“I am yours,” I whispered into the hollow of her throat, my voice so soft even I almost didn’t hear it.
I held her through the night, listening to her heartbeat until dawn threatened the horizon, praying to gods I no longer believed in that she would live long enough to hear me say it again when she was awake.
Chapter 26
Cristian
Nadia’s sleep continued.
Mine did not.
I lay on my back beside her, eyes on the ceiling, every thought circling the same useless questions.
Wait twenty-four hours and trust Ambrosia, a liar who collected secrets the way others collected jewelry. Or sit with Ezra and his infernal machine as he tugged at the bond thread by thread until something snapped and took Nadia with it.
Neither option was acceptable, but they were all I had.
Nadia’s breathing remained slow and a bit uneven. Dark circles had settled under her eyes in recent days. The bond tugged inside my chest, weaker than it should have been, thin and overworked.
The doorbell rang.
I was off the bed in an instant. Nadia stirred, blinking herself awake.
“What was that?” she mumbled, voice rough.
“The door,” I said. “Stay here.”
She pushed the blankets back instead. “Absolutely not.”
She slid out of bed and stood. I watched closely, prepared to catch her if she swayed. She stayed upright. Relief loosenedthe tension in my shoulders. Perhaps Ezra’s meddling had eased some of the pull. Perhaps my threat to Ambrosia had rattled the universe into cooperating.
A foolish hope, but I took it.
Nadia padded toward the door, bare feet soundless on the floorboards. She wore black nightclothes—a narrow-strapped top and shorts that revealed far too much of her legs—and pulled an oversized cream cardigan hanging open over it.
No pin. No fruit print. No earrings. None of her usual armor. She looked young and exhausted and furious at the world.
We stepped into the hallway together.
“Where the hell is Ezra?” she asked. “He can check the wards and tell us if this is a Girl Scout or a demon.”
The bell rang again. Impatient.
“I’ll find him,” I said.
I swept the downstairs in a heartbeat—kitchen, empty; living room, empty; basement, empty. His laptop sat open on the kitchen table, screen still glowing. No Ezra.
My senses pulled toward the front door. Whoever waited there radiated confidence and power. Vampiric. Familiar.
My jaw tightened.
“I will answer,” I said. “Stay behind me.”
For once, she obeyed.
I opened the door.
A man stepped over the threshold without waiting to be invited, which told me he was not bound by mortal rules—or he believed himself above them. Human clothes—perfectly tailored slate slacks, open-necked white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Hair carefully disheveled. Expensive watch. The faintest trace of the same laundry detergent Nadia used on his cuffs.
