Damien isn’t grieving anymore. He’s hunting.
ME: What changed their minds?
MARCUS: The part where he described his plans to expose our kind to a room full of humans. Apparently that’s the line they’re not willing to cross. LaChance called it “unacceptable risk to the collective.”
The collective. I couldn’t care less about the collective. For me, it’s about protecting the woman sleeping beside me, not vampire society. But I’ll take the approval however it comes.
MARCUS: There’s more. Nepenthe will arrive by sunrise. I’ve arranged transport from Nassau.
Nepenthe. The witch we’d hoped might help wipe the memories of anyone who witnessed too much. A contingency plan for the chaos Damien promised to unleash at the reception.
ME: We may not need her if the Council has approved extraction.
The word feels clinical. Extraction. As if we’re removing a splinter rather than ending the existence of someone I once called brother.
MARCUS: Agreed. But she’s useful insurance. If anything goes sideways, she can clean up.
ME: Where are we positioning?
MARCUS: East cliffs. Damien’s been using the old utility passages—I’ve mapped his patrol pattern. He checks the perimeter every morning at sunrise between 6 and 7 AM. Creature of habit, even after all these years.
6 AM. Less than an hour from now.
MARCUS: Elena and Sofia are already moving into position. Nathaniel’s covering the north approach. I’ll coordinate from the security hub.
ME: And Poppy?
MARCUS: That’s what I need to discuss. She can’t be alone. Not with what we’re about to do.
ME: Agreed. Options?
MARCUS: Lucas inside the suite. Bastine outside. Both armed with silver. Neither will let anything through that door.
Lucas and Bastine. Two of Marcus’s most trusted operatives. They’ve been with my operation for over a decade—long enough for me to know that they’ll do anything to protect her. Two of our best.
ME: Send them up. I’ll brief them when they arrive.
MARCUS: Already en route. ETA ten minutes.
I set the phone down. Poppy stirs against me, her breathing pattern shifting.
“Julian?” Her voice is thick with sleep. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Where you’re awake and worried and trying not to wake me up.” She pushes herself up on one elbow, hair falling across her face. “What time is it?”
“A little after five.”
“And you’ve been lying here for hours, haven’t you? Watching. Thinking.”
“Possibly.”
She reaches up and touches my jaw. Her palm is warm and comforting.
“What happened?”
I consider lying. Consider telling her to go back to sleep, that everything is fine, that tomorrow will unfold exactly as planned. But she’s earned more than comfortable lies.
