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Or before they kill him.

22

THEO

The Captive

Around me, the fight continues, but inside my head, a peaceful sort of numbness has spread over me, taking over my thoughts and feelings. It feels good.

No thoughts. No hesitation. No morals. No guilt.

I feel nothing. I move through the wreckage with a fluidity that only comes from being a vampire. Blood and magic taint the air around me, fuelling me. Kian backs up from me, eyes blazing, watching me closely.

‘Snap out of it, Theo,’ he says, voice calm but firm, proving it is not only a suggestion, but a command. ‘You know this isn’t you.’

That tone hits something old in me, buried deep. It momentarily cuts through the haze like a blade through fog. I feel it in my spine, that instinct to obey. This is my maker and he is commanding me to do as he says. My jaw clenches as my body fights against it.

He steps closer, slow, unshaken, like he knows I won’t strike. Like he still believes I’m his.

‘You know this isn’t you,’ he says, quieter now, but just as commanding. ‘Come back.’

My hands are shaking from the effort it takes not to fold under him, because everything in me remembers what it means when he speaks like that. What I am to him.

There’s a slither of rationale left in me. It wants to be pulled back in, but something’s wrong. The thread between us is frayed and fading, just out of reach. Still, he holds my gaze, calm, unwavering. Like if he just wills it hard enough, I’ll remember who I am.

But their control over me is stronger.

My fist lashes out, a blur of motion aimed at his throat. He sidesteps at the last second, but I’m already pivoting, bringing my elbow around toward his ribs. He blocks it easily. Kian’s strong, stronger than almost anyone I’ve ever fought, and yet he doesn’t fight back.

‘Stop,’ he says again, dodging another blow. ‘You need to gain control of yourself.’

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is a locked room and someone else has the key. I swing again. This time, I clip his jaw, and the shock of the impact surges through my arm like lightning. He stumbles back, just a step, just enough for me to press in. I go for his chest next, a full-body tackle, teeth bared, fangs ready.

Kian doesn’t flinch. He meets me mid-charge, slamming me sideways with enough force to send us both crashing to the ground. It doesn’t even register. I’m already up again, striking hard, feeling desperate and feral with the urge to pull him apart. He blocks the next hit, his hand snaking out and gripping my wrist, tight enough to bruise my skin instantly.

‘Look at me,’ he demands, eyes blackening. ‘You can fight this.’

I lunge toward him, my fingers curling around his shirt as I slam him into the ground. He grits his teeth, but he still doesn’t fight back. Something whizzes past my head and I flinch, turning to see an arrow that narrowly missed my ear. My eyes land on Tara who stands a few metres away with another arrow aimed at me. There’s something off about her. She doesn’t quite look like herself. Maybe she’s under the same influence as me.

Rearing back, I fly toward her and she stumbles in surprise, eyes widening. She doesn’t move fast enough. Grabbing her by the throat, I drive her into the ground. She inhales sharply as her head snaps back against the hard ground.

She gasps, fingers clawing at my wrist. Her grip is so weak, it does nothing to pry my fingers off of her.

The witches are in my head, flooding it, drowning out everything else.

‘Stop,’ she breathes, voice raw. ‘Theo, it’s me.’

Her voice is shaking, but she doesn’t cry. She looks at me like she knows I’m still here. Like she believes I can fight this, but I can’t. My hand tightens. Much like Kian, she doesn’t fight back. She doesn’t scream. She just says my name again, a broken whisper, but it radiates through me like a pulse.

‘Theo.’

It lands like a punch in my chest. I hesitate, and it’s enough for her. Her hand slips under my arm – weak and trembling – and she presses it to where my heart should be beating.

‘Come back to me.’

The bond between us calls out to me. It’s not just the sound of her voice. It carries everything we’ve been through, everything we are. Her fear. Her strength. The way she knows me, even now, when I don’t recognise myself.

Suddenly, the witches aren’t so loud anymore, because she’s still looking at me like I’m worth saving. She looks at me like I matter. Like I am her everything. Like it’s me and her against the world.