Sera POV
It started normal.
Well — normal for us.
After five rom-coms and one emotionally devastating drama (Vixzen sobbed, Vivien just blinked like she was calculating stock losses), we ended up watching a horror anthology.
"It's not a real sleepover until we shit ourselves from fear and we psychologically damage ourselves," Vixzen had declared with a manic grin, grabbing the remote like it was a weapon.
Bad idea.
Naturally, horror movies followed.
And not the fun horror. No, the why-is-the-sound-mix-this-unholy horror.
We made it halfway through one about cursed mannequins before Liora started muttering anti-hex chants in her sleep, Vivien adjusted her bra like it might save her soul, and I caught myself hearing… things.
Not like… house-creaks. Real things.
Movement. Flickers in the corner of my vision. A whisper of something that wasn't there when I turned my head.
We were now huddled under three blankets and a comforter I think had tax evasion.
Vivien was stock-still. Liora flinched at every creak. I was this close to burning sage and buying a priest on Amazon.
"Okay, okay! Enough creepy kids and possessed dolls," I said, hugging a throw pillow like it could save me from eternal damnation.
"Fine," Vixzen said, eyes gleaming with fresh chaos. "Let's summon the dead."
There was a collective pause.
Vivien slowly swiveled toward her like a murder turret. "Absolutely not," Vivien said flatly.
Liora blinked like she was buffering. "Have you inhaled too much dry shampoo?" Liora asked
I just stared. "Why would you say that out loud? In my apartment? With my ghost-attracting energy?" I demanded.
"Are you having a seizure or…?" I asked.
"No! I mean—yes. But also, let's do a revival ritual!" Vixzen said brightly.
"It'll be fun!" Vixzen beamed. "Some girl online accidentally summoned her soulmate and now they run a coffee shop in Vermont!"
Vivien narrowed her eyes. "That was a Hallmark movie."
"Based on true events," Vixzen argued.
"We're in lingerie. Watching horror. At midnight. You want to bring the dead to that party?" Liora deadpanned.
"They might enjoy the view," Vivien muttered, already reaching for her tea like she regretted all her life choices.
"I'm not summoning anything. I like my soul right where it is," I said. "Inside my body. Warm. Un-haunted."
Vixzen pouted. "Come onnnn. It's harmless! The chicken's already dead!"
"There's… a chicken?" Vivien asked.
"Wait," Liora narrowed her eyes. "Is this about the leftover rotisserie in the fridge?"
And so, fifteen minutes later, against all reason and human dignity, I found myself holding a plate of rotisserie chicken
— Vixzen was scrawling something vaguely arcane across my tiled floor with lipstick
— Vivien and Liora were moving my couch like bored witches doing CrossFit
"You know this isn't going to work," I muttered, placing the chicken in the center like a sacrificial centerpiece.
"Don't be rude. We're giving him a proper offering," Vixzen sniffed.
"It doesn't even have a head," I pointed out.
"Or feet," Vivien added.
Liora crossed her arms. "Is it weird I'm more offended by the circle? Those runes are Korean, Latin, and possibly someone's Wi-Fi password."
"Art is subjective," Vixzen declared.
"I hate all of you," I muttered.
"No you don't," Vixzen said. "Also, this is the exact method a human used to summon their supernatural soulmate. Google says so."
"Where on Google?"
"A blog. From 2004."
Vivien was squinting at the "manual."
"This is a screenshot from the horror movie we just watched," she said flatly.
"With a badly OCR'd transcript," Liora added, holding up the page.
"Okay, but what if it works?" Vixzen said, hands on her hips.
We all stared at her like she'd grown a third tail and collectively sighed
Four supernatural women.
One chicken.
One circle of lipstick.
What could possibly go wrong?
Then we stood in a circle around the chicken. Hands linked. Wearing various states of silk, lace, and existential regret.
I cleared my throat. "This feels like the prequel to a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode."
Liora squeezed my hand. "At least our obituaries will be tasteful."
Vivien muttered, "If I die during a lipstick ritual, I'm haunting Vixzen forever."
"Love you too," Vixzen replied sweetly.
We began to chant. It wasn't even Latin. It was mostly dramatic syllables and one badly sung verse of an Icelandic lullaby Vixzen made up.
And then.
Total blackout.
The lights cut. The TV died. Every bulb in the apartment fizzled out at once.
We screamed in perfect four-part harmony.
Something banged against the wall. Then— a loud crack.
The front door burst open.
Male voices. Loud. Grunts. Growls. Urgent. Heavy boots pounded the floor. .
Someone yelled, "Clear right!"
Vivien hissed, "We summoned SWAT?!"
Liora shrieked, "I TOLD YOU THE CHICKEN WAS CURSED."
I went for one of the displayed gifts my father gave to me.
Someone grunted. Something crashed. A deep, familiar voice called my name—
And all I could think was: I hope they brought snacks.
---
Kaiden POV
We stood outside our apartment, all three of us loitering near the door like dumbasses waiting for divine intervention — or maybe just a reason to stop staring at the crowd forming in front of 26C.
"Any bright ideas?" I asked, arms folded.
Zaire had that face — the one he gets when he's trying to solve an unsolvable mathematical equation or rethink existence itself.
Theodore just looked… puzzled. In that silent, mountain-of-muscle way. Still and brooding and completely unhelpful.
I'm pretty sure we looked just as clueless as every other man gathered outside Seraphine's door.
What is it with women? Why do they short-circuit the thinking capacity of grown men into that of a bean?
And then I remembered Seraphine's blue lingerie from last night.
...Okay, never mind. I'm just as bad.
And then—
Blackout.
Total.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Every instinct we had snapped to alert.
A beat later:
High-pitched screams. From inside 26C.
We heard them — not just one. Multiple. Panicked, chaotic, laced with varying degrees of sheer supernatural terror.
"VIXZEN!"
"LIORA!"
"VIVIEN!"
"SERAPHINE!" we shouted, all three of us.
We bolted, shoving through the door that was already broken open like someone had body-slammed it in panic.
It was pitch black.
No lights. No power. No sense of direction.
But our training kicked in — all three of us dropped into formation automatically, senses flaring. Hearing sharper. Eyes adjusting. Movement tracked.
"Clear right," Theodore called, his voice steady but low.
The scent of ozone.
Fear.
Perfume.
Burnt… poultry?
A hiss in the dark: "We summoned SWAT?!"
Then a shriek: "I TOLD YOU THE CHICKEN WAS CURSED!"
Then—
The lights came back on.
Silence fell.
Absolute.
And then—
Every. Single. Male. Brain.
In that hallway.
Stopped functioning for a full minute.
Because what we saw wasn't a crime scene.
It was the aftermath of a lingerie apocalypse.
Like Victoria's Secret and Charlie's Angels had a chaotic, magical baby and let it play dress-up in a battlefield.
From left to right:
A tall, long-haired blonde bombshell — red corset, high-slit lace, standing like a Valkyrie with daggers in both hands. Eyes calm. Judging.
Next to her, Vixzen — her fox ears and tails fully out, completely unbothered. She wore silver lingerie with a mini-skirt that puffed just enough to qualify as a war crime. Pistols in each hand, smirking like she was seriously debating shooting someone just to make a point.
Beside her — the one in green. Straps. So many straps. The kind of lingerie that required a master's degree and possibly a ritual to remove. She had a small fireball floating in one palm. Her other hand was on her hip. Her brow said "I dare you."
And then…
Seraphine.
My breath just—stopped.
She looked like she'd escaped a honeymoon…
Or was planning to murder the groom halfway through the vows.
Ivory silk. Lace. A whip in hand. Her stance screamed "bridal seduction," but her eyes? Her eyes said "try me and die."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then some dumb bastard from the back of the hallway shouted:
"OMG I'm in heaven!!...or hell!! I don't care!!"
Every single guy glared at him with enough heat to incinerate his vocal cords.
And then — like we were sharing one big communal brain cell — we all moved.
Each of us. Straight to the woman we hadn't even admitted we were here for.
No questions. No hesitation.
Theodore, thank gods, still had his jacket on. He moved like a soldier, reaching Seraphine and immediately wrapping it around her, zipping it straight to the collar like she was a national treasure he needed to secure from public exposure.
Zaire wordlessly found a blanket and draped it over her legs, tucking the corners in like it was second nature. His jaw was tight.
Around the room, the same thing happened.
Each guy found his woman — jacket, coat, hoodie, hell even an enchanted cloak — and threw it over her like it was instinct.
Possessive?
Yes.
Primal?
Absolutely.
Effective?
Also yes.
I raised a brow at Zaire. Didn't say a word.
He gave me a long, exhausted huff, then turned his head slightly and shot me a glare that translated to: "Fine. You were correct this time."
I grinned. Victory never looked so damn smug.
And in the middle of it all…
Seraphine just blinked up at us from under three layers of warmth, a chicken at her feet, and murder in her eyes.
Gods help me, Im falling bad.
---