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I shake off the thought.

“If you don’t tell me,” I say, trailing after him, “I’m going to think the worst.”

The cottage is much larger inside than the small stone front led me to believe. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s because it was created with magic unlike any I’ve ever seen. Fae magic. It’s deep within the heart of every stone, the splinters of each piece of wood. It lingers in the air as sweet and thick as honey.

Quill leans against the counter. “It’s not… pleasant.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Considering Mihal is a raging monster, I wouldn’t imagine it was.”

He runs a big hand through his hair, and guilt rushes through me for pushing him to speak about something that so clearly pains him. He winced when he’d caught himself earlier, when he almost bore the truth of this darkened memory. The rawness of his pain was evident in the tick in his jaw and the shuttering of his eyes as he abruptly ended the conversation. Even now, as he runs his hand through his hair for a second time and stares at the ceiling…

I really shouldn’t push. I should stop this conversation. I should⁠—

“Centuries ago, Mihal and I were friends.” He pauses as I pull a face. “Don’t look at me like that. He was different then.”

I hold up my hands. “No judgment here. My sister and I used to be close, too, before she became obsessed with power.”

“That,” he says, eyes darkening, “was exactly Mihal’s problem.” He shakes his head. “He had everything a vampire could ever want, Rory. An unrivaled ability, friends who cared for him, a godsdamned mate… Everything.” He laughs mirthlessly. “I was so fucking envious of him. He could use his own blood as a weapon while I was stuck conjuring illusions. Risna, Eivor, and Carver looked to him for guidance. And Catalin…” He trails off.

“Who’s Catalin?” I ask.

“Mihal’s mate. They found each other and took the Pledging within a few days of knowing one another. They were so in love, so happy.”

He clears his throat. “But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted power. True power.”

“He wanted a seat on the council,” I say quietly.

A nod. “Catalin tried to talk him out of it, and he… hurt her. Pretty badly with silver. So she fled to the Shore of the Damned the moment she was strong enough to do so and warned us about Mihal’s intentions and his plan to initiate the Challenge.” The muscle in his jaw ticks. “She came bearing an exquisite vintage bottle of mortal blood. We drank it in the parlor, and within minutes, Godrick’s affliction triggered. He killed Catalin in a fit of rage and slaughtered all the mortals employed at the castle.”

I bring a hand to my mouth as the blood in my stomach roils.

“Thankfully,” he continues, seemingly unable to meet my eyes, “my kindred had been staying at Garden’s Gate when it happened, or he might’ve slaughtered them too.” His hands fist at his sides. “When I close my eyes, I can still see the emptiness staring back at me as the affliction triggered in Godrick. His gaze was so cold, so devoid of the loving kindness he’d been known for. And when he—” Again, he clears his throat before he continues. “When he saw me, the haze lifted. The darkness receded, the light flickered, but the damage was done. There was… nothing left of Catalin when I sought out Mihal to tell him what had happened.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” I say, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around his waist. “It was a horrible accident, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“Mihal knew,” he whispers. “He claimed he felt a part of himself die with Catalin, and I’ve always wondered if maybe the part of him he lost was all that remained of what was once good in him.” He’s rigid beneath my grip. “Not even a day later, he alerted the Council of what had happened, deemed Godrick unfit to lead the vampires because of his affliction and what he had done, and urged them to ignore Godrick’s request to name an heir. An hour of debate was all it took for four of the Seven to flip and throw their support behind Mihal and his request to Challenge. The next day, I buried Godrick on the Shore of the Damned, and from his death, a flower bloomed.”

He lost his sire within the span of two days. Two. Days.

A sense of unease burgeons deep within me.

His chest shakes, and when I glance up at him, trails of red streak down his cheeks. Blood. He’s crying tears of blood. My heart breaks for him, for this unbearable loss. I wipe my thumbs across his cheeks, smearing crimson across his pale skin. The scent of his blood is overwhelming, and my fangs lengthen, but I ignore the lust to taste him, the aching in my mouth, the hollowness in my stomach, and merely wipe my fingers on my gown.

“I wish I could’ve met him,” I say.

He smiles fondly. “He would’ve loved you.”

“Yes,” agrees an unfamiliar voice. I whirl around as Quill’s hands find my hips. “Like you, my son, he would’ve found your mate quite sweet.”

“Nerissa.” Quill pulls me against him, grip tightening, as he says, “We weren’t expecting you until dawnbreak.”

Heaven and stars eternal.

The siren supreme.

With hair the deep blue of ocean depths cascading around her like waves, she moves as gracefully as the waters she commands. She unwinds her scarf, unbuttons the incandescent pearls of her elegant jacket and shimmies out of it, and hangs both on the coat hook beside my not-so-extravagant velvet cloak. Her pale skin shimmers with a luminance that is completely unearthly but mesmerizing all the same.

“I was hoping to arrive early to tidy up,” she says, slipping out of her heels. “I even have Cora outside hunting for the two of you.”