“The last time we saw such a thing attempted at one of our retreats was…” Grimm paused, ancient eyes fixing on Victor withsomething that might have been amusement or malice. “When was Prague, Victor? 1920?”
Victor went still beside her. His hand tightened on hers, not painfully, but with sudden desperate pressure.
A wave of old pain flooded through the bond. Shame, regret, guilt: emotions so heavy they’d been carried for a century, worn smooth by time but no less crushing. The force of it hit her sternum like a physical blow. She pressed a hand to her chest, suddenly struggling to breathe.
“1923,” Victor said quietly. His voice was steady, but she felt the effort it cost him.
“Ah, yes. The centennial retreat.” Lilith’s voice carried perfectly across the ballroom, pitched to reach every ear. She rose slowly, crimson dress catching the light, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. “When that French woman tried to force a bond. Though I suppose this one succeeded where Celeste failed.”
The name silenced the room for a beat before whispered speculation began spreading from table to table.
Lilith’s eyes found Ava, and her smile widened. “You always did have a way with the cattle, Victor.”
“Lilith.” Grimm’s warning was sharp as a blade.
But she continued, circling the head table like a shark scenting blood. “Oh, did your new bond not know about Prague? About what happens when someone tries to claim the great Victor Morningstar?”
“Enough.” Victor stood, his chair scraping against marble. The temperature in the room dropped; Ava could see her breath misting in the suddenly frigid air.
“I think your bonded deserves the truth, don’t you?” Lilith’s voice dripped false concern. “About what happens to humans who get too close. About Celeste. About all the others who thought they could?—”
“We’re leaving.” Victor turned to Ava, his expression locked down tight, revealing nothing. But through the bond she felt everything: rage and shame and a desperate need to protect her from whatever ugliness Lilith was about to expose.
She nodded and stood with him, her fingers finding his without hesitation.
They walked out together, back straight, heads high, ignoring the whispers that followed them like hungry ghosts.
Ava made it to the women’s restroom before she vomited.
Victor’s rage hit first — white-hot, aimed at Lilith, burning up her throat. Then something colder underneath. Older. Guilt so heavy it sat on her chest like a stone.
And tangled through it all, her own shock, her own fear, her own desperate confusion about what any of this meant.
She couldn’t tell which feelings were hers anymore. Whose anger made her hands shake? Whose grief made her eyes burn? The bond had seemed manageable before: warm pulses of emotion, echoes she could identify and set aside. This was different. This was drowning.
The bathroom door opened. Victor appeared in the doorway, ignoring the “Women” sign entirely, his face pale and drawn.
“Ava—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand, pressing the other against the cool tile wall. Breathing hard. Trying to find herself in the chaos. “Stop feeling so much. I can’t think when your emotions are this loud.”
Every muscle in his body locked. She watched him force stillness into his frame, watched him try to bank the fire of his emotions like smothering flames with a blanket. It helped, marginally. The roar in her head dimmed to a manageable thunder.
“You feel my anger?” His voice was hoarse.
“I feel everything.” Tears streamed down her face, hers or his, she didn’t know anymore. “I don’t know whose anger this is. Something about Celeste — I keep seeing a woman’s face and I don’t know if it’s your memory or mine. And there’s this sickening guilt that doesn’t feel like it belongs to either of us.”
She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to massage away the pressure.
“It’s all just—” She gestured helplessly. “Noise.”
Victor knelt beside her on the cold marble floor. Careful not to touch, though she could feel how much he wanted to. Could feel the restraint it cost him.
“The bond is amplifying everything,” he said quietly. “Emotions feeding off each other. Your fear makes my fear worse, which makes your fear worse. It’s a feedback loop.”
“How do we make it stop?”
“We don’t.” He looked helpless in a way she’d never seen: the ancient demon, the master negotiator, reduced to someone who couldn’t fix what was breaking. “This is what we chose. For better or worse, we’re connected now. Our emotions, our thoughts… they’re going to bleed together. Especially during stress.”
