She drifted closer, fingers curling around my sleeve. Disgusted, I peeled her off.
“Ambrosia,” I warned, “if this is my punishment for past sins, I repent.”
She vanished in a puff of rose-scented smoke, only to reappear, weeping dramatically in a clawfoot tub that materialized mid-air.
“You never choose me,” she wailed. She scooped up rose petals and hurled them at my face.
I made for the door, except the ballroom kept stretching, endless and cruel.
Ambrosia appeared ahead of me in an instant, this time in a wedding gown that glittered. The violins switched to a grotesque version ofHere Comes the Bride.
She smirked. “Running makes you look so... virile.”
I stopped walking. “If I throw myself into the nearest fire, will you vanish?”
Her tone shifted, silk turning sharp. “You can run, my love. But we’re a solid match. We are meant to be together.” Then she leaned in, lips curling. “Tell your little human she woke up more than just you.”
The blood drained from my face. “God help me.”
The world fractured. I woke with a snarl, fangs down, chest heaving.
For a long moment, I sat there in the dark, gripping the sheets, trying to slow the riot of my pulse. My throat burned with her name and the taste of bile.
I ran a hand down my face, furious. Exhausted. “She’s still watching.”
My gaze drifted to the hallway—toward Nadia’s door. The bond hummed softly between us, steady and alive. I could sense her breathing, her warmth, the fragile peace of her sleep.
A flare of something protective—feral—rose in my chest.
Ambrosia could haunt my mind, crawl through my dreams, twist the past all she wished. But if she so much aslookedtoward Nadia…
I bared my fangs in the dark, whispering to no one, “Over my dead body.”
Then, after a pause, I sighed. “Again.”
Chapter 9
Nadia
Ihad refused to look at Cristian.
Every time I even thought about him, flashes of last night crept in—his mouth, the sound he made, the way my body reacted likeIwas the one who had been sleeping for four hundred years, and his touch had broughtmeback to life. I’d spent the whole night having dreams that would’ve gotten me banned from polite society if anyone else could see them.
I was not okay.
I pulled on my outfit with the kind of focus reserved for avoiding emotional collapse. Denim shortalls over a striped tee. Red thrifted blazer for confidence. Enamel pin:Read Books, Not Minds.One of my favorites.
And combat boots. Always combat boots.
When I opened the bedroom door, Cristian was already in the hall, guarding it like that was a normal thing to do in modern society. He watched me, his gaze moving from my boots to my blazer with a level of concentration that made me self-conscious.
“You are dressed to fight,” he said.
“This is fashion,” I replied with a shrug. He nodded as if learning a new rule.
He followed without question, keeping exactly one step behind me like I was royalty or a flight risk. Hard to tell.
The house was quiet except for my boots on the old floorboards and Cristian’s careful, controlled breathing behind me. His energy pressed against my back, steady and warm, grounding me in a way I did not want to think about yet.
