Not the man who prayed.
Not the man who whispered salvation into my mouth like he believed it.
This is something older.
Colder.
Finished with mercy.
And filled with something far more dangerous.
“We prepare,” he says.
Not a suggestion.
A vow.
“And when they come—”
His fingers brush the fracture in the knight’s neck.
“—we choose our side.”
My mouth goes dry.
There is no side that doesn’t end in blood.
The wind rises outside, howling through the pines like something ancient and starving.
The house creaks.
The light flickers.
Then steadies.
Santino closes the box.
The sound is soft.
Final.
It settles into my bones like a verdict.
I step into him.
No questions.
No barricades left.
I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his back like my body already knows this is the last place that will ever feel safe.
His hand closes over mine.
Strong.
Certain.
Too certain for a man who just opened a promise from hell.
