Page 8

I spend the entire night looking for Ares.

I swear, I have to walk thirty miles, maybe more, in the twenty-four hours I search.

I try calling him fifty times. It goes straight to voicemail every single time.

I text him about a hundred times, but none of them say delivered.

It’s obvious Ares’ phone is dead. How far gone is he now?

Over the last week, he’s definitely acted weird.

There’s been the times he can’t remember what he did.

But he’s always had moments of himself. He’s come home.

He’s spent time with me. He’s still been him.

But it’s been thirty-something hours since I last saw him, and Ares hasn’t been logical enough to plug in his phone?

He hasn’t tried to contact me or anyone else?

Just how bad is it now?

Damn. I don’t want to know, but I have to.

The Wall Street district, mid-town, Harlem.

I swear, I search the entirety of Manhattan.

But he could be anywhere now. He has his motorcycle.

In the few minutes he went back to the penthouse, he probably grabbed his wallet, so he has money now.

I should have thought to check for that while I was at home.

What other vampires does Ares know?

Is Harry next? Sysco?

The sun has just broken over the horizon, and I should be absolutely exhausted, but I’m not.

I’ve been darting around this city literally for twenty-four hours.

My legs should be on the verge of collapse.

But I feel just as fine as when I left the penthouse.

But the sun is coming up, and the streets are getting busier and busier.

There’s a slight burn in my throat now, though. It’s been just over twenty-four hours since I last drank. I need to go home soon, because for the very first time, as I look around at the people bustling around me, they smell good.

Really, really fucking good.

I notice pulses. In necks, at wrists. I can hear their hearts beating.

I turn a corner, aiming myself back for the penthouse. But as I walk down the street, it feels familiar. I realize why when I look up and see Ophelia’s building just down the block.

My chest tightens as I remember the last time I was in that building. How thoroughly she rejected me. How she all but spat in my face. It didn’t matter how I tried to reason with her. It didn’t matter how I explained.

She sat in that beautiful apartment, and she judged me. Judged Ares. Someone she wouldn’t even give a chance.

My feet suddenly falter. I come to a stop right across the street from her building.

Ophelia’s beautiful apartment.

I stare at the building, scraping my eyes over it. It’s damn near brand new. I wouldn’t call it upscale, but it’s definitely nicer than most of the itty-bitty shitholes on this island.

Ophelia never should have been able to afford it.

But she’d somehow sweet talked the landlord into giving her a killer deal.

Ophelia walked into the top law firm a month ago and got a job she was under-qualified for, when they weren’t even hiring.

My breath catches in my throat.

Something sharp bites at the backs of my eyes.

Ophelia has always had a way with words. She so often has been able to get what she wants. Not always. But often.

Fuck.

Ares went to see Ophelia the morning everything went bad.

Ares told me that Ophelia had tried to talk him into leaving me. He’d said hell no.

She couldn’t talk him into that.

But what did she talk him into doing after, and how did she make him forget it?

I stalk across the street, barely dodging the traffic.

Two different cars honk at me, but I don’t even look in their direction.

My eyes stay fixed on the building ahead of me.

My fingers clasp around the door, yanking it open.

I crack the button to call the elevator as I slam it.

Heat is practically radiating off me as I rise to the nineteenth floor.

I know she’s home. As I step in front of her door, I can hear her moving inside. I smell her perfume before I even touch the door handle—a sharp, floral scent that always seemed too sweet for who she really is.

And I don’t bother knocking. I twist the doorknob, easily breaking it when it’s locked, and shove it open.

Ophelia yelps from her kitchen, where she’s seated at the bar, eating breakfast. She backs away in a hurry, tipping the barstool over.

“Lana?” she barks in fear and annoyance. “What the hell?”

“What the hell indeed,” I snarl as I step inside. I shove the door closed behind me and stalk across the space, stopping just three feet away. “Did you know you can do this? That you could twist and manipulate him?”

But she doesn’t answer immediately. When I zero in on her, her eyes are searching me in confusion.

She sees it.

She doesn’t know what she’s seeing, but she knows something is wrong. Her eyes flicker over me, trying to pinpoint what’s changed. I watch the way her breath hitches, the way her pulse jumps at her throat. I don’t speak. I don’t have to.

I close the door behind me.

"Did you always know?" I demand again, my voice low, measured.

Her eyes don’t meet mine, they continue studying me. "Know what?"

I take a slow step forward. "That you can influence people. That you can make them do things."

A beat of silence hits as heavy as an anvil. She blinks, too fast, and finally, her eyes meet mine. "What are you even talking about?"

I can hear her heart hammering. I can smell the adrenaline rolling off her in waves. My anger stirs deep in my chest, curling like a living thing.

"Don’t play dumb with me, Ophelia," I say. "You’ve always had a way of getting what you want, haven’t you? The job, the apartment, the favors—people just listen to you, don’t they?"

She swallows, the look in her eyes shifting to steel. "That’s just called being persuasive."

"No, it’s not," I say, voice sharp. "Ares hasn’t been acting like himself for a week. We don’t know what he’s been doing. Do you? "

Her face drains of color.

She knows.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. I take another step forward, slow and deliberate. She instinctively takes one back.

"Ares came home with blood on his hands." My voice is quiet, but each word is razor-sharp. "We’ve been getting reports. Vampires in this city—dead. Did you make him do it, Ophelia?" The last few words come out as an accusatory whisper.

Her mouth opens, then snaps shut.

The silence is deafening.

My nails bite into my palms. The anger is rising now, swelling in my chest, pushing at the edges of my control. A new kind of anger—deep, instinctual, edged with hunger. It’s not just fury. It’s predatory.

She sees it. She feels it.

And something new stirs inside of me. My nostrils flare as her scent hits me. Not the scent of her perfume. Not her laundry detergent. Not her shampoo.

Fuck. I smell her blood .

And it smells divine.

My mouth waters.

My stomach clenches.

I can see her pulse in her neck, the rapid beating of her heart as it pushes blood throughout her body.

Shit.

No, Lana.

I blink, tossing the unexpected instinct out of my head.

No.

Ophelia shakes her head rapidly, oblivious to the moment that just happened. She steps back until she nearly trips over the edge of the coffee table. "Lana, they shouldn’t even exist. What they did to me, to you?—”

“What Augustus did to you,” I cut her off coldly. “What one man did to you.”

“And what do you think the others would do?” she says coldly as she backs right into the couch. “I had to protect you too, Lana, even if it’s from yourself, because you’re too close to it all.”

"What you did is worse than anything any of the others ever did. People are dead now, Ophelia.” My words fall like anvils from the sky, their impact crushing to both of us.

“And why were you so angry about what Augustus did to you? Because he took away your free will. But look what you’ve done now.

” I shake my head in disgust. “You used Ares. You took away his free will. Because he never, ever would have done this on his own. So, how are you any better than Augustus?”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I watch as the weight of my words settles on her shoulders. The shock, the slow unraveling of the truth, the way she’s starting to understand.

"Ares will have to live with this forever," I say, my voice like steel. "That’s on you , Ophelia."

She trembles, just slightly, but I see it. Her fingers tighten into fists. She’s trying to hold onto her justification, trying to grasp at some sliver of self-righteousness. But I see the cracks forming.

I take one last step toward her. She has nowhere left to run.

"Did you always know?" I demand. "That you could do this?"

Her lips part. A heartbeat passes.

Then she exhales, barely a whisper. “I’ve never really known . It doesn’t always work. Just… sometimes people listen to me.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“How long?” I ask, my words so quiet, they sound absolutely deadly.

She quivers as she looks back at me. The terror in her eyes makes her look manic. “It started when I was sixteen."

My stomach twists. And I remember the last time I was in this apartment. Ophelia’s tone suddenly changed. She’d grabbed me, and she’d begged me to leave Ares, to forget about him. I hadn’t even considered it for a second.

Ophelia had tried to influence me. But it didn’t work.

"How often do you do it?" I ask, low and dangerous.

She doesn’t answer.

And that tells me everything I need to know.

I take a slow breath. My hands unclench. The room is thick with silence, the air charged with something electric and raw. Ophelia stands before me, shoulders hunched, face pale, her whole world unraveling into blood-stained chaos.

Good.

She should feel this. She should live with it.

“Who helped you?” I ask, my words ice cold.

Ophelia’s face turns white. I smell the sweat prickling her skin. “How do you…”