I sat in the sudden quiet, heart hammering against my ribs. Morning was coming, whether I was ready for it or not.
My eyes drifted to the nightstand, where the grimoire lay beside the dagger. I reached for it, fingers brushing the worn leather cover. It opened at my touch, pages flipping to the exact spot where the soul ring waited, nestled in the binding. I lifted it carefully, feeling its weight in my palm… heavier than it should be, humming with potential power.
I'd said I wasn't putting it back on. I wouldn't be able to remove it once I put it on, and it would amplify my demon powers. But when would be the right time? Ro had gone through a lot to get me to create it, so there was a purpose for it. He wouldn't waste his time otherwise.
Was the time right now? With demons circling, with Zandia moving her pieces across the board, with Ro's cryptic warning hanging in the air?
I closed my fingers around the ring, feeling its edges bite into my palm. Not yet. I wasn't ready. Not for what the ring demanded, not for what wearing it would mean. I'd face the danger my way… with my mates beside me, with the power I'd already claimed, with the bonds I was still forging. Besides, I still hoped for a way to return the soul to the human who'd bartered it.
I tucked the ring back into the grimoire's spine and closed the book with careful hands. Outside my door, the compound was stirring to life, voices and footsteps and the mechanical sounds of the day beginning. Soon, my team would be looking for me. Questions would need answers. Plans would need making.
But for now, in these last moments of quiet, I allowed myself one small truth: Ro was trying. In his own broken, furious way, he was trying to protect me. Not because he stood to gain anything from my survival. Which he did. But because somewhere along the way, despite everything… despite the lies and the manipulation and the blood between us… we'd become something to each other that neither of us had words for.
I wouldn't ever call him my father. Because he wasn't. He was a gene donor, but something had definitely changed about the way he thought of me since he'd reappeared in my life.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough to make up for what he'd done, for the pieces of myself I'd lost because of him. But it was something. A beginning, maybe. Or the echo of one.
I slipped from the bed, moving to the wall near where Ro had vanished through. The concrete felt cool against my palm as I pressed my hand to it, watching my breath fog the surface. Somewhere out there, beyond the Division's walls and wards, whatever had been watching me waited. Patient. Ancient. Hungry.
Let it wait a little longer. I had bonds to complete. A team to protect. A power to master.
And when the time came, when whatever Ro had been too afraid to name finally showed itself, I'd be ready. On my terms. In my way.
CHAPTER 24
WHAT YOU DID HASN'T BEEN DONE IN CENTURIES.
I'd just sat on the edge of my bed, hands wrapped around the grimoire, trying to make sense of Ro's warning when something rang.
A chime from the nightstand. I scrambled for the drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a table with an incoming call with Zandia's name blinking across the screen. 4:37 in the morning. What was it with early morning conversations today? I hesitated, fingers hovering over the accept button as suspicion curled in my gut.
This was either very good or very, very bad.
I pressed accept. Zandia's face appeared on the screen, her silver hair pulled back in that severe style that made her look carved from marble. But something was different. Her eyes, usually cold with calculation, held a new expression. Not warmth exactly, but something adjacent to it. Curiosity, maybe. Or respect.
"Parker." My name in her mouth sounded different. Not a possession or a threat. Just recognition. "I apologize for the early call."
The words hung between us, shocking in their civility. Zandia never apologized. Never explained. She commanded, and the world rearranged itself to comply.
"What's going on?" I asked, unable to keep the wariness from my voice.
She studied me for a long moment, her gaze missing nothing… an expression on my face, the tension in my shoulders, the grimoire clutched in my white-knuckled grip.
"You've been having trouble sleeping," she said. Not a question. An observation.
I shrugged, unwilling to give her more than that. "Been busy."
"Indeed." Her mouth curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "You've been busy making history. A demon expelled without killing its host. A balance struck between chaos and intention." She leaned closer to the camera, her eyes never leaving mine. "Do you know how rare that is, Parker? What you've accomplished?"
My throat tightened. "I'm guessing not very."
"You'd be wrong." She sat back, hands folded precisely in her lap. "What you did hasn't been done in centuries. Not successfully. Not without..." She paused, choosing her words with obvious care. "Casualties."
The word landed between us with the weight of a physical thing. I thought of the possessed operative, black smoke pouring from her eyes and mouth, her body convulsing as the demon fought to maintain its grip. If I'd gotten it wrong—if the balance had tipped even slightly toward chaos instead of intention...
"I've been tracking you for years," Zandia continued, her voice cutting through the memory. "Long before you joined the Division. Before you even knew what you were."
Cold dread slithered down my spine. "Why?"
