CHAPTER 22
MY DRESS SWISHES ANGRILY around my ankles as I storm through empty corridors in search of an exit.
My fingers trace the walls as I walk, on the lookout for weak points, hidden passages, anything that might lead to freedom.
I try every door I pass. Some open to empty bedrooms, others to studies filled with ancient books. None offer escape.
The windows I find are all barred. After turning another corner, I find myself in an unfamiliar wing. The architecture here seems to be of older stonework, its passages narrower. Hope flickers as I spot a small door partially hidden behind a tapestry.
I push it open to reveal a cramped stairwell spiraling downward.
Descending quickly, I hold my skirts to keep from tripping. The air grows cooler, damper.
At the bottom, another door awaits. It swings open with surprising ease to reveal a wine cellar. Bottles upon bottles are arranged in neat rows, collecting dust in the dim light of a single lantern.
I check every wall, tap every stone, but there’s no secret passage, no hidden exit. Just another dead end.
I try two more corridors, three more staircases, and six more doors. Each leads nowhere or circles back to where I’ve already been. It’s as if the mansion itself is conspiring against me, shifting its layout to keep me trapped within its walls.
I don’t even know where I’m going anymore. I just need to be away.
Away from this twisted place where my father’s murder is reduced to collateral damage.
Finally, in a hallway lined with faded portraits, something inside me breaks.
My legs give way beneath me, and I slide down against the wall until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor, the dress pooling around me like spilled ink.
I press my palms against my eyes, but the tears come anyway, shoulders shaking as tears flow freely.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I allow myself to feel the full extent of my helplessness, years of carefully maintained control crumbling.
I’m trapped, fully surrounded by enemies, with no way to contact the people who might actually care if I live or die.
“Oh, my dear.”
I look up, hastily wiping my tears.
Irene stands a few feet away, concern etched across her features. She approaches slowly, as if I’m a wounded animal that might lash out.
“Are you alright?”
I laugh bitterly. “What do you think?”
She sits beside me on the floor, her movements graceful despite the awkward position. “I think you’re overwhelmed. And frightened. And angry.” With a gentle sigh, she offers me a handkerchief. “All perfectly reasonable responses to your situation.”
Reluctantly, I take the cloth, dabbing at my face. “I can’t stay here.”
“You can’t leave either. Not yet.”
“I’m a prisoner,” I say, more reflective of my situation than a remark to her.
Irene tilts her head, considering. “A guest with limited mobility options.” When I scoff, she adds, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. This is the safest place for you right now.”
I ponder her statement. I’d argue Redmoore is the safest place for me right now, if I were to count out my tendency to sneak out or join in on any missions.
But there’s an uprising in the underworld, one no one is entirely prepared for, not even the vampires themselves.
If what Ace said about that pendant is true, about magic and darker forces at play, here may be my best shot.
At least here, I won’t put anyone else I care about in danger.
“How do you stand it?” I ask, quieter now. “Living like this, trapped in the middle of nowhere?”
“Not all cages are made of stone and magic, Seraph. Sometimes the worst prisons are the ones we build ourselves.”
She pats my shoulder in a reassuring gesture, then rises to her feet and offers her hand. “Come, let me take you back to your room. You should rest.”
I hesitate, then accept her help, my legs stiff from sitting on the cold floor. She guides me through the mansion with the finesse of someone who knows every corner intimately. We walk in silence until we reach my door.
Irene pauses, her hand on the doorknob. “A few of us gather in the main lounge most evenings. Music, drinks, conversation, games.” Her smile widens just a fraction. “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like. It might help you understand this place better.”
The invitation catches me off guard.
It sounds so ordinary, so human. And a small part of me aches for that normalcy.
“Will he be there?” I don’t need to specify who.
“Ace?” She shakes her head. “Rarely. He keeps to himself a lot.”
Relief floods through me. Part of me wants to stay here, nursing my wounds and plotting my next move. But the other part of me is tired, exhausted, which is also the part of me that wins. “Then… sure.”
Irene smiles, the expression warming her entire face. “I’ll come for you at two, then.”
She opens the door for me. After I’ve walked in, the door clicks shut again. I stand in the center of the room, unsure what to make of her kindness. Is it genuine? A manipulation? Some strange vampire social ritual I don’t understand?
I change out of the evening gown, hanging it in the wardrobe before pulling on a soft cotton chemise in its place.
It’s plain, but not without grace. The sleeves fall to my wrists, the neckline gently gathered with a ribbon.
I wrap my hair up, twisting it into a loose chignon and pinning it into place with trembling fingers.
Fear, grief, and anger—all with nowhere to go.
As I wash my face, erasing the last traces of cosmetics and tears, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look tired. Worn. But still standing. Still fighting, even if I don’t know what victory looks like anymore.
Hours stretch endlessly as I sit by the window, waiting.
Delicate petals have been swallowed by the gloom of dusk, the last remnants of day having completely slipped away.
Soft pinks and golds have turned to bruised purples and ink-black, a reminder that even beauty must bow to the night.
The distant croak of a raven cleaves the silence, followed by faint rustlings whispering through the leaves.
I wonder if Max is looking up at the same sky right now, his brow furrowed in that way it always does when he’s worried.
If he’s searching for me, or still in rehabilitation, left in the dark about my absence.
Do my friends know? My fingers trace circles on the windowpane, drawing invisible patterns as memories float to the surface.
Evan and Haden, my ride or dies. The movie nights at my place, all of us piled on the sofa, our limbs tangled like we were kids instead of adults.
The easy camaraderie of the others. Ivy always claiming the best spot on the couch—the corner with the perfect view of both the screen and everyone else.
She’d curl up there like a cat, watching us as much as the movie.
“Anyone who touches my blanket dies,” she’d announce, but by the end of the night, she’d have shared it with at least two of us.
Beth, the life of every party—always challenging people to drinking contests, her small frame somehow holding more liquor than people twice her size.
Kyla, our little adventurer and thrill-seeker.
Jaxon, with his ridiculous collection of mismatched socks and his inability to fold laundry properly, blending in perfectly with his laid-back personality.
There were the quieter moments too. Sitting with Lou on the roof of his bar, watching the city lights over experimental drinks and shared silence, on those particularly difficult days.
Max’s laughter during our picnic at Windermere Park last spring, how his eyes crinkled at the corners in a grimace when I told him about my disastrous attempt at making blueberry cupcakes.
The warmth of his touch when he brushed flour from my cheek.
How he pretended to love them, gobbling them down like they were a feast fit for royalty, only to be stuck on the toilet for hours afterward, groaning and cursing my baking skills.
What would he think of me after what I did to Oliver? Would there be any acceptance left, or would that be the final proof that I’m more monster than woman?
I turn away from the window, my chest tight with longing. Max had once told me that loving me was like trying to hold a star—beautiful but burning. I hadn’t understood then, but I think I do now.
The dreaded knock finally comes, announcing Irene’s return.
“I’m here,” she calls. “Are you ready?”
I slip from the window, each movement careful and quiet, like I’m holding myself back even though no one is watching. My fingers find the edge of the door, easing it open just wide enough to pop my head through. “Hey.”
She greets me with a warm and genuine smile, almost disarmingly kind. A kindness that feels out of place for someone like her, a creature forged in shadows and secrets. It unsettles me more than I expect.
Her attire is softer than the usual harshness of the Ravens, but still carries a certain darkness.
She wears a fitted plum dress, the fabric matte and heavy, falling close to her form without flair or excess.
The sleeves are long but snug, ending just past her wrists, and the low neckline is plain—functional rather than decorative.
There’s no lace or embroidery, only subtle seams that hint at careful tailoring. Her coppery hair is loose, falling with defined curls below her shoulders, without the polished control she usually wears. No mask, no armor.
“You look lovely.” She gestures to my simple attire. “Sometimes less is more, don’t you think?”
I step fully into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. “I wasn’t exactly planning for a social calendar when I was captured.”
Her smile falters slightly. “Of course. I should’ve brought you more options.”
“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting to dwell on my circumstances. “Lead the way.”