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I reach up and touch a whorl on my cheekbone that wasn’t there before. The skin is smooth, the scar already healed, but it feels alive, humming just under the surface. “Did any of you know this would happen?” I ask, turning to catch his expression in the mirror.

He shrugs, not quite apologetically. “The prince suspected, I think. Though he may not have visited his Worldroot, he has many markings, brands, and tattoos, most of which I do not believe he asked for. It’s likely part of coming into your power as one of the Fair Folk.” He traces a line from my jaw to my collarbone, careful not to press too hard. “I did not expect this change to suit you so much, nor that it would attract my demon so thoroughly. It’s very odd.”

I want to punch him for being so calm about this, but I settle for a glare. “You sound like you’re either going to write a sonnet about me or go totally Nancy Drew.”

His eyes go soft as he laughs. “You’d hate that, my blood song,” he says as his lips curl up. “But I certainly could write one. You have no idea how many famous poets attend vampire parties, especially in the past. The well known romantics and gothics were almost stalkers of our kind.”

That explains why Byron wouldn’t leave Mary Shelley alone, but it’s still gross.

“Despite my intense curiosity about your storied vampire history-tripping past, we have way too much to deal with right now for me to hyperfocus on it. Save that shit for later, fang man.” Dezi grins wickedly, and I push his shoulder a little. “Seriously. You can’t distract me with that stuff; we gotta get moving.”

I turn to get out of bed, which is a whole process after blood loss, the trial, and lack of nutrition. The muscles in my legs feel weirdly jelly-like, and for a wild second I’m afraid I’ll collapse like a newborn giraffe. Once I stand up, I hold onto the nightstand until I get my balance. Dezi’s gaze follows me to the armoire, where I pull out a midnight-blue, star-covered robe and throw it over me. It hangs perfectly, the runes on my skin shimmering through the fabric as if I’m lit from within.

If these fuckers wanted to run a luxury resort, they definitely have the service part down pat.

Behind me, the vampire has risen and is cleaning up the bed area. He’s not as meticulous about it as he would be at home, but I think he doesn’t want me to have to walk through our sexual carnage. Kicking the worst of it out of the way with his feet, he picks up the discarded bloody towel and drapes it over the hook on the wall. I’m pretty sure that’s for clothes, but in Midnight? Who the fuck knows, man.

Not that I have zero experience with hooks used in bondage, but it’s not usually so out in the open in guest areas unless you’re in a place like Cocktails & Screams.

By the time I come out of my head, he’s holding a brush in his hand, wiggling it. The sight is so at odds with the stern aura he usually has going on that it stuns me. He pats the edge of the bed, an unspoken invitation for me to sit down and allow him to… groom me? I have no idea what to do with that, so I just look at the ancient vampire pensively.

“Please,” he says, and the word is both command and request.

Ah, Stern Brunch Daddy Vamp is back—guess I can let him have his fun.

I sit, and he runs the brush through my hair with such care that it borders on worship. Every stroke untangles a knot; every pass down the length of my hair soothes some part of me I didn’t know was raw.

Now I know why my sister always wanted me to do this for her when she got flustered or upset with people. It’s soothing and gentle in a way that makes you safe—something I haven’t often felt in the life I remember, even as a child. My hyper-security conscious parents—excuse me, guardians—always wanted us to be on alert, which makes a lot of sense now.

Of course, it left me feeling like my entire childhood was vigilance and protecting Fer, which continued into adulthood after their deaths.

“I didn’t think this would be your thing,” I say, trying to keep my voice light as I push away the unsettling thoughts that come with analyzing the life I didn’t know I resented before now. “Sure, you like being in charge, but this is awfully soft for you…and me, I guess.”

Dezi chuckles as he continues brushing. “In my pre-vampiric life, I had a younger sister. She liked to fight, but she liked to have her hair perfect even more.” There’s a pause, and I can feel him weighing whether to share more. He settles on a safe distance. “I remember little about that lifetime because I’ve survived so many more since then, but I remember her because it helps stay on the good side of humanity in my mind. Some of my kind do not keep such things and they become… very different from me.”

The brush moves through my hair again, the rhythm almost hypnotic. I let my eyes close, just for a second, letting his small glimpse of his heart warm me inside.

“You should see the rest of you,” he whispers.

“What, is it worse?”

“It is…more than what you could view from the previous position.” He hesitates, which means he’s nervous about my temper. “I believe you should see how strong you’ve become in comparison to how they repressed you out of safety concerns.”

I get up, and this time, it isn’t as hard. I pad to the bathroom, open the door, and stare at the full-length mirror on the wall. If RBF is an upgraded weapon, my body is an arsenal now. The glyphs run from my neck to my ankles, curling around my curves and muscles with a logic that feels ancient and inviolable. There are crescents, stars, flora, and full moons, lines of script in Fae, and scars—real, healed-over scars—crisscrossing my frame alongside my previous tattoos.

None of that was there this morning; I look like a warrior now, not a punky emo bartender.

I turn, and there’s a moon phase diagram on my back, dead center, as if someone branded it there for the world to see. When I look at my hands, the fingers are a little longer, nails tipped in something almost metallic. They’re still mine, but they’re also more than mine. Every line, every whorl, glows with power that I know is bigger than I know how to wield yet.

I try to look away, but I can’t. “Mother Crone, I don’t even look human anymore,” I say, my voice so quiet I barely hear it.

Dezi appears in the mirror behind me, arms folded over his chest as he grins. “No, witchling, you do not. But you absolutely look like Fae royalty as I’ve always known them to appear.”

I force myself to meet his eyes in the glass. “How do I face the assholes in Briarvale like this?”

“You terrify them with their grievous error at the Ascension. Or if you like, the Prince can assist with the more ‘other realm’ type of glamours if you feel like that would be better until we are ready to deal with this Court.” My vampire rests his hands on my hips, and presses a kiss to the new marks on my shoulder. “Let them fear you. You were never meant to blend in, Fiadh Morgenstern.”

I laugh, looking up at him wryly. “You’re full of grandiose speeches today, buddy. I’d prefer my cheese to be on a charcuterie, if possible. I’m hangry as fuck, you know.”