I tucked my hands between my thighs, chasing warmth where I could. The nightmares must have run by blood cold enough to strip every hint of it away.
The Viper was quiet now, at least. Perhaps even dreaming itself.
My head sank deeper into the pillow, eyes drifting shut again. A melody replayed in memory, Gemma’s lullaby, the one she used to drown out the terrors when they chased me from sleep.
The music settled me as the weightlessness crept in. The shivers subsided, the heat returning. A few more minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Seconds were all the gods granted me.
“Verena, it is—"
A voice bellowed through the door, then paused, long enough for me to maybe go back—
“Half past seven.” Damn. “Are you dead, or just being lazy?”
Fates, bury me. Not even one morning to myself can be peaceful.
I hissed, voice muffled in the blanket, “I am dead.”
“Shame,” they muttered, dripping with sarcasm, “I was just starting to like you.”
The door clicked open and I shot upright. “What in the actual fuck, Callum—” My eyes bulged, hands clutching the blanket to my chest. “How did you get a key to my house?”
My scowl etched deep as he cleared his throat, crossing the fur rug, mud trailing from his boots.
“You’re, um…” His hand waved vaguely in my direction, though his stare stayed anywhere but me.
Pink climbed his neck, flooding into the tips of his ears.
My eyes darted downward. Oh gods.
Heat flared up my own face as I muttered under my breath. Wonderful.
I yanked the blanket higher to my chin, cursing the godsandfates alike.
Callum, now unbothered, or pretending he was, tossed logs into the fireplace. A flick of his finger, and flames roared to life, warmth rushing over me immediately.
“I’d hardly call this a house,” he chuckled, moving toward the stove.
Rude.
He filled the kettle, and with another casual flick, another flame sparked alive. Efficient and always infuriating.
“Wells made me one, back when you were awakening. You know,” he settled into a leather chair across from my bed, “just in case.”
I groaned,loudly, flinging myself backward, dragging the blanket over my face. “I have not been summoned; therefore, I am free to rot in bed all morning. Leave your key, you worm, and shoo.”
The words hid the smallest smile. That he cared enough to have a key made at all.
He leaned back, hands folded behind his head, legs stretched out, boots planted wide. A portrait of arrogant ease.
But Callum was the face of uniform, always. His lucent blue shirt was tucked to precision, black trousers pressed like steel. Even his boots were polished to a glare, so bright I could probably catch my reflection in them.
He grinned, boyish and insufferable. “Ah, but youhavebeen summoned.” A clap of his hands, as if sealing the decree. “By me.”
The blanket muted my voice, but not the venom. “That doesn’t count.”
