. Pretend we’re not monsters.”

I tilt my head. “And what happens if I tell them exactly what you are?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Then they’ll try to cage us again. And we’ll burn everything trying to stop them.”

I stare at him, watching for the shift. The lie. The flicker of false dominion. But there’s nothing to catch—not yet.

“I’m not here to help you,” I murmur.

He leans in just enough for the air to thicken with his scent—smoke, spice, the slow decay of something beautiful.

“No,” he says, his voice soft, lethal. “But you’re not leaving, either.”

That’s when I realize it—he didn’t knock. He didn’t ask. He waited. Because he knew I’d open the door eventually.

Because Severin doesn’t force things.

He just waits until you want to be devoured.

If I can get out of here—just once—I won’t look back. One step into the mortal world, and I’ll run like my life depends on it. Because it does. Because staying in the Void means becoming part of it. Becoming theirs.

And I may have sold myself for ’s freedom, but I didn’t sign up to be devoured by men who look at me like I was carved from their worst impulses.

I’ll play Severin’s game. I’ll smile just enough. Nod when I’m supposed to. Let him think I’m pliable. Because if the Council’s offer is real—thirty-one days outside—then I’ll make those days count.

“Alright,” I say, drawing the word out slow like syrup. “You want me to walk beside you while you play dress-up in the mortal world? Fine.”

Severin tilts his head. Not surprised. Not pleased either. He studies me like I’m a page in a book he’s already memorized but suddenly discovered has rewritten itself.

“I thought it would take more convincing,” he says.

“It did,” I answer. “You just weren’t here for it.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “You're smarter than they expected.”

“I’m smarter than you expected.”

That earns me a low sound from his throat, something between amusement and warning. He leans in just slightly, gaze dipping to my mouth and back.

“I always expect the worst,” he says softly. “That way, I’m never disappointed.”

I keep my face blank. He’s testing me, again. And I’ve learned that in the Void, everything is a seduction or a threat. Usually both.

He steps back, finally, and gestures down the corridor with a gloved hand.

“Come on, then. It’s time you met the others.”

I follow him, because there’s no version of this where I don’t. Not yet.

The hallways shift while we walk. I used to think it was a trick of the eye, the way corners reappear where none were before. But it’s the Void itself, rearranging like it’s studying me in return. Doors whisper open in our path. Light glows not from fixtures but from veins running through the stone, pulsing in time with something ancient.

The deeper we go, the less this feels like a mansion and more like a cathedral built to worship something feral and buried.

Severin leads me into a chamber that isn’t just large—it’s alive.

The walls are ribbed with black stone and silver bone, enchanted symbols glowing faintly, like breathing ink. A wide, sunken pit lined with velvet cushions and broken relics—candleholders with melted eyes, blades dulled with old blood, books that whisper when the wind shifts.

And they’re here.

All of them.

The other Sins.

Dorian is the first to notice me. He’s sprawled on a low divan, long legs crossed, fingers tapping against a half-finished sketch in his lap. He looks like a ruin wearing charm like armor—smudged eyeliner, whiskey-colored eyes that say he’s already thought ten things about me, none of them polite.

Soren’s perched nearby, too still. His violet eyes fix on me like I’m a meal he’s not hungry enough to chase—yet. He licks his lips once, slow, and doesn’t smile.

Vaelrik lounges against a support beam, shirt half-buttoned, knuckles bruised like he got into a fight and won out of spite. His gaze flicks over me without interest at first—then sharpens, lingers. The way wolves look at rabbits when they think no one’s watching.

Theron’s upside down in a chair that shouldn’t hold his weight. He grins when I enter, teeth too white, eyes too black. His fingers twitch like he’s already imagining what I’d look like naked.

Malachi stands near the edge of the room, arms crossed, unreadable. He watches the others before he watches me. When our eyes meet, it’s like hitting a wall made of knives.

Alistair is already watching me. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just nods once in acknowledgment. It should be nothing. Somehow it feels like more.

I step down into the pit, slow and steady, and every eye follows.

“What’s she doing here?” Vaelrik asks, voice sharp.

“She agreed,” Severin replies.

Dorian raises a brow. “Just like that?”

“I’ve spent two weeks in a Void-bound cell made of perfume and paranoia,” I say, tone dry. “Forgive me if I want a change of scenery.”

Soren chuckles. “You think this will be better?”

“No,” I say. “But I like knowing where the blades are.”

Theron claps, delighted. “She does have teeth.”

“And you’ll lose yours if you keep talking,” I murmur.

The way his smile widens is obscene.

Severin gestures toward me, voice smooth. “She’s coming with us. Play nice.”

No one says anything for a beat too long.

Then Malachi speaks.

“If she runs, I’m not chasing her.”

I don’t flinch. Because I won’t run here. But when we leave this place, when they let me into the world again— I will. And they won’t follow. At least, I don’t think they will.

I glance at Severin. He’s already looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m planning.

Shit.

“Where will we stay?”

The question leaves my mouth sharper than I intend, edged with too much urgency, but I don’t pull it back. I need the answer—not for them, not for whatever performance this is shaping into, but for me. For the piece of myself that hasn’t rotted in this mansion. The version that still remembers a life outside the Void, outside these walls stitched with magic and menace. If we’re returning to the mortal realm, I need to know how close I’ll be to the version of Layla that left.

His gaze is deliberate, lingering, not in the way men leer, but in the way spiders wait. Patient. Poised. Precise. There’s something too still in him, too contained, and it makes the moments between his movements feel choreographed. Calculated.

Then, wordless, he slips his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and retrieves a folded parchment—smooth, thick, the kind of paper that doesn’t exist in the modern world unless someone wants it to feel old. He holds it out to me like an offering. Like bait.

Our fingers touch as I take it. Brief. Intentional. Hot enough to feel like warning.

I unfold the parchment, scanning the flourished handwriting. It’s lined with instructions—how to pass through the gates, which spells will keep the mortal realm from fracturing at our return, what enchantments are bound to the Sins themselves in case of... rebellion. But my eyes drag to the bottom, and then everything else disappears.

Willow’s Rest. Beauclair County, South Carolina.

I read the address again.

Not just the state. My state.

Beauclair is real. Too real. I know those back roads. I’ve tasted their red clay. I remember the low hum of insects rising out of cypress-soaked dusk, the thrum of swamp water alive with things best left unnamed. I know the gas stations that never had working lights, the late-night drives and I took just to escape the weight of our parents’ house. I know the smoke. I know the way memory stings when you’re too close to it.

And this... this place they’ve chosen—it’s thirty minutes from the house I was raised in. Thirty minutes from the front porch my mother used to sit on with a glass of bourbon and a grudge she never got tired of wielding. Thirty minutes from the kitchen I bled in. From the ruins of everything I tried to escape.

They’re putting us in my backyard.

I fold the parchment slowly, keeping my face still, jaw loose, expression empty. I hand it back to Severin like it means nothing. Like it doesn’t feel like a noose slipping around my throat.

His fingers brush mine again when he takes it. Slower this time. I don’t flinch, but something flickers across his face—curiosity, maybe. Or triumph. Either way, I don’t give him what he’s looking for.

He slips the parchment away with a smooth flick of his wrist and turns to the others, his voice switching instantly into command—sharp, clean, practiced.

“I’ll inform the Council. We’ve accepted their terms.”

The shift in the room is palpable. It moves like a creature rousing from sleep—subtle, visceral. Vaelrik mutters something under his breath, likely a threat with no real target. Dorian yawns like boredom is a weapon and he’s sharpening it for later. Malachi’s already retreating toward a warded cabinet across the chamber, his fingers flicking through spells and sigils as if preparing for a war he’s always expected.

Severin doesn’t look back at me as he speaks again.

“We leave at dawn.”

The others begin to scatter. The atmosphere fractures into murmurs and silent glances, tension lines crackling through the air like a prelude. But I stay where I am, still at the edge of the pit where they first saw me as a piece on their board.

Thirty minutes.

That’s all.

When we leave this place, when we step back into the mortal world and they think I’m theirs, I’ll run. I’ll run so far and so fast they won’t know I’m gone until I’m already free.

They think they’re bringing me back into the world as their observer. Their escort. The girl wrapped in Void silk, whispering secrets into Council ears. They have no idea I’m walking them into the world so I can leave them behind.

Forever.

I glance at Severin.

He’s still watching me.

Like he already sees the blood on the road I plan to run.

Theron

I may or may not have watched her. Not in a creepy way. Okay, maybe a little creepy. But not, like, serial killer creepy—more like… curious-void-entity-with-too-much-time-and-an-infinite-capacity-for-obsession creepy. Totally normal. Totally justified.

Besides, she leaves her curtains open like she wants to be seen. Not that she looks at me. Not yet. But I’ve seen her—barefoot at the window, wrapped in Voidlight like she doesn’t even notice it swallowing her skin. The way her hair falls down her back like spilled ink, thick and a little wild. She’s got that stubborn set to her jaw even when she’s doing nothing. Like she’s planning an escape even in sleep.

Dark chocolate hair. Blue eyes like ice sharpened into something mean. Hm.

I tap my chin, squinting from where I’m half-hanging off the chair. She’s still down there with the rest of them, saying nothing, but the electricity in her bones screams loud enough. Something about her is so familiar, but I can’t quite pin it. Not in the lived-it sense. In the I’ve-definitely-seen-you-on-a-forbidden-internet-thread sense.

“Where have I seen you,” I mutter to myself, rolling a bone die across my palm. “Celebrity archive. Go.”

I hum while I sort through the Rolodex of pop culture I downloaded into my skull before the Void collapsed all our subscriptions. Could she be early-Megan Fox with a body count? Nah, too soft in the mouth. Margot Robbie if Margot had a history of setting fires. Still no. Florence Pugh in a horror flick?

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Jessica-fucking-Lowndes.

I snap my fingers, delighted, nearly slipping off the rail. That’s it. The smirk. The tragic sex appeal. The whole I could ruin you and still walk away cleaner than you energy. Gods. Why do all the morally interesting women come prepackaged with good bone structure and contempt for men like me?

I grin, teeth sharp.

Oh right.

Because it makes me starve for them.

Down below, she shifts. Her gaze brushes the room like a blade testing where to press. Her silence is threaded through with teeth. It’s the kind that knows how to hurt when it chooses to speak. And fuck, I want to hear her say something stupid to me just so I can twist it into something worse.

She’s going to be a problem.

I hope she’s a big one.

“She’s going to run,” Malachi mutters from somewhere to my left, where he’s shadowing the edge of the room like the undead accountant he is. Always watching. Always tallying.

“Let her,” I reply, dropping down onto the nearest ledge like a cat that’s only pretending to be domestic. “She’ll taste better after she sweats a little.”

He glares at me like he wants to file a complaint with the Void’s HR department. Which, to be fair, is me. And I’m very unprofessional.

“She’s not food.”

I raise a brow. “Everything is, eventually.”

His silence means I win that round.

She’s pretending she’s not watching Severin as he makes his big announcement. She’s pretending none of this matters to her. But I know posture, and I know liars, and I know girls who think survival is all about stillness.

She’ll move eventually. And when she does—I’ll be the one closest to the edge. That thought buzzes against my teeth. I roll it like a sweet I’m not ready to chew yet.

“She reminds me of someone,” I say aloud.

“Don’t say it,” Dorian mutters from where he’s scribbling in his ruined sketchbook.

I grin wider. “Jessica Lowndes.”

“Gods help us,” he sighs.

“I know, right?”

Soren doesn’t even look up. “If you start singing again, I’ll throw you into the Wyrm pit.”

Rude.

But not untrue.

Still. My attention shifts as Layla finally folds the parchment. Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture does—tightens. Quiet calculation radiates off her in waves, cold and lovely. She hands the paper back to Severin like it burned.

Whatever was written there—it meant something to her.

I file that away.

The Void groans softly through the walls, like it's listening, too. Like it's hungry for what comes next.

So am I.

I roll off the couch in one fluid movement, bones stretching, joints crackling with satisfaction like the Void’s own version of bubble wrap. I land on my feet with a soundless grace I absolutely do not deserve and straighten to my full height, spine unfurling like I’m made of shadows and bad decisions.

She’s small. Compact. Coiled like something that bites after you’ve made the mistake of calling it cute. Which she is. In that lethal way. The kind of pretty that shouldn't be approached without gloves and a safety net. But still—she’s short. That’s… interesting.

I tilt my head, curious.

“Hold up,” I murmur, eyes narrowing in the most serious, scientific way possible. “How tall are you?”

She blinks at me, instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“No reason.” I’m already stepping closer, hands in my pockets, mouth twitching. “Just need to know if you legally qualify as a cryptid or a very angry raccoon.”

“Theron—”

Too late.

I reach out and pat the top of her head like I’m checking the hood of a car. She swats at my hand, but I’ve already circled around behind her, crouching slightly to get a more accurate measurement.

“Yep,” I declare, delight spreading across my face like rot in springtime. “Confirmed. I’ve got at least eight inches on you. Possibly more. Would you like me to chart it on a doorframe, or will you admit your proportions are illegal in at least seven Void territories?”

She glares up at me, and oh, gods, it’s delicious.

There’s fire under her skin, and she’s holding it back like she hasn’t decided yet whether she’s here to kill us or convert us into something she can use. I like her. I like her a lot.

“Are you seriously this annoying all the time?” she asks, voice flat but not emotionless. No, there’s something under that—wariness, yes. But also amusement, tightly wound and sharpened like a blade pressed to her palm.

“Annoying?” I gasp, clutching my chest like she’s mortally wounded me. “You wound me, smol terror. I prefer endearing. Or provocatively charming. Possibly feral adjacent.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Sure it is.” I lean in slightly, voice lowering just enough to run warm over the edge of her jaw. “From you? It’s practically flirtation.”

She stiffens. Just a flicker. Just enough for me to feel it. Her eyes narrow.

“I’m not here to flirt.”

I grin wider. “No, you’re here to pretend you’re not fascinated by the monsters who want to know what you taste like when you lie.”

She doesn’t hit me. But gods, she wants to. I can feel it radiating off her in slow-burning waves. It’s not anger. It’s something more primal. The knowledge that I’m not afraid of her, not the way mortals usually are. Not the way I should be. And it’s got her caught between threat and thrill.

Perfect.

I step back just enough to let her breathe, then flick a wink over my shoulder as I saunter off toward the hallway Severin just left through.

“We leave at dawn, darling,” I call, voice sing-song and bright as hellfire. “Pack your sarcasm and your best mortal-girl-with-a-dark-secret outfits. It’s time to show the world what we’ve been keeping in the dark.”

I don’t look back.

Dorian follows me out of the room, and I can hear the smug in his laugh before he even opens his mouth.

“Well,” he drawls behind me, low and amused. “That was bold. Even for you.”

“I know, right?” I hiss back, wide-eyed as the door shuts behind us with a finality that sounds like someone locking in their doom. Probably mine. Maybe hers. Who’s to say?

We hit the corridor, and without a word, we run.

Fast. Quiet.

Like two scolded children high on stolen candy and adrenaline. My boots skid on the stone floor, Dorian’s coat snapping behind him like a goddamn cape, and both of us are wheezing by the time we round the first corner.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, breathless and delighted, doubling over beside a torchless alcove. “I touched her head. I patted the Binder like she was a fucking house cat.”

“She almost murdered you,” Dorian wheezes, bracing his palm against the wall, shoulders shaking. “That’s the most physical contact anyone’s had with her since she got here. Except Alistair, but he doesn’t count. He touches people like he’s checking for a pulse.”

“Yeah, but did you see her face?” I straighten, grinning from ear to ear, high on the chemical chaos only Layla Evernight seems capable of triggering in me. “She was this close to hexing me through a wall.”

“Honestly,” he says between breaths, “I was hoping she would. We could’ve gotten the day off.”

“From what?” I gesture around us like the Void’s house staff is watching. “There is no off here. There’s just survive, suffer, and Severin monologuing.”

He snorts, and we both start walking again, the energy still crackling between us like we’re kids who just egged the principal’s house. My hunger’s purring now, low and pleased—not just physical this time, though that’s always humming beneath the surface, gnawing at the walls of my spine.

No, this is different.

This is her.

Layla. Binder. Bait. Girl with ice in her eyes and a mouth built for war.

She’s been nothing but cold silence since the day she arrived, and now suddenly—fire. Sharp words. A spark.

And she didn’t run from me.

That’s dangerous.

That’s interesting.

“You think she’s really going to leave once we’re out?” Dorian asks as we turn into the hall that leads toward the stairwell, his tone lighter than usual, but something in his eyes sharpens. “You think she’s got a plan?”

I spin a bone ring around my finger, watching the way it flashes black before fading back to ivory.

“Oh, she’ll try,” I say, thoughtful now. “Girl like that’s not the type to let anyone write her ending. But the world out there?”

I glance over at him, grin crooked.

“It doesn’t care about freedom. It just wants to see what she does with it.”

“And us?” he asks. “What do we want?”

I shrug, spinning the ring faster.

“To see what she tastes like when she chooses to stay.”

The knock is aggressive. Petulant. Offended by the concept of waiting.

Only Severin knocks like that.

I sigh, loud and exaggerated, letting it echo for dramatic effect as I roll my eyes toward Dorian, who’s still pretending to care about folding his clothes neatly instead of stuffing them into that cursed duffel stitched from warlock skin and entitlement. He doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a single brow, the universal signal for don’t make it worse.

I make it worse.

“Gods above and Void below,” I mutter, dragging my hand over my face like I’m preparing for death. “Here comes the royal dickhead himself.”

I throw the door open with a flourish, leaning against it like I’m answering in lingerie and regrets.

And there he is.

Severin Virelius, in all his brooding, exquisitely tailored, walking-sin-of-a-man glory. Black-on-black suit with faint shimmering wards stitched into the collar, pressed like he’s about to host a funeral for someone he arranged to have murdered. His hair is as perfect as ever—slicked back, sharp at the temples, like it’s afraid of disappointing him.

His gold-flecked eyes sweep over me, already unimpressed.

“Theron,” he says, voice flat.

“Severin,” I reply with a grin, “you look like you're here to tell us we’re not allowed to have any fun.”

“I’m here,” he says through clenched teeth, “to remind you that the Council gave us thirty days to prove we’re not an irredeemable infestation of wrath and corruption. You will not make a fool out of me before we’ve even crossed the threshold.”

Dorian emerges behind me, casually swinging a flask like it’s an accessory. “So, after?”

Severin shoots him a glare that would make mortals combust. “After, you’ll behave like we belong in that world. Not like we’ve come to dismantle it.”

I hold up a hand. “Now hang on. Dismantling is such a loaded word. I prefer... creatively reinterpreting its structural integrity.”

“Theron,” he says tightly, and I can see the fracture in his glamour—the faintest crack around his left temple, the way his jaw ticks when he’s near spiraling. He’s holding the illusion like a weapon, but we all know it’s forged from panic and pride. “Layla will be traveling with us. The Council expects her to remain... unmarked.”

I raise a brow, slow and deliberate. “Do I look like I’ve marked her?”

Dorian hums. “Not yet.”

“Not helping,” Severin snaps, then turns his focus fully on me. “This is not a fucking game, Theron.”

“No,” I say, softly now, stepping in just close enough to make him stiffen. “It’s worse than a game. It’s real. And you hate that more than anything, don’t you?”

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then he exhales, sharp, and turns on his heel like a man who can’t afford to be human right now.

“We leave in early,” he says. “Be ready.”

I salute with two fingers and an exaggerated bow. “Sir, yes, sir. Shall I polish my halo?”

He slams the door behind him. Dorian chuckles and flops back onto my bed like we’ve just survived a particularly dramatic scene in a cursed opera.

I’m still grinning as I spin the bone knife between my fingers. Because Severin thinks I’m going to be the problem. But he hasn’t been watching her the way I have.

And Layla?

She’s already the storm.

Severin tells us to behave like he wasn’t the one who burned down a cathedral and danced in the ashes like it was a waltz composed for sinners.

Like he hasn’t rewritten half the laws of binding magic just to prove a point. Like he didn’t make a priest kiss his boot and swallow a lie so thick it shattered three realms before the ink dried.

He tells us to behave.

I’m grinning as I toss another handful of teeth—not mine—into the bag at the foot of my bed. Dorian watches his expression is what I like to call “patiently exasperated,” which is really just code for amused but refusing to encourage me.

“Behave,” I echo, mocking Severin’s gravel-velvet tone. “Act like we weren’t spawned in a hell-rift and raised on ritual sacrifice and mortal panic. Sure. Totally doable.”

Dorian raises a brow. “You're the one who summoned a kraken to flirt with a mermaid queen.”

“She liked the kraken,” I say, indignantly. “She said it was ‘a bold romantic gesture.’”

“She was crying when she said it.”

I shrug, unfazed. “Tears are a sign of emotional investment.”

He groans and disappears into his room again, probably to pray for my extinction. I fidget with the chain around my wrist—one of my favorite toys. The links don’t connect in the mortal sense. They hover just far enough apart to buzz with static, laced in an enchantment that eats lies and occasionally tries to bite me. Sentimental.

“Severin’s real problem,” I call after him, “isn’t that we’re monsters. It’s that we don’t pretend we aren’t.”

Dorian reappears in the doorway, this time with his coat draped over one shoulder. It’s black and blood-red and lined with sigils that scream when wet. “He’s terrified we’ll be ourselves in public.”

“Terrified?” I scoff. “Nah. He just wants the world to think he’s refined. You know, gentleman villain. Suits and smirks and emotional constipation.”

“Which is hilarious, considering—the cathedral.” I grin, spinning the bone ring on my finger, the one that hums when someone nearby wants to kill me. It hasn’t shut up since Layla arrived.

“Do you remember,” I muse, “the look on his face after the fire died down? When the bishop ran into the flames screaming and Severin just... watched?”

Dorian gives me a sideways look. “Watched? He applauded.”

“Right,” I say. “Polite applause. Respectful. Like he was at the opera and not an active war crime.”

“That’s our fearless leader,” Dorian says dryly, slinging his coat on and adjusting the lapel like we’re about to walk into a gala and not a metaphysical battleground of Council oversight and political manipulation.

“He just doesn’t want her to see us like that,” I say, softer now, still fiddling with the chain. “Layla.”

Dorian glances at me.

I know that look. It means be careful.

I ignore it.

“She’ll see it eventually,” I continue. “The truth. The rot. The parts we keep beneath the charm.”

My hunger is showing again. I can feel it in the ache between my ribs, the way my skin hums too hot, stretched thin like it’s remembering what it means to need. I haven’t devoured anything since the last Wyrm breach, and the longer we stay in this house, the worse it gets.

The others can bury their Sins in ritual and routine. I wear mine. I am mine.

“I need out,” I murmur.

Dorian nods once, like he gets it. Because he does. He doesn’t feel hunger the way I do, but he feels emptiness. Different flavor, same rot.

“We’ll be out soon,” he says. “Try not to eat the Council.”

I laugh, sharp and light. “Only if they ask nicely.”

Footsteps echo farther down the corridor. Alistair’s, probably. Maybe Malachi’s. They walk like guilt. Severin walks like ambition. But me?

I walk like appetite.

And tomorrow, when we step through that gate—when we taste mortal air—everything changes. Because Severin wants us to act like redemption is possible. And I want to watch that idea choke to death on its own sanctimony.

Available April 24th 2025…