His shirt is torn and clinging to his frame in places, dried blood crusting across his side. His hair is a black, rain-flattened mess. He looks like he fought in a war on the way here.
But none of that matters, because I know that face.
My breath catches. A sick, sinking recognition blooms in my chest.
Him.
My eyes lock onto his. Dark brown, almost black in this light. Sharp jaw. Predatory grace carved into every line of him.
"You," I whisper, voice thin with disbelief.
The vampire finishes his drink and rises slowly, like he has all the time in the world. A smile curls on his lips, but it's not kind. It doesn't touch his eyes.
"Well, well, well," he drawls. "What a small, supernatural world we live in. Imagine my surprise finding you, all damsel in distress, in our forest."
The edge in his tone is razor-sharp, tucked beneath that lazy charm. But I feel it—the danger. The weight of it presses into me before he even moves.
Instinctively, I shrink back. I can't get far, tangled in layers of blankets, body still sluggish from wildbane and cold. But every nerve is suddenly awake.
He steps closer. The fire behind him flickers, and his shadow stretches across the floor like something alive.
This is Kayden Darrow.
The one I tricked. The one I seduced, drugged, drained. The one I left to burn. And clearly, he remembers.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His grin fades. What replaces it is worse, quiet, and intense. The kind of look that turns blood to ice. His presence fills the room like smoke, choking the space between us.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and tight. Almost gentle.
"You remember me, of course," he murmurs. "Sunshine."
He crouches, at eye level now.
"Oh, the memories we've made…" His tone sharpens, almost mocking. "Such warm, beautiful moments—your mouth on mine, your blood on my tongue…" He leans in. "…and your friends draining me like some fanged science project. Then leaving me to roast in a metal box."
He smiles again. All teeth this time. "Ring any bells?"
"Kayden, step back. You're scaring her, and we need answers," a second voice cuts through the heat, calmer and controlled.
I turn toward the source. He's standing near the fire, half in shadow. Tall. Broad. His posture is precise and grounded, like a soldier standing at ease—the kind of stillness that comes from decades, maybe centuries, of discipline.
His hair is the same dark shade as Kayden's, cropped shorter. His eyes catch the firelight, a warm amber that flickers like molten glass. No menace, but no warmth either. Just cool, clinical observation, like he's assessing whether I'm a threat or already handled.
"Why do you always have to suck the fun out of everything, brother?" Kayden drawls, not taking his eyes off me. "She'll talk, scared or not. Won't you, sunshine?" His expression twists into that dark, delighted grin again.
Brother.
Adrenaline sharpens everything. The haze is gone. The file flashes to the surface of my mind.
Kayden Darrow. Birth name: Alasdair. Turned in 1746.
Older brother: Ewan Asher Darrow. Turned the same year at age thirty-three.
There was a lot less data on him. His military record was flagged. Darius's researchers never managed to fully confirm whether he wastheColonel Darrow. The one who went MIA during the Tet Offensive in '68. The body of the soldier, who had earned every medal short of sainthood during three tours in Vietnam, was never found.
Everything about the way he stands says soldier.
