The world didn't just move,it dissolved.
Lyra felt the sensation of being pulled through a needle's eye a crushing, breathless pressure that tasted of ozone and ancient dust. Her vision smeared into a blur of neon streaks and grey fog. Then, as quickly as the air had been sucked from her lungs, it slammed back in.
She tumbled forward, her boots hitting plush, velvet carpet instead of wet London asphalt. She stumbled, her knees giving way, but a pair of strong, ice-cold hands caught her before she could hit the floor.
"Breathe," a voice commanded. It was Lucian. His voice was closer now, vibrating against her ear. "The Shadow-Step is hard on human lungs. Breathe, Lyra."
Lyra gasped, her chest heaving as she sucked in the scent of the room—expensive leather, aged sandalwood, and a faint, metallic tang that she realized, with a shiver, was the scent of his skin. She pulled away from him, her heart hammering, and looked around.
They were in a penthouse that looked like it belonged to a dark god. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the London skyline, the Shard piercing the clouds like a glass needle. The furniture was minimalist and black, the walls adorned with paintings that looked like they had been stolen from a museum centuries ago.
It was a sanctuary, but it felt like a cage. A very beautiful, very expensive cage.
"Where am I?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"My private residence," Lucian said. He shed his long grey coat, tossing it onto a leather sofa. Without the heavy layers, he looked even more lethal. His black shirt was tailored to a frame that was all lean, hard muscle. He walked toward a bar made of obsidian, pouring a dark, amber liquid into a crystal glass. "The Inquisitors cannot find us here. The wards are woven from my own blood. To them, this entire floor of the building simply does not exist."
Lyra hugged herself, her eyes tracking his every move. "You're a vampire."
Lucian paused, the glass halfway to his lips. He turned, his silver eyes catching the moonlight streaming through the window. "I am a Prince of the House of Mourning. 'Vampire' is a word your kind used to describe the monsters that ate your children in the dark. I am much older, and much worse, than a fairy tale."
He took a sip of the drink, his gaze never leaving hers. "And you, Lyra, are a Witch Heir. The Anchor Node in your chest is currently the most valuable object on this planet. It is the only thing keeping the Fold the barrier between our world and the Void from shattering."
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered, her hand moving to her chest. The mark was still glowing, but the heat had subsided into a dull, rhythmic throb. "I was just going to the tube. I have a shift at the cafe tomorrow. I have rent to pay."
Lucian let out a short, dry laugh. He walked toward her, and even though he wasn't moving fast, Lyra felt the urge to back away. He stopped just inches from her, the sheer height of him forcing her to look up.
"The cafe is gone, Lyra. Your apartment is likely being incinerated by the High Consistory as we speak. You have no 'tomorrow' in the world you knew." He reached out, his long fingers hovering just above the pulse point in her neck. "The moment the Node chose you, you became a ghost to the humans. You belong to the night now."
Lyra's eyes filled with tears of frustration and terror. "And I suppose I belong to you, too?"
Lucian's expression shifted. The cold, aristocratic mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing something raw a hunger that wasn't about blood. He leaned in, his face so close she could feel the chill of his breath.
"You are tied to me, Lyra. Not by choice, but by a Bond that predates the city below us. When I touched you in that alley, our souls performed a handshake. I can feel your heart beating. I can feel the fear tasted like copper on your tongue. And if I leave you, the Node will consume you."
He reached out and took her hand. This time, she didn't pull away. The moment their skin met, that same spark from the alleyway jolted through them. But this time, it didn't just stay in her hand. It traveled up her arm, straight to the Node in her chest.
The silver light flared, bathing the penthouse in a blinding, ethereal glow. Lyra gasped as the heat returned, but it wasn't painful this time. It felt like a circuit had been completed. The crushing weight in her chest lightened. The roar in her ears calmed.
"See?" Lucian murmured, his silver eyes fixing on hers. "The Node is a sun. And I am the moon. You provide the light, but without me to reflect and cool it, you will burn until there is nothing left but ash."
He led her to the window. Outside, the city was a sea of lights, but Lyra felt like she was looking at a different world.
"The Inquisitors the men in white they serve the High Consistory," Lucian explained, his voice low and intimate. "They believe the only way to save the world is to 'harvest' the Node. That means cutting it out of you while your heart is still beating. They think you are a battery. I think you are a Queen."
Lyra turned to him, her face bathed in silver light. "Why do you care? You're a 'Prince of Mourning.' What do you get out of this?"
Lucian's grip on her hand tightened. He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her wrist.
"I have lived for four hundred years in a world of grey," he whispered. "I have forgotten what it feels like to be warm. I have forgotten what it feels like to care if the sun rises. But when I look at you... when I feel that Node humming in your chest... the grey starts to bleed back into color."
He stepped even closer, his body almost brushing hers. The tension between them was a physical thing, a cord stretched to the breaking point. Lyra could see the fine detail of his silver eyes, the way the pupils dilated as he looked at her. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. He looked like he wanted to kill her.
"I will protect you, Lyra," he vowed, his voice dropping to a growl. "I will turn this city into a pyre before I let them lay a finger on you. But make no mistake I am not a hero. I am a monster who has found something he refuses to share."
Lyra felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. She knew she should be running. She knew she should be terrified of the man standing before her. But as the Anchor Node pulsed in time with his heartbeat, she realized she had never felt safer in her life.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Lucian looked out at the city, his jaw setting in a hard, lethal line. "Now, we prepare. The High Consistory will send their Elite. My mother, the Queen of Mourning, will send her assassins to bring me home. We are alone, Lyra. Against everyone."
He turned back to her, his silver eyes burning with an intense, possessive light. "But as long as you are with me, they will find that the 'Witch Heir' isn't a prize to be won. She is a weapon. And I am the hand that will wield it."
He reached out, his hand finally making contact with her cheek. His skin was cold as ice, but where he touched her, the silver light of the Node bloomed, turning her skin into a canvas of glowing constellations.
"Go to sleep, Lyra," he whispered. "Tomorrow, I start teaching you how to break the world."
He led her to a bedroom that was larger than her entire apartment. The bed was covered in black silk, and the scent of lilies filled the air. As she sat on the edge of the bed, she watched Lucian walk to the door.
"Lucian?" she called out.
He stopped, his silhouette framed by the hallway light.
"Why didn't you kill me in the alley?" she asked. "You said it would have been the merciful thing to do."
Lucian was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost a ghost of a sound.
"Because for the first time in four centuries, I wanted to see what happened next."
He closed the door, leaving Lyra alone in the dark. But as she lay back against the silk pillows, she realized she wasn't alone at all. She could feel him. Even through the walls, she could feel his heartbeat, steady and cold, tethered to her soul by a silver thread that could never be broken.
Outside, the first light of dawn began to touch the London skyline, but for Lyra, the sun had already set. Her new life had begun, and it was written in blood and neon.