He didn’t reply, just clenched his fists at his sides, and she could practically see the heat rising to his ears.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “I’ve really enjoyed reconnecting, you know. Shame we’re going separate ways.”
He stalked away, the same cold satisfaction curling in her chest that had bloomed when her fangs sank into his flesh. She didn’t need his approval. She just needed him to understand.
She was not the girl from the Institute anymore.
And she sure as hell wasn’t scared of him.
"Enjoying yourself?" Rell's voice came from behind her, tinged with amusement.
She spun on her heel, one eyebrow raised, finding him propped against a support beam with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, his dark hair catching the morning light filtering through the barn's gaps. The sight of him, battered and still infuriatingly cocky, sent a strange warmth through her chest that she absolutely refused to examine too closely.
It was the way the sunlight crept along his jaw, highlighting old scars and the new stubble that dusted his chin. The broad slope of his shoulders was visible even beneath his patched shirt, and when he threw on his long black leather coat, she missed the toned curves of his biceps.
How was it fair that someone could get half-flattened by a collapsing building and come out the other side even more appealing? She was relieved she wasn't shifted now. The night before had been a fever dream: blood in her mouth, Rell’s scent clinging to her skin, her bones humming with the need to bite, to claw, to… something else, something she couldn’t name without her face lighting up like a bonfire.
She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t caught her staring, but the faint smirk that curled his mouth said otherwise. Heat crept up her neck, and she focused hard on the battered leather straps of her satchel, suddenly finding them fascinating.
Violette approached them, her expression as unreadable as ever. Her rough leathers had been replaced with practical traveling clothes—a dark tunic and sturdy boots suited for the road ahead.
"We need to move," she said without preamble. "Staying in one place too long is asking for trouble." Violette glanced toward Symond, who was pacing the length of the barn’s far wall. He looked, for once, more haunted than hateful. A man wrestling with something he couldn’t cut away.
"We'll part ways here, then," Rell said.
The finality of it hit Elora harder than she'd expected. For all their conflicts, these people had risked their lives for her. Violette had stood between her and Fane. Symond had fought the bounty hunter, even if he'd been insufferable about it afterward.
"Thank you," she said to Violette. "For everything. I know I wasn't exactly welcomed, but you still—"
"Don't." Violette held up a hand. "We did what needed doing. Nothing more."
But there was something softer in her expression, almost like approval. Elora had earned something from the woman, even if Violette would never say it outright.
Symond finally stalked over to them, irritation barely contained in his huffs and sighs.
"Ready?" Violette asked him.
He nodded curtly, shouldering his pack with more force than necessary. "Let's go."
Rell stepped forward then, his usual easy demeanor shifting as he approached them. "Rook." A brief nod—polite but distant, nothing more than professional courtesy.
But when he turned to Violette, something softened in his expression. He caught her arm gently, his voice dropping low enough that Elora had to strain to hear.
"Watch yourself out there," he said, his fingers lingering on her sleeve.
Violette's eyebrows rose slightly, but there was warmth in her gaze as she looked up at him. "Since when do you worry about me?"
"Since always," Rell replied quietly. “You know that.”
For a moment, the sharp edges of Violette's composure softened. She placed her hand briefly over his. "I can handle myself, Rell."
"I know. Doesn't stop me from worrying." He squeezed her arm once more before stepping back, the moment passing but leaving something tender in its wake.
As they prepared to leave, Elora found herself studying each of their faces, memorizing the details. This would be the last time she saw them. The weight of that finality settled in her chest, heavier than she'd expected. She hardly knew Violette, and certainly didn’t like Symond, but oddly enough goodbye seemed harder than it should have.
Violette paused at the barn door, looking back. "Stay alive, ward."
The word should have stung—should have dragged up all the shame and humiliation of her failures at the Institute. Instead, coming from Violette, it almost sounded like a challenge. Like she was being dared to prove she was more than what that label implied.
