Page 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

BLAKE

W e don’t speak much on the drive home.

Not because the silence is empty, but because it’s full. Dense, like fog off the river. One of those deep night silences that presses against the windows, curling around the frame of the Range Rover, humming softly beneath the idle murmur of tires on wet pavement. The street lamps cast thin gold blades across the glass, slicing the darkness into pieces I don’t know how to hold yet.

In the back seat beside me, Charlie is curled in on herself. The seatbelt strap pulls tight across her chest, but she hasn’t moved to adjust it. She clutches my hand in her lap, fingers sticky-slick with rain and sweat. Neither of us lets go.

Malachi’s steady at the wheel; his blood-splattered knuckles pale on the leather, his jaw set with a kind of quiet fury. He hasn’t spoken since we’ve gotten in the car. But he hasn’t closed himself off, either.

And that counts for a lot, I admit.

We pull up along the curb in front of the townhouse like a ship drifting into port after being lost at sea—intact, but forever changed. The living room light glows faintly through the window, and a single porch light burns steady outside, like it’s been waiting to guide us home. The guards that Malachi placed earlier are nowhere visible, but I no longer doubt they’re there. Not after tonight. I assume every shadow has protective eyes, surrounding my home with security.

It’s almost unnerving, how normal it looks. Nothing broken. No sign that the world tore open earlier. That my daughter was ripped from me, and a man—no, a creature—bled out on stage with Malachi’s fangs to his throat.

All of me still aches with the memory of how tightly she held on. The fear in her eyes won’t leave me. I don’t think it ever will. Some quiet, feral part of me still wants to hurt Kit for what she went through, even though it’s over.

She’s safe now. She’s home.

But my heart is still catching up.

Malachi circles to open Charlie’s door before I can unbuckle myself. She doesn’t make him wait; she climbs out slowly, blinking up at the row house like she’s never seen it before. And maybe she hasn’t—not through these eyes. Not since tonight clawed trauma into the fabric of her thoughts. I’ve tried so hard to keep the darkness of the world from touching her, but Kit has stolen a piece of Charlie’s innocence that she’ll never get back.

He doesn’t reach to touch her, but he stays close, a step behind. A constant. She keeps a fraction of herself pivoted toward him, like somewhere inside her, she knows the danger’s passed because of him. And maybe that’s what steadies me the most as we walk across the threshold together.

The door clicks shut behind us with a quiet finality, and I exhale the first whole breath in what feels like hours.

She’s back. She’s alive. She’s okay.

But I’m not sure I am.

Wren is already inside, sitting on the edge of the couch with an unfamiliar vampire woman next to her. Her pale hair is twisted into a messy bun, a baby blanket tossed over one shoulder, and her year-old daughter, Emily, asleep in her arms. A faint tension still clings to the smooth line of her jaw. She stands the moment we appear, carefully shifting Emily against her chest, and her gaze locks on Charlie.

“Hey, lady. I’m glad you’re safe. You okay for now?”

Charlie gives a wobbly nod. Her lips twist inward again like she’s trying not to cry for the fifth time tonight. She hardly shifts even when Wren crosses to wrap her into a swift, warm, one-armed hug. It’s easy to tell it’s not that she’s uncomfortable, she just… is still recovering.

To Wren’s credit, she doesn’t press. From what I know of Wren’s recent past, she’s more than familiar with how okay is relative. Okay can mean one thing, then change in the next minute. She just holds her for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then backs away with a murmur: “This is Dr. Shayla Madison, the doctor on call tonight. Let’s get you looked at before your mom gets you to bed tonight, yeah?”

Charlie’s chin lifts in acknowledgment, and with Wren at her side, they walk toward the living room.

But first—Charlie turns toward me. Her hand finds mine again. Squeezes once. Not hard.

But I feel it.

I squeeze back and whisper the only thing I know to say: “I love you.”

She nods, then follows Wren into the living room. Malachi and I stay in place, the front door at our backs, air thick with the memory of too many endings.

I break the silence first. “She trusted you,” I say quietly. “Even before you were there. She said you were coming. That you’d find her.” Then a watery laugh escapes me, just as quiet. “She even cussed at him and I really don’t care.”

“I did, thanks to you,” he murmurs. Then, after a pause: “She told Kit that I was going to fuck him up.”

His voice is hoarse. Deeper than usual. Like something scraped it raw from the inside. His eyes don’t meet mine—not yet—but his fingers twitch at his side, and I catch the ghost of a smile.

I take a deep breath, watching Dr. Shayla crouching in front of Charlie, who’s sitting on the couch now. “She’s okay,” I whisper. I think I’m saying it more for me. “We’re okay.”

He nods. Once. “Yeah,” he says, softer than I expect.

But now that I’m looking closer, I notice it—his shirt clings to him in places, darkened with blood that’s mostly dried but unmistakably his. There’s a deep tear across the shoulder seam, and underneath it, angry slashes of claw marks, jagged and half-sealed. A bruise blooms along his ribs, the shape of it brutal and blunt, like something heavy landed hard. Another gash peeks out just beneath his collarbone, crusted and red. He’s hurt—worse than I thought. Not enough to keep him from fighting, no, but enough that I realize no one’s tended to him. Not even him.

“You’re hurt,” I say quietly. “You need to let her look at you, too.”

His mouth lifts, barely. “I will,” he says, then adds, “after I shower.”

He doesn’t say anything more—but as he passes, he brushes his hand down my arm. And that small touch, gentle against the raw patchwork of fear still clinging to me, is the only thing that keeps me standing.

By the time I make it over to the living room, Wren has taken the doctor aside. Charlie sits curled on the far end of the couch, a blanket pulled around her shoulders, her strawberry-blonde hair hanging loose around her face.

I move to where Wren and the doctor stand a short distance away, giving Charlie space. Dr. Shayla turns to me with a calm, steady expression, her voice low enough not to carry. “She’s doing well, all things considered,” she says. “Physically, she’s fine—some bruising, a bit dehydrated, but nothing lasting. Emotionally… well, that might come later. You should expect nightmares. Fatigue. Possible mood swings. It won’t always make sense, but it will be part of how she processes.”

I nod slowly, absorbing each word like I’m bracing for a storm I can’t see yet.

Dr. Shayla adds, “The Nightshade network has access to excellent trauma therapists. Even just a couple sessions can help ground things before they spiral. It’s not a weakness—it’s just… recovery with help.”

My throat tightens. I nod. “Thank you,” I say quietly, then add, “Also—Malachi needs to be looked at. When he’s out of the shower.”

Wren steps in smoothly. “I’ll make sure he gets checked out. You don’t need to hang back for that.” Her voice is quiet but firm, a subtle offer of protection I hadn’t realized I needed.

I nod, grateful.

Wren turns to Charlie, offering a quiet smile. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe in a couple days we’ll have a girls’ day and go get brunch together and get our nails done.”

Charlie looks at her, then at me. “I want to sleep in my room,” she says. There’s a firmness in her voice, small but solid.

I reach out and brush a curl from her cheek. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get you settled.”

I take her hand and guide her upstairs myself, step by slow step, her body leaning just slightly into mine. In her room, I help her out of her clothes, find her favorite pajamas she owns, and get her tucked in beneath the duvet she’s had since she was eight with her stuffed narwhal. She doesn’t say much, but her blue eyes track me the entire time.

When I sit down on the edge of the bed, she reaches for my hand again.

“Can you stay until I fall asleep?” she asks.

My heart aches. I reach out and run a hand over her hair. “Of course.”

She hesitates. “And Malachi?”

“Yeah,” I say, breath hitching. “Yeah, I’m sure he will once Dr. Shayla is done with him.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “Good.”

She says it softly, but there’s weight in it. Trust. Even after all of it. Maybe especially after all of it.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” I wait until she meets my eyes again. “I’m just going to get ready for bed and then I’ll be right back.”

I slip down the hall to my bedroom, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly. The bathroom door is open, light off—Malachi must already be finished and back downstairs. That small detail brings a sense of relief I can’t explain.

I pull on an old cotton tee and pajama pants, then quickly return to Charlie’s room.

She’s already pulled the comforter up to her chin by the time I enter. I slide in beside her and settle in as she props herself in the middle of the bed.

Twenty minutes later, Malachi is back. Wearing soft black sweatpants and a fitted obsidian shirt, his damp hair curling around his jaw. I’ve been lying beside Charlie, talking softly with her about the art museum we saw on a postcard last week—the one in Vienna she couldn’t stop staring at. We branched from there into our wish list: Paris, Rome, Florence, London. A casual, dreamy thread of conversation to keep the weight of the night at bay.

When Malachi enters, I glance up at him and smile softly. “We’re talking about our future European art tour,” I tell him. “All the museums we’re going to see one day.”

Something flickers in his expression—understanding, maybe, or gratitude. He knows exactly what I’m doing.

Without hesitation, he crosses to the opposite side of the bed and eases onto the comforter with careful, steady grace. “I could share some stories,” he offers gently. “From the times I’ve been. Or... from when I knew some of the artists.”

Charlie’s eyes widen, that spark of curiosity finally breaking through the haze.

Malachi looks at me. Then her. He nods again.

He starts with the Vatican. Moves into the Guggenheim. Then tells a story about the ancient underside of Prague—where the stone corridors were so narrow Lan once got wedged between two pillars, and Ashe laughed so hard he nearly dropped a priceless artifact they were smuggling back to the proper owners.

His voice is steady and warm, painting each place with the kind of detail that makes it easy to imagine. She hums once or twice, asking what the food was like, then what kinds of doors lined the floors. He answers each question without hesitation, like this moment is exactly where he wants to be.

We both smile at one point when she says one of the facades sounds ugly.

And when she finally starts to fall asleep, lips parted, breathing slow, nestled somewhere between me and him, she mumbles thickly, “I liked when you called me your daughter.”

Malachi goes utterly still.

I don’t breathe. I didn’t know he’d said anything like that.

And then he shifts slightly, reaching across the space between them, and his hand settles lightly on her forearm.

“So did I,” he says.

Neither of us speaks when her breathing evens out, slow and steady, her small frame finally at rest.

We stay like that—just watching her. The quiet between us isn’t heavy. It’s steady. Peaceful. Like neither of us want to break it. Like this, right now, is sacred.

Something warm settles in my chest as I glance from Charlie to Malachi. The way he’s watching her, like she’s already his. Like we’re already his. For a moment, it feels less like a night we survived and more like the beginning of something solid. Something that lasts.

He told me he wants to mark me. Told me he wants this—us—with a certainty I can still feel under my skin. I watched him kill for us.

When our eyes meet, I know he’s still thinking about it too.

We rise together, wordless, moving quietly as we leave Charlie’s room behind.