Dani launches herself at her sister, colliding with enough force that Bryn's new wings flare out to maintain balance.
The sight of my fierce mate wrapped in those contrasting wings, babbling about family and belonging, stirs something even in my jaded heart.
Erik—that stone-faced bastard who's stood unmoved through centuries of warfare—looks like he's about to crack. His silver eyes shine suspiciously bright as he watches his mate whole again, restored but transformed. Never thought I'd see the day Erik might actually shed a tear.
Leave it to Lucian to shatter the fucking moment.
"Well damn," he drawls. "Talk about a heavenly makeover. You're like a walking yin-yang of badassery now. The ultimate warrior-angel hybrid. Should we start calling you Dark-Light Barbie?"
I shoot him a look that promises violence. "Shut the fuck up, Lucian."
But Bryn's laughing through her tears, and even Erik cracks a smile. Trust my asshole brother to diffuse an emotional moment with stupid logic. Though I suppose that's why we keep him around.
Danica
82
The world erupts in blinding white. Glass explodes inward as the blast hurls me across our Christmas sanctuary. My spine connects with marble, the crack reverberating through bone. Copper floods my mouth as warm rivulets trace down my face, turning my reindeer pajamas blood-red. The Christmas tree lies shattered, ornaments pulverized to glittering dust, catching winter sunlight through blown-out windows.
I force trembling limbs to move, glass slicing into my palms. The room tilts and spins—a kaleidoscope of horror. Wrapping paper flutters like wounded butterflies. Lucian's Iron Man helmet rolls past, faceplate shattered, one eye still glowing in mechanical death.
"Rhy—" His name catches on blood coating my throat.
Black combat boots materialize through settling debris. Fingers lunge, tangling in my hair before I can process the movement. My scalp ignites as she yanks upward, suspending my weight by burning roots.
Morgan's face swims into focus, onyx-black lips curved in satisfaction. A droplet of my blood spatters across her cheek. She savors it, tongue darting out to taste.
"Movere!" The Latin cuts through the air like a blade.
An invisible battering ram slams into my sternum. For one suspended moment, I'm weightless. Then marble intercepts my flight with unforgiving solidity. My skull rebounds with a wet thud. Something cracks—inside me, behind me, I can't tell anymore.
Warmth cascades down my neck as snow drifts in through shattered windows, landing on my outstretched hand, melting instantly to pink. The mansion's grand foyer fragments before my eyes—twinkling lights and evergreen garlands now splinters and dust.
Morgan's boots strike a deliberate rhythm against marble.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Each sound drives spikes through my fractured skull, her boots leaving bloody footprints across Italian tile.
Twenty feet away, Rhyland lies crumpled beside our fallen Christmas tree. Our star—placed together, laughing—lies shattered beside his outstretched hand.
Morgan extends one elegant hand toward him, rings catching winter light. "Cruciatus spiritus," she purrs.
Rhyland contorts unnaturally. Veins bulge black beneath his skin, spreading like dark rivers. The scream that tears from his throat isn't human—a primal howl that scrapes against my soul. His fingers claw at his temples, drawing fresh blood.
Lucian hangs suspended against the wall, a jagged shard of wooden banister impaled through his chest. Blood—so much blood—cascades down his torso, soaking his clothes. His eyes stare vacantly, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Erik lies face-down, three wooden stakes protruding from his back like grotesque ornaments. Blood pools beneath him, turning the white marble black. Beside him, Bryn sprawls motionless, her platinum hair fanned in a sticky bloody halo. Her wings lie partially visible, the ethereal feathers singed and matted with blood, her fingertips barely brushing Erik's outstretched hand.
Seraphina's broken form curls against the base of the staircase, her white nightgown now scarlet-soaked. Blood seeps from a gash across her temple, trickling down to join the growing puddle beneath her head.
I search frantically for the others. Damon—my brother. Emily. Sable.
Where are they?
