We slip back into the bedroom, the air cool against our still-damp skin. The room is quiet, the chaos of the night now stilled, leaving only the faint scent of the shower and smoke from the still-burning fire in the fireplace.
Grayson moves to the dresser, each step measured and unhurried, the picture of ease in contrast to the tempest that raged only minutes ago. He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, both of them clearly his, and offers them to me with a small, almost shy smile.
"Here," he says, his voice low, intimate. "These should be comfortable."
His fingers brush mine when I take them, and it's such a small thing, a whisper of contact, but it grounds me. I catch the faint trace of his scent on the fabric—clean soap, rain, and something darker underneath, something that feels like him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His gaze lingers, unreadable, and the silence stretches until the air itself feels fragile.
The pants are too big, the shirt swallowing me in the best way, but I tie the drawstring tight, cinching the fabric at my waist in an attempt to anchor myself in something that feels like normalcy.
Grayson dresses next, stepping into a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, the lines of muscle shifting beneath his skin as he moves. I can't help but stare, the sight of him now—unarmed, unguarded—almost as overwhelming as the sight of him bared before me, all power and predatory grace. For a moment, neither of us speaks, the air heavy with things unsaid, the bond thrumming beneath it all like the pulse of a heartbeat we both pretend not to feel.
Then Grayson glances at the bed, something flickers across his face—something I can't quite read, gone as quickly as it came.
"Get some rest," he says, his voice roughened at the edges but gentle beneath. "I'll be here."
He doesn't say it like a command, but an offer—a promise that, for a few hours at least, I won't have to face the shadows alone. And for now, maybe that's enough. The quiet feels almost sacred, the kind that only comes after surviving something wild. I start to think maybe—just maybe—we'll get a moment to breathe.
But then, something shifts. A sound—distant, muffled, like a door slamming too hard—echoes through the stone halls. Grayson's head lifts instantly, instincts honed and dangerous. The air changes, sharp with tension, before the noise even builds.
Just as we're about to sink into the illusion of normalcy, a commotion erupts from the depths of the coven. Grayson stiffens, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn't there. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, yanking the door open to reveal the source of the chaos.
A vampire man runs up to him, eyes wide, his voice hurried—the same blond one I remember from the kitchen, his expression now stripped of any trace of teasing or ease. "Sir, we have a problem."
"I had to," Angel says, following close behind, her voice almost lost beneath the pounding of my heart. "I couldn't leave her like that."
Grayson doesn't hesitate, doesn't look back. He hurries out of the room, each step measured but urgent, and I follow, my heart pounding hard enough that it hurts. The closer we get to the main corridor, the clearer the noise becomes—raised voices, hurried footsteps, the crackle of tension stretching thin through stone.
The shouts sharpen as we turn the final corner. A cluster of vampires stand in the middle of the corridor, their shoulders rigid, faces drawn tight as they circle something—or someone. The air hums with agitation, the scent of blood faint but sharp enough to bite at my nose.
Grayson pushes through the crowd, and the coven parts for him immediately, as if compelled. The air shifts with his presence; even now, barefoot and half-dressed, he commands the room effortlessly.
Whispers ripple through the crowd, fragments of disbelief and alarm—"She shouldn't have been made," "Who did this?"
Then I see her.
A little girl. No more than eight. Her dress is torn, streaked dark with dirt and blood, her hair tangled around her face. But it's her eyes that stop everything—brilliant, blazing red, glowing like live coals. They're far too bright to be natural, too vivid against the smudges of grime on her cheeks. She snarls and snaps, baring small, gleaming fangs as she thrashes in the grip of the two vampires holding her. One of them hisses as her teeth nearly sink into his wrist, jerking his hand away just in time, and it's all I can do not to flinch.
My breath catches, a chill racing down my spine. The sound she makes—it's not a child's cry. It's feral, guttural, the kind of sound that comes from something cornered and broken, more animal than human. Her chest heaves with each ragged breath, her small hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Grayson stands frozen, every muscle gone taut. His face goes still, too still, his expression a war between recognition and disbelief, like he's seeing a ghost. The crowd quiets around us, the tension thick enough to taste, waiting, uneasy.
His hand twitches at his side—like he's fighting the urge to reach for her, or maybe to reach for a memory. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his breath catching on something half-formed. Whatever he's seeing, it isn't just this child.
The girl's gaze flicks wildly around the corridor, red eyes wide and unfocused, until they land on me. For an instant, her snarl falters into something almost human—a flash of confusion or fear, a flicker of the child she must have been before this nightmare caught her. Then she screams, a raw, piercing sound that echoes off the stone walls and makes my stomach twist. I feel the blood drain from my face, my heart pounding in my ears.
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the harsh panting of the girl's breath. The air feels heavy, charged with a kind of electricity that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I can't look away from her, can't unsee the too-bright gleam of her eyes, the savage curl of her lips.
Grayson hasn't moved, his gaze locked on the girl like he's trying to puzzle out a memory just beyond his reach. There's something haunted in his expression, something that looks almost like grief.
"Angel," Grayson says finally, his voice low and controlled, though the tremor beneath the calm sends a ripple of dread through me. "Get Cassidy somewhere safe."
Angel steps forward from the edge of the crowd, face pale, eyes glistening. She hesitates, glancing from me to Grayson, her hands trembling as she speaks.
"Grayson, I—"
"Now," he cuts in, quiet but unyielding. The command in that single word leaves no room for argument.
The girl's scream dies into an eerie stillness, and as Angel grips my arm, pulling me gently but firmly away, I can feel the weight of Grayson's gaze still fixed on the child—like he's staring at a ghost.
"I had to," she whispers again, her voice thick with tears. "I couldn't just leave her there."
I don't know what to say, my mind reeling, so I just nod, letting her lead me through the winding corridors until we reach a door I've never seen before. She pushes it open, revealing a room that looks like a grown-up version of a fairy tale—pops of pink and purple, fur throw blankets, plush pillows, the perfect blend of childlike whimsy and adult sophistication.
Angel ushers me inside, closing the door behind us, shutting out the chaos of the coven. But even here, surrounded by the trappings of innocence, I can't shake the image of those red eyes, the snarls that sounded far too savage to belong to a child.
Angel paces the room, fingers raking through her hair, her movements sharp and restless.
"He's going to be furious," she murmurs under her breath, voice low but trembling. "He's—"
A knock at the door cuts her off—urgent, hard enough to make the fur pillows jump. Angel freezes, eyes widening. For a moment, she looks torn between staying and bolting.
"Stay here," she says, already halfway to the door. The latch clicks as she opens it just a sliver, whispering hurriedly to whoever stands on the other side. I catch only fragments—the words containment, orders, and this wasn't supposed to happen. Then a sharp intake of breath.
Angel slips out into the hallway before I can ask anything, the door closing behind her with a soft but final thud.
When she leaves, I sink onto the edge of the bed, my pulse still uneven. The room smells faintly of vanilla and dust, too soft for the knot in my chest. I press my palms to my eyes, but the image doesn't fade—the child's red gaze staring straight through me.
And then something shifts. Like someone drags a memory across the back of my mind that isn't mine. The world flickers—a wide field, a sun setting, a low laugh. Grayson's. A younger voice answers him, high and bright, a sound that makes my chest ache before I realize I've never heard it before.
The memories keep coming—small shoes running across cobblestone, a doll clutched against a dress the color of lilacs.
It's not just an image—it's like falling into someone else's skin. The warmth of the setting sun brushes my face, the scent of wildflowers and smoke tangling in the air. I hear Grayson laugh—soft, unguarded—and feel a tug of small fingers clutching his hand.
The world spins, warps, and suddenly that laughter fractures into screams. I can taste the blood in the air, metallic and thick.
I gasp, and it's gone—burned out as fast as it came—but the echo of it lingers, leaving my hands trembling. I can still feel the ghost of her tiny hand wrapped in his, the imprint of love and loss woven into it.
My stomach twists. Whatever that girl was…whatever she is now…she reminded him of someone he once knew. And if what I saw is real, he didn't just lose her. He failed her.
The ache in my chest isn't mine alone. It feels borrowed, ancient, carried through his grief into me like a curse I never meant to share. And somewhere deep inside, I know this is only the beginning.