Kayden's voice cuts through the haze, dark and deliberate. "We could kill youanyway."
I don't flinch, but the chill of it sinks into my bones.
"Kayden," Asher snaps, steel slipping into his voice. "We have a deal. Sage, we're not here to hurt you. We can help. But we need the truth. Not pieces of it."
I look up at him, searching his face. Testing the claim behind his calm. Something about Asher makes me feel like I can trust him.
A mistake, probably. But I say it anyway: "I'm a nymph."
Silence stretches for half a breath. Then Kayden laughs—sharp, disbelieving, borderline feral. "Oh, of course you are. A satyr boss, leshy muscle, and now a nymph? All we need are a few muses and gorgons and we've got ourselves a full-blown Bacchanalia." Then he adds, his smirk widening, "Aren't nymphs supposed to bounce around naked? Tied to some tree or a river?"
I deadpan: "Aren't you supposed to sleep in a coffin and recoil from garlic?"
He grins, tipping his drink. "Touché, flower girl."
Asher stays serious and thoughtful. His eyes narrow, voice steady. "Why would we kill you for that? Because your blood tastes different?"
They don't know. Not really. Kayden only had a sip. Enough to notice something off. Not enough to understand what it really does.
I set the glass down with deliberate care and meet their gazes.
One truth. One lie. Blend it just right.
"Exactly," I say smoothly. "Not like vampires are picky, but when something tastes better, it becomes a more lucrative product. Rarer. More tempting. I've been drained almost to death by a group that figured that out, so… I know."
But it's not the full truth.
What I don't say is that nymph blood doesn't just taste different. It gives vampires something they were never meant to have—life. A flash of everything they've lost. Color, sensation, breath, hunger, joy. Like stepping back into humanity if only temporarily.
I study their faces closely, watching for the smallest flicker of suspicion. Because if they knew what it really does, I'm not sure I'd leave this house alive.
Kayden
A goddamn nymph.
Even as she talks, offering tidbits wrapped in half-truths, I can hear it ringing in my head.
Nymph.
Because of course the girl who tastes like sunlight and wilderness, who nearly staked me in my living room, is a walking, mythical fever dream.
I remember the taste of her blood—sweet and wild and alive in a way that still haunts the back of my throat. But everything else that night stole the rest.
"So," I drawl, eyes fixed on her, "you think being vampire candy is what would get you killed? Not the whole blood-harvesting gig? Not, say, draining me like a tapped keg or trying to ram a stake through my heart after I saved you? Please."
I scoff, letting the sarcasm roll heavy as I tip my glass toward her. "If you're that much of a sweet treat, maybe I should lock you up and keep you as my personal vintage. One little sip at a time… forever."
Her eyes widen, just a flicker, but I catch it. And she squirms.
Good.
"We're not like those vampires," Asher cuts in, giving me a sharp glare as if it ever worked. "We won't attack you, Sage."
"Yeah," she mutters, dry as sandpaper, her gaze sliding to me. "Sure."
I offer her a toothy grin.
But then my mood shifts. I glance at my wrist. The armband is back, welded in place like it never left.
