We don’t talk. We don’t have to. The air is already thick with all the baggage we’ve dragged here. Rage, grief, vengeance. My pulse rattles in my throat, and for the first time in days, I’m not suffocating on the silence. I’m feeding on it.
Marcus finally sweeps his gaze over us, eyes moving like he’s ticking mental boxes—ready, ready, probably doomed, ready. Then his attention lands on me, and for the briefest second, a flash of fire sparks in his irises before he slams the mask back on.
I’ve caught it more and more lately, that flicker when I’m in nothing but leggings and a tank. Not exactly haute couture, but apparently enough to short-circuit his composure. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, leftover heat from the first time we went after Maximillian, when my shirt got ripped off and… well. The evening got memorable fast. Or maybe it’s something else. Something he’s not saying.
I can’t lie, I like it. There’s something delicious about being looked at like that when I’m dressed for war, not seduction. Even sweat-slick and strung out, he sees me. Wants me. And I love that.
Not that now is exactly the time to be cataloging Marcus’s micro-expressions like some lovesick teenager. But hey, impending doom or not, a girl’s allowed her distractions.
He seems to give himself a mental shake, then nods sharply toward the hallway leading to the ballroom. Then he gives a single, sharp nod toward the stairwell. That’s it. No pep talk. No stirring words to rally the troops. Typical Marcus. Straight to the point, all business, zero bedside manner. Honestly, if the man ever tried to inspire us with something heartfelt, I think we’d all die of shock before the enemy even showed up.
And just like that, we move.
Weapons get checked, claws flex, spells murmured under breath like half-prayers, half-threats. The whole room hums with tension, every sound sharper than it should be. My palms are slick, but I play it off, shifting my grip on the dagger like it’s strategy and not nerves. If anyone notices the way my fingers tremble, they’re polite enough not to mention it. Or maybe they just know better.
The halls stretch long and cold as we move through them, the air heavy with anticipation. Every creak underfoot sounds like a warning shot. Minerva keeps pace beside me, whip wrapped in her hand, her gaze flicking toward me like she’s silently letting me know she’s here. Leonard’s ahead of us, tossing out one of his awful one-liners under his breath. I blow out a breath.
We descend the staircase together, each step dragging like the tick of a clock counting down to an execution. The air thickens with every level we drop, pressing on my lungs, heavier and heavier, like the house itself knows what’s coming and would rather look away. Our shadows project onto the walls like a movie of our doom. Everything feels like a warning, as if telling us we’re heading into a trap. Which, let’s be honest, we probably are.
Now that I think about it, if it isn’t a trap, I’d feel very suspicious.
When we reach the doors, Marcus pushes them open without ceremony. The hinges groan, the sound splitting the silence like a drumroll before an execution. The space beyond yawns wide, vast and echoing, every polished surface gleaming under the chandeliers. It’s spotless—of course it is, the staff see to that—but the shine only makes it worse. All that care, all that order, in a room that never gets used seems a waste, but then again, it fits in with how Marcus runs his home.
Crossing the threshold is like stepping onto a stage. The air feels ceremonial, as if even the walls know blood is about tobe spilled. Tonight, the ballroom isn’t for dancing. Tonight, it’s ready for war. Romantic, really—nothing says date night like chandeliers and the promise of carnage.
Everyone moves without needing to be told. Serafina slips toward the windows, bow drawn, her eyes scanning the dark like she can already see the first targets. My wolf hovers close to the edges of my skin, muscles taut, claws pricking through every part of me. Her restraint is loud in my ears. A steady, violent heartbeat. It’s dangerous, overwhelming, deadly.
Belvedere drops his satchel to the polished floor and crouches low, glass vials clinking softly as he lines them up. The colors inside swirl like bottled storms, and for once he looks focused instead of smug.
Minerva loosens her whip, the leather coiling and uncoiling in her hands like a snake craving to strike.
Leonard gazes around. “Well, at least the lighting is good. I’d hate to die a martyr under fluorescent lights.” His timing is atrocious, but gods, I’m almost grateful for it. Almost.
Marcus doesn’t say a word as he strides into the center like the floor itself was laid for him. He doesn’t claim the space—he owns it, the way only he can, with that infuriating calm that sets my nerves on edge. My stomach twists, because I know better than to mistake it for comfort. That calm isn’t safety. It’s the pause before everything comes crashing down, the quiet before the avalanche. And holy shit do I find it maddeningly attractive.
We wait.
The silence is slow torture and feels deliberate. Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Three sets. A dramatic entrance. Of course.
The doors slam wide, and in struts Maximillian. The bastard could sell tickets to his own ego. Two wolf leaders flank him, alphas who clearly never learned the meaning of loyalty. His gaze sweeps the room, bored and calculating, until it landson Victoria. Something flickers—surprise?—before he buries it under a smirk.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, clapping once. Theatrical. Always. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d make it this far. Survival looks good on you. I’d know. You actually managed to get one past me. I’m genuinely impressed.”
Victoria’s voice whips the air. “Not for long. You won’t be feeling anything when I feed your head to the dogs.”
His laugh slithers through the chamber, oily and smug.
“How do you live with yourself?” she spits. “You killed our family.”
His smile freezes on his face. “Family?” he scoffs. “They were never mine. My human life was ripped from me, and I was expected to just fall in line. I wasn’t made to play second to anyone.”
Her breath falters, but she doesn’t bend. “Then why save me?”
Maximillian tilts his head, eyes glittering like knives. “At first? Poetic. I was going to save you, then crown you as my bride. Together we’d rule. But then I saw you for the whore you are.” His lip curls. “Even for power, I couldn’t stomach you.”
Victoria shudders. “Your bride? I saw you as my brother, and never anything more.”
Before Maximillan can respond, Minerva’s laugh slices through, vicious and amused. She twirls her whip like she’s a bored ringleader at a circus. “Gods, Maximillian. Tossing away a throne over that? In this century? You’re not just a monster. You’re pathetic.”
