Only Billie’s little face twisted in terror.
Only CJ gripping a silver cross with both hands, trying to look brave while tears rolled down his cheeks.
Only Bianca watching everything with that terrible bright intelligence, already understanding too much, knowing what came next.
And Conrad.
Conrad, who had come for me.
Conrad, who had built me a gazebo in his garden because he noticed the discomfort I had spent centuries hiding.
Conrad, who had shown me a love I’d never known.
No one had ever fought for me before. Not like this. Yes, men had wanted me. Admired me. Desired the strange glitter of danger around me, the novelty of my stillness, the thrill of touching something that should not exist. But Conrad had tried to protect me.
He had brought me into his home, around his children, into his grief, into the tender, ordinary places of his life. He had stood between me and humiliation on his porch. He had been willing to listen, understanding in his eyes, when I had nearly told him the truth. He had held me in his kitchen with flour on his shirt and longing in his eyes, and for the first time in nearly two centuries, I had wanted a future badly enough to forget that only grief awaited me.
I loved him.
God help me, I loved him.
I loved his children. I loved their impossible questions, their sticky hands. I loved CJ’s stories, and Bianca’s facts, and Billie’s wild little heart that ran toward the world with both arms open and absolutely no understanding of gravity or consequences.
I loved this family more than I loved safety.
More than secrecy.
More than survival.
Bogdan’s grip tightened around Conrad’s throat.
Conrad’s face twisted, straining not to show his pain. A hard, desperate attempt not to frighten the children more than they already were.
Something hot slid from my nose over my upper lip.
Blood.
The compulsion punished resistance with exquisite cruelty. Pressure built behind my eyes until my vision blurred. My stomach roiled, gums aching as my fangs descended, not from hunger now, but fury. My entire body trembled so violently, my bones felt ready to fracture beneath my skin.
“Winnie,” Conrad rasped.
Bogdan laughed, not taking his eyes off me. “There she is. That’s the Winifred I remember with that tedious little spark.”
The word dragged me backward in time, to the rain-soaked cliffs, to the candles guttering in a ruined chapel. His hand on my jaw when my heart was still beating, telling me I was magnificent because I had tried to kill him with a candlestick.
Spark.
He had loved naming the thing in me he most wanted to own.
No.
The word rose small at first.
No.
The compulsion tightened instantly.
My knees buckled, but I caught myself against the dining table. Dishes rattled and wine spilled. The rotisserie chicken sat in the center of the table, looking grotesquely normal amid the holy water, silver, sand, rice, salt, and pure terror.
