“Three more days,” he says. “Then we leave.”
“Three more days.”
“Poppy—”
“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his lips. “Whatever you’re about to warn me about, whatever complication you’re preparing me for—don’t. Not tonight. Tonight was good. Let’s keep it good.”
He kisses my fingers. Soft. Deliberate.
“Three more days,” he repeats. “And then everything changes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He’s gone before I even think to question what “And then everything changes” means.
I stand in my doorway, listening to his footsteps fade, and I think about all the things I don’t know. All the mysteries I’m choosing to ignore.
Then I close the door and go back to Sage, who’s waiting with more wine and more questions.
Some of them I can answer.
Most of them I can’t.
But that’s okay.
I’ve got three more days to pretend that it’s not terrifying.
CHAPTER 10
JULIAN
The resort is what one would expect: tasteful excess disguised as understated elegance. White stone pathways wind through manicured gardens. Palm trees sway in the breeze.
I invested in this property decades ago, back when it was a struggling beach club. Now it’s one of the few resorts in the world with staff trained to accommodate guests with... particular needs. The concierge who checks us in doesn’t blink at my special requests. She simply nods and says, “Your usual arrangements have been made, Mr. Blackthorne.”
The irony isn't lost on me—Violet choosing this particular resort for her wedding. Though “choosing” implies more agency than she actually had. When Marcus flagged Chris's February conference in Nassau, it took one phone call to ensure the wedding planner received an “exclusive offer” on a destination package. The kind of deal that makes brides feel lucky rather than suspicious.
Control the terrain, control the outcome. A lesson I learned centuries ago.
Poppy is too busy admiring the lobby’s orchid display to notice.
The welcome cocktail party sprawls across a terrace overlooking water so blue it looks photoshopped. This is the type of view that I missed so dearly after I got turned. Yet, here I am standing in the daylight. Not the most ideal time for a vampire.
Daylight severely weakens us. We never burst into flames like in the films. Hollywood really messed that one up... actually, the Germans got it wrong and Hollywood ran with it. Years ago, my company created a sunblock that allows us full access to the sun without losing our strength—which is needed for an event like this so I can appreciate a place so magnificent while under the threat of Damien.
Granted, we’re currently in the curated luxury for tourists. Underneath, the Bahamas refuses to be tamed. From somewhere behind the staff quarters, goatskin drums pulse through the evening air—Junkanoo rhythms from what sounds like a birthday celebration, cowbells and whistles threading through the resort. The smell of conch fritters from a vendor’s cart near the service entrance cuts through the champagne and canapés, and for a moment I’m in Nassau sixty years ago, before the cruise ships swallowed the harbor whole.
I’ve attended hundreds of events like this. Charity galas. Board meetings. Corporate retreats where the wealthy pretend to be casual. This should feel familiar.
Instead, I’m searching for exits while trying to remember the last time I cared about someone else’s opinion.
Over 50 years.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus:
MARCUS: Feeds are live. I have eyes on the entire property. Resort security briefed and standing by. Also flagged background checks—Senator Hartford’s assistant this morning, Catherine Gable’s attorney yesterday. Standard deflection deployed. Nothing penetrates the first layer.
