The black glass around Rose wasn't just cold—it pulsed faintly, as though it was breathing. She pressed her palms against it, searching for a seam, but the surface was smooth and unyielding.
Somewhere beyond it, she could hear Vincent's voice—a low, steady rumble punctuated by the clash of something heavy meeting stone.
She forced herself to breathe evenly. Panic wouldn't help him.
But every muffled crash outside clawed at her patience like a ticking clock.
---
Think. She tried to recall everything Vincent had ever told her about supernatural traps.
"Shadowglass," he'd once said while pacing their penthouse balcony late at night. "It's not real glass—it's a prison built from the fears of whoever's inside."
Her stomach tightened. That meant this cage wasn't just physical—it was built from her.
She pressed her forehead to the wall. "You're not real," she whispered. "You're not keeping me here."
The surface rippled faintly under her touch.
---
Outside, the sound of battle stopped. Silence.
Then—
CRACK.
A jagged fissure shot through the black wall. Rose stumbled back as light bled through the fracture. Through it, she saw him.
Vincent stood in the middle of a ring of fire, coat torn, one shoulder bloodied. His hands were empty—no weapon—but the shadows themselves seemed to curl toward him like loyal animals.
He met her eyes for just a second. Something unspoken passed between them. Then his attention snapped back to the figure across from him.
The enemy stepped into the light.
---
At first, Rose thought it was Damien—but no. This man was taller, leaner, his face partially obscured by a bone-white mask carved like a fox.
When he spoke, his voice was almost cheerful.
"Leader of Hell's Fourth Circle, reduced to playing bodyguard for a human," the masked man said. "How far you've fallen, Vincent Dravis."
Rose's breath caught. Leader of Hell's Fourth Circle? Vincent had never told her that.
Vincent's voice was a whip-crack. "Let her go."
"Oh, I will," the man said lightly. "Once I take what you've been trying so hard to protect."
---
The fracture in the wall widened with a sharp hiss. Rose felt the strange pull of magic—something was trying to draw her toward the masked man.
Vincent moved instantly, stepping between them.
"You're not touching her," he said.
The man tilted his head. "Interesting. You act as if she's yours. But rules are rules, Vincent—you can't change the fact that her 'precious thing' must be collected. Or… have you not told her yet?"
Rose blinked. The words didn't make sense—but Vincent's sudden stiffness did.
He knows something.
---
The masked man raised one pale, gloved hand, and the floor beneath Vincent flared with sigils. Chains of molten light erupted from the symbols, snaking around his arms and chest.
Vincent didn't cry out—he only clenched his jaw, eyes flicking toward her. "Rose. Listen to me. Whatever he says—don't believe it."
"Why?" she demanded. "What is he talking about?"
"Later," Vincent said sharply. "I promise—later."
The masked man chuckled. "There is no later, my dear."
---
The pull on her body grew stronger. Her feet slid forward involuntarily, dragging across the floor toward the fracture in the wall. She dug her heels in, panic blooming sharp in her chest.
"Stop it!"
Vincent's voice dropped into something deeper, older—like the sound of stone grinding against stone. "You touch her, and you won't see another dawn."
The masked man looked almost amused. "And here I thought you'd forgotten how to sound like a real devil."
With a casual flick of his fingers, the fissure split wide. The wall shattered into shards of black light, dissolving into smoke.
---
Rose stumbled forward—straight into Vincent's arms.
He caught her easily, but his eyes never left the masked man. "You've made your point. Now leave."
The man didn't move. "The Council won't wait forever. You've delayed the inevitable once—but every delay makes the… parting worse."
With that cryptic warning, he stepped back into the darkness, vanishing as though he'd never been there.
---
The fire around them fizzled out. The chains binding Vincent dissolved into sparks.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Rose could feel the heat of his heartbeat under her cheek, the tension in his muscles.
"Vincent…" she began.
"Don't," he said softly. "Not yet. If I tell you now, you'll look at me differently. And I'm not ready for that."
Her throat tightened. "You think I can't handle the truth?"
He finally looked at her. The firelight caught in his eyes, making them almost gold. "I think you'll try to handle it, even if it breaks you. And I can't let that happen."
---
They walked back to the penthouse in silence. Rain slicked the streets, reflecting the city lights in fractured patterns. Every so often, she caught him glancing at her—not the casual glances of the man she'd known, but something heavier.
By the time they reached her building, she'd made a decision.
If he wouldn't tell her, she'd find out herself.
---
That night, while Vincent slept in the armchair by the window, Rose slipped quietly out of bed. She padded across the room, careful not to wake him, and retrieved the small black book he kept locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.
The lock clicked open with the hairpin she'd tucked into her robe pocket.
She flipped through the pages—notes, sigils, maps of places she didn't recognize. Then she found it: a single, pressed black feather between the pages, and beneath it, a line written in his careful hand:
"When the precious thing is love itself, the cost is everything."
Her breath caught.
She didn't have time to turn the page.
A shadow fell over the desk.
"Find what you were looking for?" Vincent's voice was low, unreadable.