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His voice was calm. Too calm.

Final.

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t.

All I could feel was the need to run, far away, with my son still inside me.

“Ameega agreed to give the boy to one of the wealthiest families in the village Lance had spoken of. They stayed nearby, watching from a distance. They knew the child was a vampire, but they didn’t know about the nineteenth year. Aribella’s daughter fed on blood from the cradle, her nature evident from the start. But Ameega’s son… he didn’t. His powers lay dormant until his nineteenth year. When word spread about the boy, the couple fled. They were terrified of what he had become.”

At some point, Valentina had shifted to sit along my oak headboard, her legs dangling loosely over my shoulders as my back pressed against the wood. Her fingers drifted through my curls, gentle against my scalp, mindlessly detangling each coil as her story came to a quiet, roaring end.

My mind clawed at the edges of it, hungry for more, desperate for the missing pieces. How old had this child been? And why did his origin feel so dangerously close to my own? But the first question slipped from my lips before I could stop it. “And where is he now?” Her bare foot nudged against my chest, and my head tipped back as I looked up at her. She shrugged, but her gaze had already gone distant, haunted in a way she didn’t want me to notice.

“No one knows for sure,” Valentina said softly. “Some say he was killed by the townspeople. Others say he was captured. But there are rumors… rumors that he’s still alive. Still searching for his family.” She gave a numb little chuckle. “Though if that were true… wouldn’t they have found each other by now?”

“What’s the most recent one?” Her fingers stilled in my hair. Her breath caught.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“It’s nothing really,” she breathed.

Her gaze dropped to mine, shallow and unsteady. She was bracing for something I hadn’t said yet. Then she pulled away, fingers slipping free as she hopped lightly down onto the mattress and fled the room, vanishing into the living room like she couldn’t bear to stay another second. She left me with more questions than answers. And the worst part was. I wasn’t sure I wanted them answered.

TAINTED ׀ CHAPTER 4

Into the Woods, a fairy sings

Valentina’s flood of white dissolved from my view as she rushed out of the door, my eyes tracking her in complete shock. Her explanation of the Nightwell family left a residue of bitterness against my tongue and a pocket carved out in my stomach. There had just been something about it that had my soul racing and my mind wanting clarity with a safe rail.

How much of this did my parents know about? Did my mother purposely keep this from me for her own sanity? Or had they been aware of this nineteenth-year trait? I found myself wishing just for a moment that my mother could tell me what I was supposed to do. Or hell, even explain if she knew about Mark.

If it weren’t for the immediate flare of heat that threatened to rise, I would have given him more thought. The house and my sanity couldn’t manage that, so I shoved my ego, or maybe it was my emotions, to the side. My gaze trailed the line of the wall where my feet and hands tore dry wall, and I felt an immense sense of shame at the memory.

It was so out of character for me, I hardly wanted to hurt a fly. Even though a wall didn’t suffice as a life in any sense, it was the raw emotions that tore through me, making me capable in a way even I didn’t understand. I dragged a breath from my lungs at the realization that everything was changing and shifting in a way that felt like falling rather than my usual glide.

I wonder if that discarded boy found his way back home. And if he didn’t, was he loved despite his differences from his parents? Would I end up like him, lost in history, or had I already become a rumor to those same people who tossed him aside? If it were the latter, would I even want to be known?

Locking every thought away, one last ragged breath braced my lung as my gaze drifted to the door.

A ribbon of rich coffee swirled through the opening, like a melody calling out to my senses. It sent a thrill of nostalgia through me; I hadn’t drunk coffee in over a year. My dad used to make me a cup each morning since my freshman year in high school. It was one of the small times we did have time to bond before he’d had to leave for his long hours at work. He loved his job as a welder, always playing with fire. But his love for coffee outweighed it.

I lurched off the mattress, drawn after the memory like a tether. I stepped into the kitchen, pulled toward the fresh pot of hazelnut. Valentina was pressed against the wooden cabinet under a shaft of gilded light, pouring a coffee into my favorite mug, a dark blue ceramic.

My back leaned against the archway of the hall, arms folding across my chest, as I silently observed her. Valentina’s delicate fingers picked up a silver spoon from the marble top, dipped it into the cream, before adding sugar with deliberate care. She stirred the liquid slowly, careful even. Catching me staring, she looked up at me with the softest grin. It was a clear sign she was offering me a peace treaty. Valentina tilted her head, beckoning me toward her.

There was a pull calling me instinctively forward to her, like a shadow called to night. Everything about her rattled my nerves in a way that felt unholy. It was like a guitar being plucked; each string inside my thoughts was being played against itself. Taking another deep breath to calm the spike in my system, I stepped closer.

Her scent was all-consuming, like burnt sugar on a burner. Sweet, subtle, and just strong enough to make me question my morality. There was just something… interesting about her. I couldn’t name it. Maybe it wasn’t even her. If all vampires smelled this vibrant, I wasn’t sure I’d ever keep my fangs to myself.

As if I hadn’t moved fast enough, Valentina closed the distance between us. She draped a hand over my shoulder, squeezing it. She was close enough that I could feel her distinctive heat rolling off her in waves. For some reason, she wasn’t shy about touching me. It felt like she took every chance she could, permission or not, to tap, trail her hand, or even fully climb on top of me.

Each little touch left my heart stammering for control, and my palm sweaty. In the short time I’d known her, it seemed that was her language. My body seemed to understand that language more than my mind did. And yet I didn’t have the voice, or the reason, to stop her. Maybe I did. But I didn’t trust what would happen if I tried to. I swallowed hard as my gaze fell to her delicate fingers and then back to her eyes.

Noticing the shift in my stare, she let her hand fall to mine and guided the heated mug into my palm. The glass was scorched from the temperature and bit my skin, but only for a second. “Your father said you were fond of this in the mornings,” she whispered. The gesture was thoughtful in a way that it was almost seductive.

“When did you talk to him?” I asked as my gaze went searching the kitchen as if he were going to turn around the corner. He hadn’t been anywhere in sight since I had stepped out of my room. I had only heard him for a moment before I had fallen asleep the night before.

“Once my back healed enough in the night, we spoke. I had my own questions for him...” Her eyebrows had knitted together wearily; her tone wasn’t light and airy like I’d been used to. It almost had a hint of suspicion in its edge, and that had my own mind spinning with possibilities. After a moment of silence, she said, “He told me if I wanted to get in your graces, I should start with hazelnut first. I had no clue what it was, but he told me how to make it. So I decided not to scare you today. A sign of peace.”