Even the thought of leaving the Den weighed heavily on my heart. I had spent weeks immersed in the study of poisoncraft, crafting potent mixtures with steady hands and a restless mind. My latest creation—the belladonna elixir I prepared for Olivia—still felt incomplete, as though something essential was missing. Raul had kept the Widow’s Bloom and other forbidden plants out of my reach, guarding their secrets too closely. I had to hope the belladonna would be enough.
As I stepped into the yard, memories clung to me like ivy. Every leaf, every stone, every petal whispered what I was leaving behind. The Phytomancer’s Den—the estate, the craft, the quiet darkness of it all—had once felt like a strange kind of home. But it wasn’t mine anymore.
I had made my choice. A choice I didn’t want to make—but one I had to.
The light faded, shadows stretching long across the grass as I stood beneath the weeping willow. Hidden from view, I let my grief unravel. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, and sobs wracked my chest, each one sharper than the last. My legs trembled, my heart splintered.
I bowed my head and whispered a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening for strength, courage, and the will to walk away from the ones I loved.
Because sometimes, love wasn’t enough to keep you sane.
Once the last of my sorrow had drained from me, I packed onlythe essentials, clutched my revised journal to my chest, and fled. I ran through the night, chased by voices that refused to die and sensations that didn’t belong to me. Fear clung to my skin, and desperation pulsed off me like a fever.
My footsteps echoed across the cobblestones, each strike a protest against the madness unraveling inside me. I pushed my body to its limit, breath ragged, muscles burning, until the sky bled with the first hues of morning. Just as the sun crowned the horizon in a golden blaze, I collapsed, spent, broken, empty.
I hadn’t planned any of this. I was running blind and scared, trying to outrun something that lived inside me.
Living with Raul had been a beautiful illusion. I had let myself believe I was safe, that Florence could shield me from the darkness. But it had only been a pause—a brief inhale before the storm. I had mistaken a temporary haven for salvation.
I was never free. I was still being hunted.
The town had only just begun to stir. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and a few drunks staggered home from their debauchery, their laughter long since faded into echoes. My heart hammered in my chest as I turned the corner, hoping for clarity or a moment to breathe.
Instead, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Tall. Gaunt. Eyes like storm clouds boiling with madness, locking onto mine with feral intensity. He looked starved for power, connection, and something only I could give. He froze me in place. My breath caught.
Salvatore.
“So,” he rasped, voice low and rough as gravel, “you’re looking for Eyan Malik… just like I suggested.”
The mention of Malik’s name sent a bolt of tension through me. I stiffened, pulse thundering.
“What makes you think I’m looking for him?” I asked, keeping my tone level, though my insides twisted.
His mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “I hear things. I told you—I’m powerful. And I’m your ally, Alina. I’m here to protect you. I’m proud of you.”
He extended his hand to me, palm open in eerie invitation.
The air around his arm shimmered like cut glass filled withstarlight, millions of tiny diamonds suspended in motion. My arm moved before I could stop it, drawn by something deeper than reason, as if fate had woven the moment.
When our fingers touched, a jolt of energy surged through me—hot, electric, dangerously intoxicating. A tether formed between us, invisible but unbreakable. His touch was deceptively tender, his warmth wrapping around me like silk, even as his eyes of shadow and seduction threatened to swallow me whole.
He stepped closer, lifting his hand to my face. His fingertips traced the curve of my cheek with reverent precision, and a shiver danced down my spine. The contact sparked waves of pleasure I hadn’t known my body could feel. It was maddening. Addictive.
I ached for him.
Every inch of me burned for more. But deep within, a warning sounded—soft but urgent. There was danger buried beneath his gentleness, something twisted behind the mask of affection.
“My darling Alina,” he whispered, voice slick with desire and something darker. “Balthazar blessed you, and I know you love him. But you’ll learn to love me too. I’ll protect you. Nothing will ever hurt you again. Nothing will ever take you from me.”
He smiled at me like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if meeting under strange skies and stranger circumstances was routine for us.
“You’ll find Malik in 1323 A.D.,” he said calmly, “in a small cottage near the city’s northern edge.”
“What city?” I asked, breath catching. “Is he here—in Italy?”
“Britannica.” The word floated between us, soft as a feather caught on the wind.
