Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Enzo
I stared at Killian, the cold marble floor pressing against my knee through my pants.
My fingers curled into a loose fist as I tried to remain completely calm, counting each steady thump of my heartbeat.
The rich scent of old books and parchment from Stefan's broken bookcase filled my nostrils, mingling with the sharp smell of Killian's fear and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Killian cowered against the splintered bookcase, his knuckles scraped raw and bleeding from where he'd tried to break his fall.
A thin cut traced along his left cheekbone, a dark line of blood slowly trickling toward his jaw.
Wood splinters clung to his hair, and his chest rose and fell in ragged, panicked breaths.
He looked up at me with wide, desperate eyes—a cornered mouse trapped among three, no, four hungry cats if I included Anton.
The afternoon light streaming through the Gothic windows cast long shadows across the scene, highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny spirits.
From my position, I could see every detail of his terror—the way his hands trembled against the floor, the rapid pulse fluttering at his throat, the way he pressed himself harder against the damaged wood as if he could somehow disappear into it.
My fangs ached with restrained hunger as I leaned slightly closer, close enough that he could probably smell the danger radiating from me. Behind me, I could sense Angelo's cold presence and hear Dimitri's soft chuckle of amusement.
The moment pressed down on us all—this was the breaking point, and we all knew it.
Killian scrubbed his sweaty face with trembling hands, leaving smears of blood from his scraped knuckles across his pale cheeks. “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“That’s not true,” I said. I could smell his terror intensifying with the metallic scent of his blood and the musty air from the broken bookcase. “You keep your blood to yourself or you can keep your son.”
“You call that a choice?” His eyes darted frantically between us, searching for any hint of mercy he wouldn’t find.
I turned my head slowly, deliberately meeting Angelo’s cold gaze over my shoulder. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod—the signal I'd been waiting for. The slight smile that played at the corners of his mouth drained all the warmth from the office.
"Stefan," Angelo's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding, "please escort Kara to my car." He pulled out his phone with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving across the screen. "Pascal, ready the plane."
"No!" Killian's voice exploded in a raw, broken cry that echoed off the office walls. He struggled to push himself up from the debris, blood from his cut cheek dripping onto his shirt. "You can't do this!"
I rose slowly to my feet, savoring the way Killian's eyes tracked my movement like a trapped animal watching a predator. I stepped back, giving him a perfect view of his defeat. "We're not doing it," I said, each word edged with steel. "You are."
Killian pushed himself off the floor with shaking arms, his scraped palms leaving bloody prints on the marble. He swayed slightly on unsteady legs before hanging his head in defeat, his shoulders sagging like a man who'd lost everything. "You don't play fair."
I met his sad stare, noting how the cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding but left a dark trail down to his jaw. "Meaning?"
The raw misery in his eyes sent an unexpected twinge of guilt through my chest. But it wasn't enough—not nearly enough—to stop me. Joy's life hung in the balance, and I'd burn this entire building down, leave a room full of bodies, to save her.
Killian's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he stared at his bloodied knuckles.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant tick of Stefan's ornate clock and the whisper of pages settling among the scattered books.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air drifting through the tall windows.
"Please," he whispered. His voice cracked like breaking glass. "There has to be another way."
"There isn't," I said simply.
He closed his eyes, a broken sound escaping his throat—half sob, half growl of defeat. When he opened them again, tears tracked silently down his cheeks, mixing with the dried blood. "I can't let you take my son."
My muscles tensed. This was the dangerous moment—when a desperate man had nothing left to lose. Killian was broken, but cornered animals were the most vicious. I shifted my weight, ready to move if he lunged.
His hands trembled violently as he slowly began to roll up one sleeve, the fabric catching on his shaking fingers. The pale skin of his forearm seemed to glow in the afternoon light streaming through the Gothic windows. "I'll give you my blood."
Too easy. After all that resistance, he just... surrendered? Every instinct screamed this was a trap. Was the blood cursed? Would it turn toxic the moment it touched the stone? I didn't trust this sudden capitulation—not from an Unseelie prince who'd fought us every step of the way.
“Not with a syringe or even me biting you.” Angelo pulled out the blood stone from inside his jacket pocket. “This is a blood stone. If you are telling the truth, the stone will draw your blood and turn dark red.”
Killian’s face paled as he stared at the stone.
Angelo turned the stone over in his fingers. “But if you’re lying, it will turn orange. Are you giving this freely?”
Killian's shoulders slumped further, and he couldn't meet Angelo's eyes as he whispered, "Yes." The single word came out hollow, drained of all fight. His hands hung limp at his sides, still trembling from the aftermath of his decision.
Done. We had what we needed. I should have felt elated—one step closer to Joy, to bringing her home. Instead I felt nothing but a grim, tired acceptance. We'd achieved our goal by breaking a father's will. Necessary? Yes. Something to celebrate? Not even close.
Angelo stepped closer, his footsteps echoing against the marble with deliberate precision.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his cold presence loomed over Killian's defeated form.
"If you're lying, we'll know immediately.” His voice was conversational, almost gentle, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. “Then I take your son.”
The threat was pure and simple, delivered with the calm certainty of someone who had never once failed to follow through. Angelo never went back on a promise—whether it was a reward or a punishment.
Killian visibly flinched at the words, his face going even paler. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he swallowed hard, the sound audible in the oppressive silence. He nodded once, a jerky movement that spoke of a man who had just signed his soul away.
“I’m not lying,” he insisted.
Perhaps. But lying seemed to be second nature to Killian.
“Stick out your palm.” Angelo placed the blood stone in Killian’s shaking hand.
I stood perfectly still, waiting to see whether Killian was telling the truth or lying. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, and I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
I was desperate for his blood, and my fangs descended as I waited to lunge if he lied.
The stone began spinning in Killian's palm, faster and faster until it became a dark blur.
The air around his hand shimmered with unnatural heat as the stone suddenly seemed to melt into his skin like a hungry leech, disappearing beneath the surface with a sucking, viscous sound that made my stomach turn.
Killian's eyes went wide with shock before he hissed sharply between clenched teeth, his face contorting in agony. "Ah, god!" He clutched his wrist with his free hand and dropped to his knees on the cold marble, his body convulsing as if lightning were coursing through his veins.
The terrible sound filled the office—wet, rhythmic, like something feeding. It echoed off the high ceilings and made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Even Stefan shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Killian threw his head back, tendons straining in his neck as he cried out in pure anguish. His scream bounced off the walls, raw and broken. Sweat poured down his face as if he’d just stepped out of a shower.
Was this supposed to happen? My pulse quickened. The stone had absorbed into his skin, but was it actually working, or had something gone wrong? Killian's pain looked real—too real. What if the spell was killing him instead of extracting his blood?
Bit by bit, the stone began to show through his translucent skin, changing color slowly—from deep black to pale pink to bright orange that pulsed like a warning beacon. My heart sank. The bastard was lying to us after everything.
I bared my fangs in fury at his treachery and took a menacing step forward, my hands clenching into fists.
Angelo's iron grip clamped down on my forearm, stopping me mid-stride. "Wait," he commanded, his voice cutting through my rage. "It's changing colors."
I forced myself not to break away from his grasp, every muscle in my body coiled tight with frustrated anger. My patience had evaporated completely. But Angelo was right—the orange was deepening, shifting to dark red, then to almost black as midnight.
As if suddenly satisfied with its meal, the stone began to separate from Killian's palm, rising slowly like a dark pearl emerging from flesh.
I couldn't look away. The stone lifted with an almost hypnotic slowness, slick and gleaming, leaving Killian's unmarked skin behind.
Was this supposed to happen? The dark magic fascinated and repulsed me in equal measure.
Had it worked? Was the blood inside somehow, or had the spell failed?
I had no way of knowing—no reference for what success looked like.
All I could do was watch this impossible thing unfold and hope Tinker Bell had been right.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he toppled backward in slow motion.
His body crashed into the jagged remains of Stefan’s bookcase with a sickening thud, sending splintered wood and leatherbound volumes cascading around him like fallen leaves.
His head lolled to one side at an unnatural angle, blood from his earlier cut now smearing across the marble floor.
The stone rolled from his limp fingers, skittering across the polished marble with a series of sharp clicks that echoed in the sudden silence.
I wrenched free from Angelo’s grip, my boots slipping slightly on the smooth floor as I lunged forward and seized the stone before it could disappear under Stefan’s desk.
The moment my fingers closed around it, the stone pulsed with unnatural warmth, almost hot to the touch, like holding a coal fresh from the fire. Worse than that—I felt a heartbeat thrumming against my palm, steady and strong, as if it was alive. The hair on my arm stood straight up and I shivered.
Stefan shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Is he alive?”
I felt nothing for Killian either way. But the unborn child—that innocent life—didn't deserve to be fatherless because of our actions. If Killian died, that baby would pay the price for our desperation. That was the only reason his survival mattered to me.
Anton jumped up from his chair and raced over to Killian. He dropped to his knees beside him, heedless of the blood and debris. His hands shook slightly as he pressed two fingers against the pale column of Killian’s throat. The seconds stretched out like hours.
“He’s got a pulse,” Anton finally announced with a sigh. “Weak, but it’s there.” He focused on Stefan with a worried look. “He needs medical attention. That thing nearly drained the life out of him.”
Dimitri whistled low, a sound that was equal parts impressed and disturbed. "And here I thought vampires were the only ones who knew how to properly drain someone. That little rock just put us to shame."
Stefan pressed an intercom button again. “Guards, get in here. We have a medical emergency.”
The stone grew warmer in my hand, and I could swear the heartbeat was getting stronger while Killian's life seemed to be slipping away. I stiffened, every sense on alert, as I realized what might be happening.
Was the stone still feeding? And what had Tinker Bell really given us?