A knock shatters the silence, jolting me upright. I clutch the covers to my chest, heart hammering like I've been caught in something forbidden.
Grayson is already moving, sliding from the bed with predatory ease. He tugs on his boxers in one swift motion before crossing the room.
The heavy door opens onto a tall, pale man whose presence fills the threshold. Their voices are too low to catch, but the air shifts—tight, thrumming with danger underneath.
Grayson's jaw tightens. He gives a curt nod, then shuts the door with a decisive thud. Turning back to me, his eyes catch the light, sharp and unreadable.
"There's been trouble," he says, voice low, certain. "Rogues. I have to step away."
My stomach knots. Trouble. Rogues. The word tastes metallic, and I pull the covers tighter.
His gaze lingers on me, softer now, though no less commanding. "Get dressed, Cassidy. Quickly."
I scramble to obey, fumbling into my clothes, the weight of his urgency pressing on me. By the time I finish, he's returned, knocking once on the door before opening it again. His eyes flick over me, making sure I'm decent, before he steps aside to reveal someone new.
A woman enters—tall, striking, posture strong. But her smile breaks the severity of the moment, eyes glinting in the light with kindness instead of danger.
"This is Angel," Grayson says, his tone clipped but gentler than before. "She'll stay with you while I'm gone. I think you two will get along."
Angel nods, her expression softening even more.
"Of course we will. Don't worry, Cassidy—I've got you." Her voice is light, reassuring, almost melodic.
The sincerity in her tone takes me off guard, and for the first time in hours the tightness in my chest loosens just slightly.
"Keep an eye on her," Grayson gives her one sharp look.
"Yes, sir," she adds, dipping her head to Grayson with genuine respect. When she straightens again, her focus is fully on me, steady and warm, as though she means to shoulder some of the weight pressing down on me.
Grayson's hand lingers on the doorframe for a heartbeat longer than it should, his gaze locked on mine like he doesn't want to leave. Then he turns sharply, disappearing into the hall, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the coven's silence.
The room feels colder without him.
Angel doesn't stay still for long. She claps her hands lightly, as if to break the tension.
"Come on. Sitting here staring at the fire won't help. Let me show you around—it might make this place feel less like a crypt and more like…well, home."
I hesitate, but she offers her arm with such an easy smile that I find myself moving, almost against my will.
The halls stretch wide and endless, carved stone and glass, alcoves flickering with lanterns. Angel keeps close, pointing things out as we go—"That's the library, though Grayson hoards half the books in his room," or "Don't bother with that stairwell; it just loops back on itself." Her voice is bright, casual, as if we're on nothing more than a late-night tour of a college dorm.
By the time we reach a broad chamber near the back, I'm almost breathing easier. The space is unexpected—modern and functional, with long counters, an industrial-sized fridge, shelves of neatly stacked mugs and glassware. A kitchen, of sorts, though the scent of blood lingers faint beneath the steel and stone.
"Here," Angel says, ushering me toward one of the heavy wooden tables at the center. She drops gracefully into a chair and gestures for me to join her.
"This is where most of us gather when we're not hiding in our own rooms. It's neutral ground. Safe."
I sit, my hands clasped tight in my lap. The surface of the table is smooth, worn with use. Angel rests her chin on her hand, studying me with open curiosity, but no judgment.
"See?" she says softly, almost conspiratorial. "Not so scary once you break it down. Even we need a kitchen."
A laugh escapes me—small, nervous, but real. Angel's smile widens.
"There you go," she says. "Much better. Now…why don't you tell me what you're really afraid of tonight? Because I can tell it isn't just the rogues."
Her eyes are kind, waiting, patient. And for the first time since stepping into this coven's walls, I feel the faintest flicker of safety.
The kitchen's hum is different from the rest of the coven—softer, warmer somehow. A quiet heartbeat of the place, with the steady glow of lanterns and the faint murmur of pipes in the walls.
Angel props her chin in her hand, studying me with eyes that are far too bright to belong in a place like this.
"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," she says. "But I can see it—the weight on you. And I don't like sitting here pretending I don't."
I swallow hard, twisting my fingers together on the table. "I don't even know where to start."
Her smile is small, reassuring. "Then let me."
She leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly, as though peeling back a layer she doesn't show often.
"I wasn't born into this. I was made. A few years ago. Fresh enough that sometimes I still dream in sunlight." Her voice dips, quieter now. "It wasn't by choice."
My chest tightens, the words hitting with more force than I expect.
Angel's gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the shelves of mugs stacked neatly against the wall. "I was in the wrong place, wrong time. A rogue thought I'd make easy prey. He didn't ask. He didn't care. He just…tore the life I knew away and left me drowning in the aftermath."
She goes still for a moment, hands clasped loosely in her lap. Then her eyes lift to mine again, steady and unwavering. "I wouldn't have survived it—not the bloodlust, not the fear—if Grayson hadn't found me. He tracked the rogue down before I lost myself completely. He brought me here, gave me a place to stand when I didn't even remember how to walk."
Her throat works, the smallest flicker of emotion breaking through her calm. "So when he says you'll be safe, Cassidy…he means it. He doesn't make promises lightly."
I press my palms flat to the table, grounding myself against the sting in my chest. "You…you don't regret it? Being made?"
Angel's lips tilt in a soft, bittersweet curve. "Some days I miss who I was. The girl who went out dancing on Friday nights, who slept until noon. But I'd be lying if I said I hated who I am now. I survived. And Grayson saw something in me worth saving when I couldn't see it myself."
She pauses, then leans forward slightly, lowering her voice as if confiding something rare. "And for what it's worth…he doesn't do this. He doesn't bring women here. Not ever. You're the first I've seen him walk through these halls with."
My stomach flips, heat rushing into my face. "What are you saying?"
Angel only shrugs lightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That you matter to him. More than you probably realize."
Her hand slides across the table, palm up, an unspoken offer. "I think he sees something in you too. Even if you don't yet."
The light catches in her eyes, not sharp like the others, but bright, steady. For the first time since stepping foot in the coven, my pulse doesn't feel like it's racing away from me—it feels like it's slowing, finding its rhythm.
I take a shaky breath and, for the first time since stepping foot inside the coven, I let the words spill without tears. Slowly, carefully, I tell her everything—about my ex, the control, the double life, the night it all snapped. My voice is steady, stripped bare, and somehow I feel safe with her listening.
Angel doesn't flinch, doesn't interrupt. When I finish, she sits back in her chair, thoughtful.
"Grayson will be right on top of that," she says matter-of-factly, as if it's already a certainty. "If he hasn't already tasked someone to dig into your past, he will. That's who he is—always three steps ahead. He'll want answers before the questions even hit you."
The weight of her words settles over me, firm and reassuring. For the first time, the thought of Grayson's relentless control doesn't feel suffocating. It feels…protective.
Angel tilts her head, her smile soft but knowing. "You're not alone in this anymore, Cassidy. Whatever's coming, you've got people who'll stand with you now. Him most of all."
And yet, a part of me flickers back to David, to the safety, the simple, normal I'd been chasing. The promise of David's normalcy is a quiet whisper against the roaring certainty of Grayson's claim, a claim Angel is now helping me understand.
I remember the gentle pressure of his hand brushing mine, the way it felt so easy, so caring—a stark contrast to the coiled intensity that hums beneath Grayson's skin.
David, who makes me laugh without trying. David, who feels like sunlight through an open window, like normal, like a life I could almost believe in. He doesn't pull at me with chains. He doesn't set my blood on fire. He just feels safe.
I twist my fingers together in my lap, the conflict eating at me. Safe versus inevitable. Light versus shadow. My heart wants both, but my body betrays me every time Grayson so much as looks at me.
Because even if I want David, even if I crave the ordinary, I already know: Grayson is the one my pulse answers to.
"Are you okay?" Angel asks, brows furrowed, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Yeah," I smile, lying through my teeth. "So…Grayson's like the boss around here?"
Angel chuckles softly, leaning back in her chair. "Yes. More than a boss, really. He's the one who keeps us steady, keeps us safe. Without him, this place would've fallen apart a long time ago. Every coven needs a center, and he's ours."
The door at the far end creaks open before I can answer. Two vampires stride in, pale as marble, their movements easy but purposeful. Neither spares me more than a glance as they cross the room to the industrial fridge. The hiss of suction and the rustle of plastic fill the air as they pull blood bags free.
One of them—broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones that catch the light—glances over at us, catching the thread of our conversation. His voice is deep, almost amused.
"He's the oldest one of us," he says simply, tucking two bags under his arm.
The words hang heavy in the air, shifting the weight of everything I thought I knew.
Angel's eyes flick toward me, warm but serious. "Oldest, strongest, and most relentless when it comes to protecting what's his."
The other vampire, a wiry man with pale blond hair, gives a short, almost adorin nod. "It's why we follow him. Always will."
My pulse stumbles, caught between fear and something hotter, sharper. Oldest. Strongest. The weight of that truth presses down on me, twining tighter with the bond that already won't let me go.
The blond one rips open a bag with his teeth, crimson glinting in the light as he drinks straight from the plastic. The broad-shouldered one slides onto a chair nearby, eyes narrowing on me with a curious sort of weight.
"You know…" he starts, voice low and edged with something almost conspiratorial, "Grayson doesn't bring women here. Not ever."
Angel cuts him a look, but there's no heat behind it. She only shrugs.
"I already told her that."
"Still worth saying twice," the blond one mutters around a mouthful of blood. "It's…not his way. Which makes you—" He gestures vaguely at me with the bag in hand.
"Different."
My throat tightens. I lean back in my chair, arms wrapping around myself.
"The only reason I'm here is because of this bond he keeps talking about," I blurt before I can stop myself. "If it wasn't for that, I'd be anywhere else."
The broad-shouldered vampire makes a sharp sound—half gasp, half laugh—and leans forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyes glint like obsidian.
"The bond?" he repeats, as though tasting the word.
Heat surges into my cheeks, but I force myself to nod.
The blond one whistles low, shaking his head. "There's a story. Old. Not many put stock in it anymore."
My brows knit together. "A story?"
"The bond," the broad-shouldered one explains, voice almost reverent. "They say when a vampire feeds on a human and something…clicks… sometimes it forges a tether. Stronger than blood. Stronger than choice."
His gaze sharpens on me, hungry with curiosity.
"It means the two are meant. Pulled to each other in a way nothing can sever. At least—that's how the story goes."
I swallow, my pulse skittering as I glance toward the closed door Grayson had vanished through.
"If it's such a big deal, he's awfully nonchalant about it. He makes it sound like…" My voice falters. "Like it's just another fact, not—"
"Fate," Angel finishes gently, her smile carrying something both kind and sad.
The blond vampire tilts his bag in a mock toast. "He might act casual, but believe me—if that bond really happened? Nothing about it is casual."
The blond vampire's words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on me harder than the stone walls surrounding this place. Destiny.
I shift in my chair, suddenly too aware of every thread tying me to this coven, to Grayson. My chest feels tight, breath shallow, as if the bond itself is a chain coiling tighter with each beat of my heart.
Because if this story is true, if the bond is real, then what does that mean for me? For the life I thought I wanted?
David's face rises in my mind—soft eyes, easy smile, the kind of warmth that doesn't demand, doesn't burn. With him, I could almost believe in normal. Lazy Saturday mornings. Coffee and sunlight. A life untouched by shadows, by blood, by the weight of old stone halls and eyes that glint like predators.
But then there's Grayson.
Grayson, who feels less like a choice and more like gravity. Every look from him pulls me deeper, every word binds me tighter. Even now, with him gone only minutes, the ache inside me is unbearable, like my body knows I'm tethered whether I want to be or not.
Still, I grit my teeth. No. That bond—whatever it is—doesn't own me. It can't. I refuse to believe that one moment, one bite, rewrote who I am and what I want.
Because I want choice. I want freedom. And if that means fighting this pull until it tears me apart, then so be it.
Grayson might believe I'm his. The coven might believe it too. But I know this much: my heart, my future—they're still mine to decide.
And I'll cling to that truth, even if it kills me.