And now I stood at the same door to this house of nightmares, their only child, still breathing while they weren’t.
“Are you sure you want to go in?” Gabe’s voice was quiet, threaded with an affection that wrapped around me.
He stood close, like a wall between me and the dark memories, his hand hovering as if he wanted to touch me but didn’t know if he should. The warmth in his voice steadied me, but the question still sent a tremor of unease through my chest.
His eyes searched mine, as if asking permission to take this heavy moment from me. He knew what this house held and the shadow of my father, the distress he caused carved into every moment. He had just faced parents who thought him dead, carrying the weight of their grief without a word. And still, he looked at me like my pain mattered more than his own.
Niz stood just behind him to the right, ash still streaked across his skin from the fight. His leathers were gone, replaced by plain clothes, but he carried himself the same—wyvern prince, steady, unshaken. During battle we’d been apart, but now he lingered close, his black eyes fixed on me with a concern that didn’t waver. On the walk here, I stood between him and Gabe, his hand locked with mine while Ronan led us ahead.
The Shadow Commander leaned against a tree near the entrance, silent, his hazel gaze fixed on the house. A wall of colored ink and power, blond hair cropped close against tan skin, his tattoos shifting with the dark. His jaw was tight, as if danger still waited inside. He watched the house like an enemy not yet defeated, though the worst thing that had ever lived within was already gone.
I nodded my head in response to Gabe. “Yes. But give me a moment.”
The words came steadier than I felt. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. Before I could falter or change my mind, I walked the short stone path to the front door, heavy oak set deep in its frame, and pressed my palm to the wood.
I could almost feel the impression of her hand on the frame—the way my mother had touched it one night when I saw her there, standing at the door, staring out. I’d been halfway up the stairs from the kitchen, hidden in the dark, when I caught her gazing out over Alfemir as if searching for something beyond our home. Freedom? Escape? I hadn’t known back then to think anything of it and ask. She had turned back a moment later, locked the doors, and shut it all away, and I’d continued to my room.
I let my hand linger a heartbeat longer, then pushed. The hinges gave way with a low sigh. The air that met me was clean, untouched, as though no one had walked these rooms since her passing.
Inside, the house was exactly as I remembered. Wide arches and pale wood floors caught the thin wash of moonlight. Curtains were drawn back, their folds soft but precise. Surfaces were cleared, vases empty but waiting. The walls held shades of stark white and beige.
Our home had always been beautiful, but intentional. Every detail was arranged to look perfect, although I hadn’t understood what that meant back then. How my father’s control extended to even that.
As a child, I used to play in these rooms and wonder how a house so lovely could feel so cold with such careful order. Dinner served at the same time each night. Counters cleared and organized with care that when looking back on it, I realized wasn’t because of her own doing but because ofhisexpectations. It was the look of obedience, not comfort. Just an echo of the control he demanded from our entire family.
I walked slowly, each step echoing through the stillness. I saw her in my mind—not beside me, but always distant and dutiful—moving through these same rooms with that same quiet precision. I used to think her silence meant indifference. Now I wonder if it was the only way she knew to survive a life with him.
I blinked, and the memory of her was gone. The silence settled around me heavier, filling the space she’d left behind.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice raw, scraping out like gravel. “I’m sorry he wasn’t killed sooner. I’m sorry you felt so trapped and alone that you thought death was the only way out.”
The words drifted into the stillness and stayed there. My throat burned as I crossed through the first floor, passing the quiet kitchen and darkened living room—spaces likely untouched since the day she died—until I reached the last door at the end of the hall. My hand hesitated on the doorknob before I pushed it open.
Their bedroom was different. Not preserved. Not untouched. Drawers hung open, clothes still folded inside as if she’d left them mid-decision. A chair overturned and the vanity mirror cracked. The air felt ruptured, as if this was where she decided her struggle would end.
And there, at the far side of the room, was the bed where I had last seen her asleep, her face slack with exhaustion, unaware I was slipping out into the night.
Now the same unmade sheets, linens tangled and half-pulled to the floor, were stained dark, stiff where the blood had dried. I didn’t know who moved her body in the aftermath, but I would bet it wasn’t my father. The thought left me feeling hollow, knowing he wouldn’t care about her, even in her death.
This was where she had taken her last breath.
My legs gave out, and I sank to my knees. Tears blurred my vision, a warm juxtaposition against the cool air of the room. I hadn’t known how I would process her death and my grief with arelationship so complicated and misunderstood. But being here now, beside the stain of her final moments, grief broke loose, sharp and merciless.
I stayed there, knees aching and numb, my chest rising and falling in ragged bursts that would not even out. There was no answer on how to fix what was waiting for me in this room. There was nothing I could do to give back the life her sorrow had stolen.
Through open curtains, a scatter of stars flickered in the cloudy night sky. They felt impossibly distant, yet steady, as if to remind me there was more beyond these walls, beyond this loss.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks, knowing I wouldn’t make peace with this—not tonight, maybe not ever—but I had to keep moving. Finally, I pushed to my feet, my legs stiff but steady, and made my way down the hall and toward the front of the house.
Gabe stood closest, at the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, tension running through every line of him as his dark hair fell loosely around his face. He looked like he could hold the world and all its problems back if he had to, for me.
Niz stood only a few steps away, his large frame casting a shadow across the stone. Tall, scarred, his neon-green hair tied back to catch the faint gleam of the moonlit night. His black, depthless eyes were fixed on me, unrelenting, watchful.
Ronan stood beside him, shoulders rigid with tension. His hazel eyes tracked me down the steps as he stilled, sharp and measuring, as if weighing every breath I took.
Gabe slipped an arm around my waist, his hold light but sure, grounding me without a word.
“I’m good now,” I said at last. My voice came low, even, steadier than I felt. The night air brushed across my face. Niz and Ronan's long legs ate up the distance between us.
