We moved, one stumbling step after another, melting through the rain towards my car.
NINETEEN
Selene
The drive felt unreal. Wet streets smeared past the windows, streetlamps reflecting in long, fractured streaks across the tarmac. The air outside was thick and cool, fogging the glass at every stop.
Riven was slumped in the passenger seat, pale and bleeding, his breath shallow.
My hands were white-knuckled around the steering wheel as I followed the address he had rasped into my ear.
When the road finally ended, I hesitated. The structure rising from the mist looked like something carved from the cliff itself—tall, dark stone streaked with damp, ivy clinging to the walls like black veins. Windows caught the faintest traces of moonlight, watching us with indifference.
It looked like a sentinel.
I slowed the car to a crawl, peering through the rain-streaked glass at the iron gates.
“Riven?” I asked, my voice tight. “Is this the place?”
Beside me, he managed a rough, pained noise of assent.
I killed the engine and shoved my door open. The silence of thecoast was broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the sea against the rocks below.
“Riven,” I whispered, hurrying to his side. I wrenched his door open. “Come on. Stay with me.”
He forced his eyes open. They were glassy, the blue dull. “I’m—fine.”
He wasn’t. But he managed to get an arm around me as I hauled him out of the car. His weight sagged against me, a dead, dense burden that nearly buckled my knees. He tried to walk on his own, but his feet dragged on the gravel.
We made it through the overgrown path and inside the house. The hallway was freezing, smelling of old stone and rain-soaked wood—a preserved scent undisturbed for years.
I kicked the door shut behind us, the latch clicking with a finality that made me shudder.
“Where?” I asked, adjusting my grip as he sagged against me. “Riven, where do I take you?”
“Upstairs,” he gritted out, his head lolling against my shoulder. “Left.”
I nodded, gritting my teeth against the strain. I aimed him towards the wide wooden staircase, half-dragging, half-guiding him up. My breath came faster than his, harsh with effort.
At the top of the landing, an oak door stood slightly ajar—a bedroom. I steered us towards it, desperate to get him off his feet.
“No,” he mumbled, his fingers digging into my arm. He fought my momentum, stumbling. “Not there.”
“You need to lie down,” I argued, panic rising.
“Bathroom,” he insisted, forcing us down the hall. “First.”
I didn’t have the energy to protest. I let him steer us towards the next door.
The bathroom was cavernous, all slate tiles with a large window, too calm for the panic clawing at my throat. I flicked the light on, the sudden glare harsh againstthe gloom.
“Sit,” I ordered, steering him towards the wide edge of the porcelain tub.
He obeyed, collapsing onto the porcelain rim with a pained exhale.
His shirt was soaked and glued to his skin. When I peeled the fabric back, he stifled a hiss, revealing the wound. It was deep, weeping blood that looked black in the dim light.
My stomach lurched.
