Temptress, on the other hand, helped us when she didn’t have to. I know she has feelings for Ronan, but she still came knowing what it would cost her, outing herself like that and knowing there was a massive possibility she could have died.
I don’t have it in me to give her the kind of love she deserves. Too much damage. Too many ghosts. But I care—more than I’d ever admit out loud. I respect the hell out of her. And if all I can offer is standing by her side, being someone she can count on… then I’ll be that. A friend. A shield. Whatever she needs.
At least, that’s a lie I keep feeding to myself.
I never understood just how much power she had been holding back—not until I watched it rip her apart right in front of me, while Malrik forced that potion down her throat. Fuck. It gutted me. Tore straight through every wall I’d built, every defence I thought I had left. Something split open inside me—something I’d spent years drowning in whisky and bad decisions.
I don’t ever want to feel that again. That helpless, gut-wrenching, soul-twisting kind of pain. Not for her. Not for anyone.
But especially not for her.
“When the hell did you grab your bike?”
Ronan's voice cuts through the quiet as he hobbles down the steps, looking like he picked a fight with a phantom lynx—and got his ass handed to him. One eye swollen damn near shut, bruises splattered across his jaw, ribs wrapped up tight, and both wrists are bound in thick bandages. Luckily, we heal fast, but he's still walking. Still alive.
Thank fuck he's awake.
I run my hand along the body of my Ducati Panigale V4, matte obsidian black with red accents along the fairing, the kind of machine that doesn’t just move—it roars.
“Drew snagged it before everything went to shit,” I say, tapping the seat. “The kid knows what I need.”
He lets out a low, tired laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drifts toward the woods behind us.
“She’s still not awake,” he mutters, voice rough,
I nod, “She will.”
I don’t let myself think otherwise.
He turns to me, fury simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s the wrecked look in his eyes that hits harder. Ronan doesn’t break often—but when he does, it's like the whole world tilts.
“We owe her, Kieran. We owe her everything,” he says, voice sharp with so much emotion. “I’ll slaughter every last fucking vampire if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.”
I get it.
“I want to give her a real life,” he adds, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Even if I’ve gotta share that life with others, then I will.”
The blood mage—that’s who he’s talking about. Because Darian has made it damn clear where he stands, treating temptress like she’s nothing. I can’t see anything good coming from that, and there’s no way I’m gonna get involved. I can’t.
I rest my hand on his shoulder, fingers trembling—fuck, I’m craving a drink badly.
“We will… just everything’s fucked up right now.”
He catches the tremor in my hand. “When was the last time you had a drink?”
I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. “Doesn’t matter.”
He narrows his eyes. “Come on, man. Your eyes are bloodshot, your whole body’s shaking, and your fingers look raw—as if you’ve been tearing yourself apart.”
I stop halfway up the steps, letting out a sharp breath. “It’s my mess, not yours. I’m handling it.”
A rough chuckle slips from him, dripping with sarcasm. “Obviously.”
I flare my nostrils but don’t argue. Instead, I turn and head inside, pushing open the front door. The living room hits me with the stale weight of neglect—walls painted a dark, peeling forest green, worn shelves cluttered with dust and forgotten trinkets lining every inch. A grimy chandelier hangs crooked from the ceiling, casting weak, flickering light over mismatched chairs scattered haphazardly around the room. The carpet—hell, I couldn’t tell you the colour anymore—it’s threadbare and stained, the kind that’s seen better decades. In the centre, a massive stone fireplace spits low flames, the heart blackened with soot and long overdue for a clean.
Ronan limps in behind me, making a beeline for one of the battered old chairs by the wooden table near the fire. He stops short, eyes narrowing at the mess spread across it—glass jars, scattered and gleaming in the firelight. None of that shit was there before.
Cautiously, he picked one up, holding it up to the dim light like it might bite him. His face twisted.
