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“He's using you to meet Curses.” I moved closer, careful to stay clear of the shattered glass on the floor. “And you’re using him to play God.”

“I'm finishing what was started at Stylos.” Fabian's slate-gray eyes locked onto mine. “When the monastery burned, I made a vow to God. I swore I would not let Tristan remain a prisoner of the dark. You are the key, Destiny. Without your love, the door remains shut. But with you, he can finally be free.”

Tristan shoved Fabian hard against the wall and stepped back to stand in front of me. “If you come near her, I will tear your cold flesh into ribbons and scatter your bones across the Atlantic where no spell will ever draw them back together.”

Fabian straightened his charcoal overcoat, smoothing the lapels without a hint of distress. “You won't do that, Tristan. Because deep down, in the quiet hours when your house is empty and the grief of strangers presses against your temples, you know you're drowning. The only thing that keeps you from killing yourself is your honor. You refuse to pass the Curse to someone else. You think you're strong enough to hold it. You think you know what Heartbreak is, but you haven't felt the true depths of it yet—the darkness that turns heartbreak into despair.” Fabian's hands clenched into fists. “You will feel it when she dies, and honor will fail you. Then Heartbreak will find a new vessel. Why suffer like that when you could sever the Curse and share an eternal love? Then my work will be done.”

“We’re leaving,” Tristan said to me, not taking his eyes off Fabian. He backed us toward the doorway.

“It's in your hands now, Destiny,” Fabian said. “The Conclave can protect you, but they will not save Tristan. They preserve the status quo. They keep the Curses locked in their roles because the misery of humanity maintains the order of their world. But you can save him. And when you have the Curse, he'll want to sever it. You can have exactly what you want.”

As we reached the stairs, Fabian stepped out of the room and reached into his coat pocket. He didn't pull a weapon. He drew out a black flip phone and tossed it underhand through the air.

Tristan caught it.

“There is only one number stored in the memory. Mine.” Fabian watched us descend the staircase. “You'll need it.”

I wasn't sure who he was talking to. Tristan didn't answer. He shoved the phone into his jacket, turned us, and moved us down the stairs with sure but urgent steps. We burst from the townhouse into the crisp night. Tristan didn't speak, just herded me to the car, got me inside, and climbed in the driver's seat. He started the car.

“Tristan,” I said.

He looked at me, his eyes wide and tormented. “He isn't going to stop. And the worst part is he believes he’s doing this out of love.”

It wasn't the worst part. But I couldn't tell him how Fabian had left me wondering if maybe he was right.

Chapter Nineteen

Tristan’s knuckles remained white against the steering wheel as he navigated the quiet, tree-lined streets of Washington. Streetlights sliced across his face in rhythmic intervals of amber and shadow, illuminating the hard line of his jaw and the tight, defensive set of his shoulders.

“Could we stop at my place?” I leaned forward to look at him. “I need more clothes.”

Tristan hesitated, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “It is a risk, Destiny.”

“It's a ten-minute stop. We just left Fabian, and he didn't make any move against us. Does he has the ability to teleport? If not, we should be fine.”

He turned us around and headed toward my neighborhood.

A few minutes later, Tristan pulled into a parking spot half a block away from my place. My apartment building sat on a quiet corner, unbothered by the supernatural war encroaching on my life. He got out first, scanned the sidewalks, and came around to open my door. He kept his fingers lightly hooked into the back of my coat as we climbed the exterior concrete steps.

Inside the narrow lobby, everything appeared normal. Mrs. Gable’s cat mewed behind 2B and the acrid smell of fried garlic mingled with the comfy aroma of laundry detergent. Yet the moment I reached my door on the third floor, my fingers froze on the deadbolt.

The lock was already open.

Tristan caught my wrist before I pushed the door open. He stepped in front of me, pressing me flat against the wall while he eased the door inward. The hinges didn't make a sound, but they didn't need to creak to add to my anxiety.

I peered around the frame. The apartment was dark save for the amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the sheer curtains of the front window. Nothing looked damaged or overturned. My TV was there, my painting area in the corner nearby. But I could only see a slice of my living room.

Tristan went rigid.

I followed his gaze across the room to the corner where I kept my easel. At first, I didn't see it. I was too focused on looking for damage. My painting of him sat on the wooden rest, untouched. But it was no longer alone.

Propped directly against the wet oil canvas was a framed photograph of me I kept on a bookshelf. It was a picture my father had taken of me on a trip to Japan when I was twenty-two. In it, I stood on the steps of the Kyomizu-dera temple, its red beams a dramatic background for my dark hair.

Someone had walked into my home, bypassed my television, laptop, and my grandmother’s jewelry box, picked up the picture of me, and placed it directly against Tristan’s painted chest.

“Fabian.” Tristan's voice carried a razor-sharp tremor of rage. “He left this to show me you weren't safe here.”

I stepped around him, went into the living room, and studied the setup. “I don't think it was Fabian.”