I lean back, arms crossed, teeth grinding. “Thanks for the personal dig,” I mutter, voice flat. My fingers twitch uncontrollably, each pulse a reminder of the withdrawal crawling through me.
Malrik didn’t even look up. He was just standing still, flicking old varnish off his black-painted nails with a vampire tooth. “I could try getting into her head,” he says lazily, like he's deciding what to have for dinner.
I frowned. “You can do that?”
He smirks, eyes flashing red. “I have… ways.”
“Care to elaborate?” I ask, not really expecting an answer. Still, it pisses me off when he spins, vanishing upstairs without a word. One second he's there, the next all that's left is a gust of air and the faint, bloody tang of him lingering in the room.
“Fucking bloodsucker,” I muttered, stuffing my hands into my pockets. My skin was on fire, my nerves dancing under it. Everybone in my body wanted a drink or a fight, or to fuck. Preferably all three.
Ronan jolts upright. “I need to bake.”
I blink. “You what?”
Already, he's halfway to the crumbling kitchen, muttering about chocolate and strawberries like the entire realm isn't collapsing.
I let my head drop back against the wall and exhaled through my nose. I know it's only a matter of time before Vespera finds us. And when she does, she won’t be alone. She’s got the full set—her personal bodyguards, the heads of the witch factions, and the rest of the Veilguard. All of them are loyal, ruthless, and powerful. You have your enforcers in the Veilguard, which included me, Ronan and Darian, with a couple more, then the rest were practically soldiers.
I don’t like our odds.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. A pressure builds in my chest—that familiar weight that always settles before things go to hell.
A loud crash from the kitchen makes me look over my shoulder.
“Motherfucker!” Ronan's voice echoes from the room, full of rage.
Despite the bruises and broken ribs, his wrists healed but were still sore, he stormed out of the house like his ass was on fire. I don’t follow straight away, he could just be having a bitch fit over whatever he’s baking. But then another voice filters in through the open door—sharper, colder.
Not Ronan.
My body moves on instinct.
By the time I reach the open doorway, Ronan's already swinging.
His fist connects with Darian’s jaw—hard. The crack of it echoes through the cold morning air.
“You fucker!” Ronan snarls, eyes wild with fury. He grabs Darian by the collar and slams another punch in his gut. “Where the hell were you?”
Another hit. No hesitation. No mercy.
“She went in there alone. Alone, Darian. You let her risk her fucking life!”
Darian doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift a hand. Just takes it—every savage blow. His head snaps to the side as another punch lands, blood trailing from his lip, his cheek already swelling.
And he still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t defend himself.
Ronan looks like he’s unravelling—not just angry, but gutted. Guilt and Grief drip from every word he throws, every punch he lands. And I just stand there, frozen as I watch it play out.
Because part of me agrees with him.
But I also know we won’t survive if we turn on each other.
“I nearly died for her,” Ronan spits, his voice wrecked and shaking. “And I’d do it again. Over and over. If it meant keeping her safe.”
He shoves his face inches from Darian's, eyes blazing. “But you… You’d rather let her die.”
Another brutal punch. This one lands with a sickening crack.
