The balcony doors of Darian's room stood open, sheer curtains lifting lazily in the night air.
Carlson leaned against the stone railing, posture composed as ever, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the grounds. Darian stood a few steps away, one hand gripping the edge of the balcony so tightly the marble creaked beneath his fingers.
Neither of them spoke at first.
The night was restless.
Darian broke the silence with a sharp breath. "This isn't sustainable."
Carlson didn't look at him. "I know."
Darian tipped his head back, eyes closing briefly. "The heat is spreading through the house everynight and make us lose control. That hasn't happened in decades."
Carlson finally turned, his expression unreadable. In his hand was a small vial—empty now.
"I've taken the suppressant potion," Carlson said calmly. "You should do the same."
Darian scoffed, though there was no humor in it. "Already did. It barely holds."
His gaze drifted inward, toward the corridor that led to Eline's room.
"He doesn't understand what he is," Darian continued quietly. "What his body is meant for."
"He doesn't need to," Carlson replied. "Not yet."
Darian's jaw tightened. "And when the potion wears off?"
"It won't matter then."
Darian looked at him sharply.
Carlson's voice lowered, deliberate. "Once the pregnancy takes hold, the resonance will stabilize. The pull will fade. This is temporary."
Darian let out a slow breath, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Temporary," he repeated. "You say that like it makes this easier."
Carlson stepped closer, his tone firm. "This century was never meant to be quiet. You know that. We've waited long enough."
Darian said nothing.
After a moment, he turned away, disappearing back into his room. Carlson remained on the balcony, staring into the darkness—eyes sharp, unblinking.
Somewhere down the hall, Eline slept.
Lucian hadn't slept.
The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, the faint glow of the city far below barely cutting through the darkness. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed—breathing slow, controlled, deliberate.
Useless.
The potion lay discarded on the bedside table, the small vial empty, mocking him.
It should have worked.
It had worked on the others ,on him but today his is out of control because of heat or maybe the fragments of last night .
His body refused to forget.
Heat coiled low and relentless, not sharp, not sudden—worse. Familiar. Insistent. His mind replayed fragments he hadn't invited: the warmth of skin, the way Eline's body had reacted without knowing why, the way Lucian's own control had fractured for a split second too long.
He dragged a hand through his hair and leaned back against the mattress, jaw tight.
"Get it together," he muttered under his breath.
But his body didn't listen.
It remembered.
Every nerve seemed awake, hyperaware, reacting to thoughts he didn't want and images he couldn't stop. The potion dulled the edge, but it didn't erase the pull—not for him. Not tonight.
Lucian exhaled slowly, eyes closing.
This wasn't desire in the simple sense. It was instinct. Recognition. Something older than restraint, older than reason. And that was what unsettled him the most.
Across the house, the others struggled.
He knew it.
He could feel it.
Yet here he was—alone, contained only by habit and centuries of discipline—riding out a storm that refused to pass.
Eventually, the tension eased—not gone, never gone—but distant enough to breathe through.
Lucian straightened, expression carefully neutral once more.
"This ends soon," he said quietly to the empty room.
Not a promise.
A necessity.
Morning came quietly.
Eline woke with a jolt, breath caught in his throat—then froze.
Light.
Soft, pale sunlight filtered through the curtains.
He blinked once. Then again.
"I'm… alive," he whispered.
He reached for the clock beside the bed.
6:00 a.m.
His heart began to pound.
"I never wake up at six," he muttered.
The mansion was silent. No footsteps. No voices. No oppressive presence humming beneath the walls. It felt empty—unnaturally so.
A shiver ran through him.
This is it.
He sat up slowly, testing his body. Still sore. Still weak. But functional.
"God is signaling me," he whispered, half-delirious, half-convinced. "This is my chance."
His thoughts spiraled, fast and frantic.
They're not awake. They won't expect this. There has to be security—of course there is. I'm the offering, after all. They won't let me just walk out.
His stomach twisted.
"But they won't chase me forever," he reasoned, breath quickening. "They won't waste time on someone like me. They'll find someone else soon ."
He swung his legs off the bed.
"All I have to do," he whispered, "is get far enough."
Far enough that they don't bother chase after him and better find someone else.
Far enough that this place becomes a bad dream.
He stood, resolve trembling but real.
If I stay, he thought, I die.
And this time, he wasn't going to wait for nightfall to prove it.
The door he slipped through wasn't the main entrance.
That realization hit him the moment he stepped out.
He wasn't outside the mansion—not really. He stood just beyond the dining room, where tall glass doors opened into one of the gardens. The front of the house lay somewhere else entirely. This was the inner stretch of land, carefully manicured, painfully quiet.
The garden spread wide before him.
Too wide.
Too empty.
No guards.
No footsteps.
No movement.
Which, somehow, made it worse.
Eline froze, his pulse thudding. His eyes scanned the space instinctively, sharper now. And there—of course—security cameras. Small, discreet, tucked into corners, half-hidden behind decorative arches and stonework.
He swallowed.
I'm not even a thief, his mind protested uselessly.
But he knew that wouldn't matter. On camera, sneaking out at dawn in a night suit? He'd look exactly like one.
Caught once, and everything would end.
"No, no, no," he muttered under his breath.
He backed away slowly and slipped back inside the mansion, heart hammering louder now, his thoughts tripping over each other.
Back route, he decided. Always the back route.
He pictured the rear garden—the one less polished, less ceremonial. If there was a way out, it had to be there.
Then his thoughts derailed completely.
Wait—weren't there stairs near the study room? The window? Second floor down to the first—
He stopped mid-step.
"What the fuck are you even thinking?" he whispered harshly to himself.
He was already on the ground floor.
Already.
His brain was scrambling, reaching for ideas like a drowning man grasping at air. None of them made sense.
You're not a detective, he scolded himself. Stop acting like one.
He took a breath. Then another.
Okay. Cameras everywhere. Front garden—no. Side—probably monitored. Back garden—maybe less.
But even as he thought it, dread crawled up his spine.
They'll see me.
They'll stop me.
And probably kill me.
"What can I do?" he whispered, panic sharpening his voice. "What can I do?"
And then—
Movement.
Eline stiffened.
His body tensed, ready to bolt, heart slamming against his ribs—
Only to see a cat padding across the corridor ahead of him.
Just a cat.
Small. Grey. Unbothered by the weight of the world.
It stopped, glanced at him with lazy yellow eyes, tail flicking once, as if judging his entire existence.
Eline stared back.
For a split second, absurd relief washed over him—so strong it almost made him laugh.
"…You scared the shit out of me," he breathed.
The cat yawned.
Then, casually, it turned and slipped through a narrow opening—half-hidden between decorative panels near the back corridor. A passage Alan hadn't noticed before. Not a door. Not a hallway.
Just a service gap. Old. Overlooked.
Eline's breath caught.
He watched the space the cat had vanished into, his mind slowing—