His hand lifts weakly, brushing my cheek like he’s making sure I’m real. His brow furrows. “You accepted Nightmare,” he says hoarsely. “Chelsea?—”
He starts to argue, and I press my finger to his lips. “I choose you.”
Understanding dawns slowly in his eyes. Not fear. Something else. “You shouldn’t have,” he whispers.
“Don’t you dare tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
His gaze searches mine.
“You almost died choosing for me,” I say. “This time, I chose.”
Eryx exhales, something fragile breaking loose in his expression. The control. The isolation. The weight he’s carried alone for years.
“You chose us,” he says.
She chose us,Nightmare repeats.
Now we can both hear him at the same time.
“Yes,” I say, a faint smile tracing my lips.
Eryx’s forehead drops against mine.
The hum deepens—not two pulses competing, but one rhythm braided through both of us. Balanced.
For the first time, the darkness does not press or demand. It rests.
He takes my face in his hands. “My beautiful fucking monster.”
And then he kisses me. It isn’t hunger. It’s recognition. We’re no longer trying to survive each other.
We choose each other.
Chelsea
SIX MONTHS LATER
My parents did show up a couple of moments after we kissed. Stave appeared, too. It seemed Helena had magicked the entire manor into sleeping while she stole Eryx’s power and killed him.
What a wench.
"That one looks angry," I say, eyeing the nightmare churning in front of us—all gnashing teeth and dripping shadows.
Angry?Nightmare scoffs.That's putting it mildly. That thing looks like it woke up on the wrong side of the abyss and decided to make it everyone else's problem.
Eryx chuckles beside me. "Should we put it out of its misery?"
"Please," I say, extending my claws. They shimmer—gold threaded through black, sharp and eager.
Ooh, the claws. The children are going to love this,Nightmare purrs.Remember when you couldn't even make them appear? Now look at you. Terrifying. Beautiful. I'm so proud.
"You're literally us," Eryx reminds him.
Exactly. Which means I can be proud of myself. It's called self-love, Eryx. Very trendy.
I bite back a laugh as Eryx's magic surges forward, wrapping around the nightmare. Mine follows—not chasing, not competing. We move like dancers who've practiced the same routine a thousand times.
The nightmare shrieks as our combined power pulls it in. It tries to resist, thrashing wildly, but the darkness doesn't flinch. It simply refuses.
