Her lips twitch, and she waggles her brows. “Hollow as in unkillable. At least by supernatural means. Magic, claws, fangs—none of it sticks. Like Teflon. If we die by their hands, we bounce back. Think of it as nature’s version of a reset button. Or a really inconvenient party trick.”
“That’s not a thing. None of that is. How long has it been since you’ve left NightShade, Iris?”
She narrows her eyes and gestures with a hand over my body. “You’re sitting upright, without a scratch on you, after being blown to kingdom come, sugar plum. Unless you think I’ve got a miracle med kit stashed under the floorboards, I’d say my version of things deserves a little airtime.”
I match her annoyance. “Ithink I had a near-deathexperience, and now you’re trying to sell me on some twisted fairytale cult recruitment speech.”
“You’re just like your mother.” Iris sighs, shaking her head as she grabs a decorative skull from the side table and begins petting it absentmindedly like it’s a cat. “We are not a cult. No matching robes, no Kool-Aid, and certainly no chanting, unless you count the seasonal full moon potlucks.”
She sets the skull back down—like she only now realizes she picked it up to begin with—and straightens. “The Hollowborn run the manors. Safe havens for all the supernatural beings who can’t live openly. We protect, we help heal, we host, and we keep their existence a secret from the rest of the world. That’s what NightShade is. That’s what your mother was meant to inherit. And now, it’s going to be yours.”
“That’s not happening,” I mutter, hugging Archie closer like he’s a teddy bear and not a geriatric ferret.
“I know you think that’s not what your mother wanted, but Jocelyn walked away from all this before allowing me the opportunity to explain the consequences of her actions. She was so desperate for what she considered normal, for love, and her own version of safety,” her eyes soften again, “and for you, that she didn’t take the time to understand the bigger picture. She refused to listen, but I hope you at least will.”
If Iris isn’t careful, she’s about to see just howunlikemy mother I can be. While Mom never raised her voice at me, I have one hell of a temper I’m not afraid to unleash.
“If any of this is even remotely true, why would shehide it from me? Especially when she was dying. Mom wouldn’t have left me to deal with this alone. Not without preparing me first.”
As I ask the questions, my heart twists with doubts.
Mom, you wouldn’t have left me unprepared, right?
“Because the truth, Rowan, it’s dangerous.” Iris holds a hand toward me, but I don’t take it. “I believe Jocelyn thought she had succeeded in protecting you from this life. That there was no reason to tell you because she’d changed destiny for both of you. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”
Before I can even ask what the hell that means, I feel something—a strange tug deep in my chest. Like someone grabbed an invisible thread, wound it around my heart, and yanked. My breath hitches. Heat flushes the back of my neck.
My head turns instinctively toward the window.
There’s something out there.
No—someone.
And they’re coming closer.
“Iris…” My voice shakes in a way it hasn’t since my mother’s funeral. “What is happening?”
She’s already on her feet, pulling a crossbow from beneath the chair as if it’s the most natural reaction to my question. She holds it up, fully prepared and clearly trained to use it, making my brain short-circuit while I try to process it all.
What in the actual hell?
Muttering several colorful curses under her breath, she loads a silver-tipped arrow with the precision ofsomeone who’s definitely done this before. “Rowan, leave this room. Find Liz. Get?—”
I flinch as a deeper noise distracts us both.
The air shifts, heavy and electric. Like a storm crouching low in the sky. Archie twitches in my arms—and that’s when the growl starts. Not from me. Not from Iris. From the freaking walls.
Iris takes a step toward the balcony door, eyes laser-focused.
This must be a cosmic joke. I’m not about to be protected by a grandma in a flannel robe and fuzzy slippers, wielding a crossbow like she’s the star of some geriatric action movie. Nope. Not today.
I start to make my way out of the room as I’ve been commanded, but before I get there, the window behind us shatters inward.
Glass rains down, catching the dim light as it scatters across the floor. The curtains whip back in a gust of air, revealing the silhouette of a man who moves like a storm that’s taken shape. He crashes through the opening in a blur of shadows—shirt torn at the collar, boots slamming into the hardwood with a solid, terrifying thud.
I scream. Loudly. As one does when a human battering ram breaks into the room in the middle of an emotional breakdown.
He straightens slowly, and it’s clear this guy wasn’t built for subtlety. He’s tall, broad, and radiating tension. His eyes glow a molten gold—wild and intelligent all at once—as they lock on me.
