The poison still lingered in my veins, clouding my senses and dulling my restraint.
Goddamned belladonna.
The street stretched ahead, grim and foreboding—no sanctuary for those foolish enough to walk its path. My gaze locked onto a house at the far end of the block, its pale-yellow light spilling onto the cobblestones like a beacon.
That would be my destination tonight.
I moved swiftly, circling the cottage, every sense attuned to the lives pulsing within—the scent of warm flesh, the rhythmic thrum of beating hearts.
Two bodies.
A predatory smile curved my lips.
With a single strike, my fist cracked the thick windowpane. The glass splintered, cascading onto the floor in a deadly shimmer. I leaped through the opening, landing with the fluid grace of a great cat.
A man stood frozen in the room.
His breath hitched, his eyes widening in sheer terror as I lunged.
“No, no, no! Don’t!” He stumbled backward, hands raised in surrender. “I know what you are! I—I’m on your side!”
I hesitated, the fog in my mind swirling as I gripped his arm like a vice.
“Who are you?” I growled.
His breath came in frantic pants. “My name is Osman.” His fingers clawed at my grip, desperate to pry himself free.
My love for Roman—my unwavering need to protect him—overpowered the hunger.
With a sharp exhale, I shoved Osman away. He stumbled backward, landing hard on the floor.
“Do you have Roman?” My voice was raw, frantic. “Where is he?”
Osman scrambled to his feet and scurried toward a curtain draped over the entrance to the next room. “Yes, yes! He’s in there, recovering. I gave him the antidote to the poison.”
I crossed the room in a daze, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The dimly lit space smelled of woodsmoke and old fabric, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The furniture was sparse and worn—nothing in this house suggested luxury, but I didn’t care.
All that mattered was beyond that curtain.
I hesitated in the doorway, my breath hitching as my eyes found him.
Roman lay still on the bed, his body bathed in the glow of the fire. He looked almost angelic in his repose, his face carved in lines of exhaustion.
A surge of emotion crashed over me—love, relief, overwhelming devotion. My feet refused to move, rooted in place by its sheer force.
He was alive. Thank God.
But he barely looked conscious.
Carefully, I crossed the room and knelt at his side. My fingers drifted over his forehead, pushing back strands of his thick, sweat-dampened hair.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but his skin was ghostly pale—the color of snow veiled inshadows.
My head felt like a boulder, impossibly heavy. The poison still slithered through my veins, making my limbs sluggish and my vision blurred.
“God’s bones,” I murmured, my voice hoarse. “The poison has made me nearly immobile. It’s no wonder you look half-dead.”
A tremor ran through my body.
