The mercenary’s fist cracked across Grey’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. Pain shot down his neck, but he didn’t fall. He refused to. Not with Lana watching. Not with her life balancing on the knife-edge of his grip.Grey lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him back against the tree. Bark splintered. The mercenary grunted, recovered, and kneed him savagely in the ribs. Grey staggered, air knocked from his lungs.The mercenary smirked through bloodied teeth. “You can’t protect her. You never could.”Grey spat red onto the dirt and lifted his blade. “Watch me.”He struck with everything he had, each move fueled not by training but by raw fury. The blade slashed the mercenary’s arm; blood spilled, hot against the cold air. The man roared and countered, tackling Grey down into the undergrowth.They hit the ground hard, rolling, fists colliding with flesh, steel flashing between them. Grey’s vision blurred with sweat and blood, but he never lost sight of L

The forest stretched wide and endless, each tree trunk black as stone in the moonlight. Grey’s hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, his every movement calculated, noiseless. Beside him, Lana mirrored his crouch, her breaths shallow and controlled. Seraphine knelt just ahead, eyes fixed on the flicker of lanterns moving through the underbrush. There were six of them. Maybe more. The men walked in a staggered line, their beams cutting through the dark, sweeping the ground, pausing on trees, listening. Professional. No wasted motion. “They’re circling,” Seraphine whispered without turning her head. “Looking for prints.” Grey glanced down. The wet earth betrayed every step. Their tracks shone plain as ink under lantern light. Lana’s throat tightened. She pressed closer to Grey, whispering, “They’ll find us.” “Not if we move before they close the circle,” Grey murmured back. His voice was steady, but the faint tension in his jaw betrayed the stakes. Seraphine signaled with two f

The mansion carried silence like a secret. Its high-arched ceilings and long galleries seemed to hum with memory, every stone block and panel of dark oak whispering of years no one had lived in. Rain still clung to the windows, streaking the glass in thin rivulets that caught the glow of the sconces Grey had lit as they moved through the lower hall. Lana stood at the edge of the grand staircase, her fingers still hooked around the banister. She had never known a house could feel at once so immense and so personal. There was grandeur, yes—gilt frames and oil portraits, chandeliers that hung like falling stars—but there was also something curiously intimate about the way the corridors bent, the way doors hid small sitting rooms like secrets pressed between pages. Grey closed the last of the shutters, shutting out the restless storm beyond. “It hasn’t been lived in for years,” he said, his voice low, as though reluctant to disturb the hush. “But it was kept. Maintained. Someone saw to

The mansion was quieter than Lana thought a place so large could ever be. The silence pressed against the walls like velvet — thick, muffling, broken only by the faint tick of the old clock in the hall. Outside, the wind had stilled, leaving the night to its own deep breathing. She sat near the window of her room, Grey’s coat draped loosely over her shoulders, the locket resting in her palm. She had told herself she would sleep. She had even tried. But her mind circled, restless as the city lights she used to watch back home when sleep felt like a stranger. Now, instead of neon towers and the buzz of traffic, there was only the weight of this house, its ancient walls and shuttered halls, carrying secrets she hadn’t asked to inherit. The locket was warm against her skin. Not glowing this time, not shifting, just quietly present, as if reminding her that it was still there, still waiting. She turned it over in her hand, watching the way firelight caught on its worn surface. The sof

The fire in the east wing’s hearth had burned low, throwing long fingers of amber across the paneled walls. The European mansion had a way of swallowing sound; even the crackle of flame seemed hushed, as if the house itself listened when its inhabitants spoke. Lana sat near the tall window, her knees pulled close, staring at the dark stretch of manicured gardens beyond. They looked foreign to her eyes — perfectly kept hedges cut into geometric patterns, white gravel paths winding like veins through the soil. But no matter how flawless the arrangement, the land still looked lonely. Vast and quiet, too curated to feel alive. She had thought leaving home, leaving the weight of her mother’s secrets and the shadow of the Thompsons, would ease something inside her. But the silence here only made that shadow sharper. Grey entered without a sound, setting a tray on the table between them. Silver cups, steam curling up from them, and a small plate of buttered bread. He poured the tea and h