I huff out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan.
“And yet you stick around.”
“Because you’d fall apart without me.” She grins, but there’s something gentle in her tone, a softness that keeps her words from cutting too deep. She steps closer, her gaze flicking down to my gloved hands. “Are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you, or do I have to guess?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but the words ring hollow, even to me.
Sera doesn’t buy it, of course. She never does. She sighs and folds her arms, tilting her head as she studies me.
“For someone who can literally make the world bend to her will, you’re terrible at lying.”
I glare at her, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I’m not lying.”
She arches a brow, unconvinced, and steps even closer, close enough to tug gently at one of the fingers of my gloves. I instinctively pull my hand back before she can slip it off, the movement abrupt. Her expression softens, but she doesn’t back away. Instead, she kneels in front of me, her golden hair spilling over one shoulder as she meets my gaze head-on.
“You know,” she says softly, her tone more serious now, “it’s okay to be excited about seeing him… without feeling like he’s going to be ripped away from you.”
Her words settle between us like dust, too gentle to brush off entirely. Of course she would assume my thoughts had wandered to Jason. And maybe they had. Just a little. There was comfort in the thought of him—steady, familiar, soft in the way the world rarely was. He helped me to hope, to dream. But it wasn’t just him that haunted me—not entirely. It was the idea of being alone in a world that always seemed one step from forgetting me. That was the part she didn’t see. The part no one ever did.
The sincerity in her voice threatens to crack something in me, but I hold firm, forcing the emotions back down where they belong. I glance away, focusing on the candlelight to steady myself.
“I don’t want to change,” I say finally, my voice softer now, almost a whisper.
Sera doesn’t respond right away. She just watches me, her gaze unwavering. Then, without a word, she reaches for her wrist and unclasps her silver bracelet—the one she’s worn for as long as I can remember. The delicate filigree catches the light as she slips it around my wrist, fastening it with care. Her fingers linger briefly, and when she pulls back, the bracelet feels like both a gift and a promise—one her father gave her before she was sent to the castle to become my handmaiden.
“There,” she says, standing and brushing off her skirts as though she’s just solved the world’s biggest problem. “Perfect.”
I arch a brow at her, trying to fight the small smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. “Perfect?”
“Perfect,” she repeats firmly. “And before you argue, no, you don’t get to take it off. You need it more than I do.”
I shake my head, but the smile slips free anyway. “If you say so.”
“I do,” she replies, her tone as light as her grin is wide. She loops her arm through mine, pulling me toward the door. “Now, come on. Your father’s waiting, and we both know he’s not the patient type.”
The mention of my father sends a cold prickle down my spine, but Sera’s warm presence keeps me from spiraling. I glance at her as we walk, at the way her hair bounces with every step, and the spark of determination in her eyes. She’s always been my anchor, the one person who refuses to let me sink beneath the weight of everything I carry.
As we approach the heavy oak doors leading to my father’s office, Sera slows her steps, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“I’ll wait here,” she says, her voice softer now. “Good luck.”
Her words echo in my mind as I step forward, her comforting touch lingering like a warm ember against my skin. The hallway feels colder without her by my side, the chill sinking into my bones as I approach the door.
Pausing before my father’s office door, I take a deep, steadying breath. The significance of the moment presses against me like an invisible force. “You can do this,” I tell myself, adjusting the silverbracelet on my wrist—a subtle gesture that gives me a fleeting sense of control.
The two guards flanking the door exchange brief glances, their stoic expressions unbroken but their curiosity barely hidden. I meet their gazes with a raised brow, daring them to linger longer. As usual, they look away, returning to their disciplined stillness. My right hand rises, and I knock three times.
“Come in, my sweet,” comes my father’s voice from within, smooth and commanding, yet laced with an unshakable warmth that has always made me uneasy.
Stepping into his chamber feels like walking into a time capsule. The rich green and gold hues of the room remain as vivid as the first day I arrived here as a child. Velvet drapes frame the tall windows, spilling onto the floor in decadent waves, and his imposing desk stands like a fortress in the heart of the room. Everything feels grand and untouchable, as if even time itself bends to the will of the Vampire King.
My eyes rest on him, and for a fleeting moment, I see him as I once did—a towering figure of authority, the man who raised me. Unlike humans, he does not age. The years do not touch him, cannot carve lines into his face or steal the sharpness from his gaze. And yet, he is not the same as when I first met him. He used to wear his long white hair tied back in a knot, a style that made him look older, more severe. I remember teasing him about it as a child, calling him old, smug in my small victories when I caught him smiling at my antics. Not long after, he cut it—short on the sides, leaving the top just long enough to sweep back. I never asked if my words had influenced his decision, but a part of me liked to think they had.
Now, standing there in the candlelight, his pale skin untouched by time, his cold, almost white-blue eyes unreadable, he looks like something carved from ice. His jawline is clean-shaven, his features delicate yet devastatingly handsome, a beauty that should be ethereal but is instead lethal. He is tall, his broad shoulders lending him an air of command, his slender frame deceptively graceful. To the world, heis a predator clothed in regal elegance, a creature that inspires fear with a single glance. But to me, he is still my father.
My eyes drop to the map spread across his desk, its intricate markings illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby candelabra. His attention is fixed on a particular area—Lord Striden’s territory.
“You wanted to speak with me, Father?” I ask, my voice steady, but each word pointed enough to cut through the stillness.
