Riven
I don’t do nervous. I do rage. I do precision. I do brutal, bone-deep silence that warns the world not to fuck with me.
But this? This dull, crawling ache in my gut while I’m standing in front of the mirror tying a goddamn tie like I’m preparing for execution? This is as close as I’ll ever get.
We’re going out.
Not just me. Not just our group.
Everyone.
Other houses. Other factions. Other monsters dressed in glamor and etiquette, crawling out of their shadows to watch the play unfold like it doesn’t matter what we’ve lost, like the world isn’t tilting on a knife edge.
The pillar’s gone.
That ancient, bone-deep spell that kept us bound to Daemon for centuries—broken. The chain’s snapped. The gates are open. And yet, I’m still here. Clinging to walls that have never been home, pacing halls like I’m still trapped inside them.
Tonight, I step out for the first time—not to fight, not to chase power. Just… to exist. To play the part. Smile when expected. Look sharp. Stay still.
Fun.
Whatever the fuck that means.
“You’re doing it wrong,”
she says behind me.
Her voice is a balm and a blade.
I glance down.
The tie’s a disaster. I’ve folded it in half like a napkin, not knotted it. Figures.
I don’t say anything. Just drop my hands and step back.
She steps forward.
And suddenly she’s there. In my space. In my breath. Her fingers brush my collar as she adjusts the tie. Her movements are efficient, practiced—but not impersonal. She touches like she knows me. Like she remembers what my blood tastes like and still chooses to thread silk around my throat instead of fire.
I hold still, jaw locked. If I breathe too deep, I’ll do something reckless.
Like touch her.
Like say something I won’t be able to take back.
“You always this bad at dressing yourself?”
she murmurs, eyes focused on the knot, fingers working fast and unbothered.
“I usually don’t bother,” I mutter.
She hums like that tracks.
But she doesn’t back away when she’s done.
She stays.
My eyes flick up to meet hers, and it hits me all over again—how goddamn unfair she is. Dressed in that black, blade-cut gown that turns her into something otherworldly. Her hair twisted up, her lips painted like a sin I want to unmake. And yet she looks at me like I’m something that matters.
Like I’m hers.
And I am.
I’ve been hers since the moment we met. Since the bond wrapped itself around my bones and made me furious with wanting.
So I do the next best thing.
“You look—”
I stop. Swallow hard. Try again.
“You look like they should be afraid of you.”
Her mouth curves.
“And you like that?”
I don’t answer.
Because yes. Gods, yes. Because power on her is beautiful. Because if they’re afraid of her, they won’t try to take her. Because if they’re smart, they won’t even look too long.
Because I need them to know she’s already claimed.
“You good?”
she asks, softer now.
No challenge. No snark. Just a question that reaches into the part of me I try to ignore—the part that misses Orin, that doesn’t know how to laugh without Caspian, that wakes in the middle of the night and aches for Lucien’s steady voice telling us how we’ll survive this.
“No,”
I say honestly.
“But I will be.”
She nods.
Doesn’t press.
Just smooths the collar one last time, then lets her fingers drop.
“Come on,”
she says.
“Let’s go play gods.”
And I follow her into the night.
Because I’d follow her anywhere.
She stops walking.
Not a dramatic halt—just a subtle pause like she’s realized something no one else has considered. Her head tilts, that unreadable expression slipping over her face like moonlight across a blade. She turns to face me, one brow arched in hesitant curiosity.
“I don’t want this to come across rude or anything…”
she says, drawing out the pause like a dare.
“But do any of you actually know how to drive?”
I blink. The question shouldn’t surprise me—but it does. Maybe because it’s so human. So casual. So outside the warpath we’ve been on lately.
“Silas does,” I say.
And that’s all it takes.
She goes still. Not afraid. Just… bracing. The kind of still that comes right before an explosion or a mistake you can’t unmake.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear—a nervous habit she doesn’t even know she has—and glances down the hall like Silas might materialize out of thin air with a glitter steering wheel and a suicide pact.
“Is it a good idea,”
she asks slowly.
“to let Silas drive?”
I snort, because even I can’t dress that up.
“He’s only crashed two cars.”
She whips her gaze back to me, blinking. “Only?”
“That was when he was learning,”
I clarify.
“Years ago. He’s better now.”
She doesn’t look reassured.
“And besides Ambrose and his deathtrap of a bike, Silas is the only one who knows how to drive stick.”
I shrug.
“Stick shift’s all we’ve got.”
She closes her eyes like she’s praying to a higher power that owes her everything and keeps giving her chaos instead.
“You may be immortal,”
she mutters.
“but I am not.”
“Then don’t sit in the front seat,”
I say dryly.
She groans.
“You’re not helping.”
“I am helping. I’m not the one driving.”
“Which makes me want to thank you. And also set you on fire.”
I grin despite myself.
“I’ll take the compliment.”
She shakes her head, muttering something about how she should’ve walked. But there’s a crack of a smile on her lips now. The kind that creeps in when she’s too tired to stay mad but too stubborn to admit she’s amused.
“I swear,”
she mutters as we start walking again.
“if he plays death metal or confesses his feelings mid-turn, I’m jumping out of the car.”
I stop.
Not visibly. Not enough to make her notice. But something in my chest clenches tight around the idea of her laughing at Silas’s terrible driving, Silas rambling nonsense just to hear her scold him, Elias cracking jokes from the backseat like none of us are two seconds from emotionally combusting.
It’s stupid.
It’s dangerous.
But the image of it—her between us, teeth bared in half-smile, eyes alight with chaos—it makes the ache in my chest shift. Not vanish. Just... settle.
We keep walking, and I know exactly what I’ll do when Silas pulls up in that cursed car.
I’ll open the door for her.
And I’ll ride in the back.
Not because I don’t trust him.
Because I don’t trust myself with her in the front seat.
The door groans shut behind us, and the quiet that follows isn’t peace—it’s the kind that comes before a storm.
They’re all already outside.
Ambrose leans against the rail like he’s bored, like he hasn’t already calculated every possible threat on the road ahead. Elias is crouched beside the front tire, flicking pebbles into the grass, like the idea of punctuality offends him on a personal level. And Silas—of course it’s Silas—is twirling the keys around his fingers like a weapon he doesn’t know how to properly use but still insists on wielding.
The car behind them is a fucking beast.
Classic. Black. All gleaming chrome and low growl, rebuilt from something older than most of the vampires that roam the southern courts. Silas didn’t buy it on impulse—he researched it. Spent weeks tracking the build, poring over engine diagrams like schematics for war. He didn’t just want a car.
He wanted this.
And for once, the chaos clown got it right.
They all turn when they hear us. But none of them are looking at me.
They’re looking at her.
And yeah—I’ve seen her in battle. I’ve seen her in blood. I’ve seen her when she’s laughing, and when she’s about to shatter. But this?
This is different. She almost never wears dresses. And when she does, it’s usually because she’s about to manipulate a god or cut someone’s ego in half. But this one…
This one’s hers. The one she picked in town with Ambrose, and for once, I can’t even hate him for being the one who helped her find it.
It clings in all the right places. Slides where it should glide. Black and silver and ruthless—elegant without being delicate. She looks like something the night whispered into existence. Dangerous. Divine.
Elias straightens so fast he stumbles back against the hood.
“Okay, who gave Luna permission to commit murder by dress?”
“Don’t be stupid,”
Silas says, flicking the keys toward him.
“She doesn’t need a dress to kill you. That’s just extra credit.”
Ambrose doesn’t speak.
But his eyes? They don’t leave her for a second.
And I feel it.
That stupid bond pulling tight in my chest, tightening like it knows it’s already lost.
She glances at me from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to say something. A compliment. A warning. A lie. I don’t give her any of it.
Instead, I reach forward and open the car door for her.
Because I won’t say the things clawing at the inside of my throat—but I will make sure she never has to touch the handle herself.
She pauses beside me, her hand brushing mine as she slides in. No thanks. No smug remark. Just a glance.
That look. The one that says I know.
And that’s what kills me the most.
She does.
We pile in like we’ve done this before, like we haven’t been locked behind ancient wards for centuries. Like we aren’t gods and monsters playing mortal for a night.
Luna setting into the passenger seat—her dress careful, graceful, like it was made to be worshipped in the front of a classic car. I let Elias take the middle in the back, not because I’m feeling generous, but because I won’t be the one accidentally brushing against Ambrose while Silas tries not to kill us.
Ambrose climbs in beside Elias without a word. The leather groans beneath his weight, everything about him too composed, too damn calculating. But his gaze flicks once to Luna, then to the gear shift, then nowhere.
Silas settles in like he owns the car. One hand on the wheel, the other spinning the keys once, twice, before shoving them into the ignition like he’s about to spark a ritual. The engine growls—deep and hungry—but when he taps the gas, the car lurches forward with all the grace of a dying creature and then immediately stalls.
Everyone jerks.
Silas mutters something that might’ve been a prayer or a curse—or both.
Then he cracks his fingers with a little too much enthusiasm, clears his throat like he’s stepping on stage, and says with perfect, misplaced confidence:
“Just need a minute. It’s like riding a bike.”
Elias snorts, arms already braced across the seat like he’s prepared to be launched through the windshield.
“You can’t ride a bike.”
“That’s not the point,”
Silas says without missing a beat.
“It’s a dexterity thing. I’ve got this.”
He turns to Luna, all smile and bravado, like she’s his only audience and this is his magnum opus.
“Tell them, sweetheart. I can do this.”
She gives him a look.
Not disbelieving.
Not annoyed.
Just… resigned. Like this is who he is and she’s long since stopped hoping for survival to come with sanity.
“Silas,”
she says dryly.
“just get us there without killing anyone. Including yourself.”
He salutes her with two fingers, shifts the car back into gear with a dramatic flourish like he’s taming a beast instead of operating a decades-old machine—and this time, the car moves.
Not smoothly.
But it moves.
I lean back, watching the trees blur past as we pull away from the only place we’ve ever been allowed to exist freely—and into something unknown.
The Council’s theater. The performance. The trap dressed up in gowns and illusions.
The last time I left Daemon, I was a weapon.
This time, I’m something worse. I’m bonded. And she’s right there in front of me.
The car jerks again. Not just a little hiccup, but a full-bodied convulsion like the machine itself is rejecting Silas’s entire bloodline.
He swears under his breath, gripping the wheel with the kind of manic focus reserved for ancient rituals and bomb diffusal.
“Okay, that wasn’t me,”
he mutters.
“That was the road. Probably cursed.”
“Pretty sure that was the clutch,”
Elias offers from the middle seat, wedged between Ambrose and me like a sacrificial lamb.
“Or the fact that you drive like the ghost of someone who thinks they had a license once.”
Silas narrows his eyes.
“I resent that.”
“You resent everything,”
Elias says.
“Especially pedestrians.”
The car sputters again as Silas shifts—wrong, clearly—grinding the gears like he’s punishing them for existing. Then it stalls.
Dead.
Right in the middle of a bend in the road with the trees arching overhead like judgmental priests.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Luna sighs. The long kind, like she’s been patient for exactly one minute longer than she should’ve been.
“Silas,”
she says calmly, with only a trace of murder, “get out.”
He looks scandalized.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trusted you,”
she says, unbuckling.
“Now I want to get to the theater without dying or being possessed by the spirit of bad driving.”
“She has a point,”
Ambrose adds, adjusting his cuff like the entire evening has already disappointed him.
Silas groans but gets out.
And Luna slides behind the wheel. She doesn’t say anything when she starts the car. Doesn’t flex. Doesn’t show off.
She just drives.
Clean. Smooth. Shift like silk. She handles the stick with the kind of precision that would make priests weep and monsters beg.
It takes three seconds.
Three seconds before Elias breaks.
“Okay,”
he says slowly, watching her hand move on the gearshift.
“not to be that guy, but... you’re really good with a stick.”
Luna doesn’t look at him. “Don’t.”
“Too late,”
Elias continues, grinning like a drunk gremlin.
“The way you handled that clutch? I think I just developed a kink I didn’t know I had.”
“Downshifted straight into my heart,”
Silas mourns from beside her, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest.
“And you didn’t even grind once. Rude.”
Ambrose doesn’t say anything, but he looks at her—and it’s worse. That slow, glinting stare like he’s memorizing the curve of her wrist and what she could do if she applied that same technique somewhere else.
Luna arches a brow but keeps her eyes on the road.
“You’re all children.”
“Hot, traumatized children,”
Elias says.
“I’m driving. I could crash this thing.”
“Do it,”
Silas says from behind me.
“Make it look like an accident. I’d die for your downshifting.”
She flicks the turn signal on with a perfectly timed little click. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.
But I see it—the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
And gods, I feel it.
Because watching her take command of something like it’s hers, watching all of us fall apart just from the way she drives?
This is hell.
Not the fire and brimstone kind. Not even the kind they threatened us with in Daemon’s earliest years, where your sins got carved into your bones and lit up under moonlight for the Ancients to mock.
No—this is worse.
Because she’s not doing anything. Not really.
Just driving.
One hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift, her wrist flexing with every gear change. Casual. Unthinking. Graceful in that deadly, Luna way—like she’s always been built to command dangerous things and look stunning while doing it.
And now I can’t stop watching her hand.
Her wrist.
The way her fingers wrap around the gearshift, how her thumb skims over the base like she’s coaxing power instead of just managing it. It’s wrong how good she is at it—wrong in the kind of way that makes my blood hot and thick in my veins.
I try to look away.
I try.
But the moment she shifts again—just a flick of her wrist, just pressure and intention and that smooth, unhurried drag of her palm—I nearly groan.
The sound sticks in my throat, low and bruised.
My tongue drags across my bottom lip before I even think about it, and I hate that Ambrose notices. His gaze cuts toward me like a scalpel, and he doesn’t say anything—but he sees. Of course he fucking sees.
I’m spiraling over her hands.
Gods help me if she —
No.
No.
I force my gaze out the window. Trees blur past in streaks of gray and green. The sky’s bleeding into twilight now, the edges of everything going soft and sharp at the same time.
Elias leans forward suddenly, his voice far too loud and far too smug.
“I’m just saying, if I die tonight, let it be like this. In a car. Watching Luna handle that stick like—”
“You finish that sentence,”
I growl.
“and I’ll rip your jaw off.”
He grins, leaning back like the threat is foreplay.
“Damn, . Didn’t know you were that into hand stuff.”
Silas snorts.
“He’s been eye-fucking her grip for twenty minutes.”
Luna doesn’t even blink.
“You’re all degenerates.”
She shifts again.
I clench my jaw.
And when her eyes flick to the rearview mirror, locking on mine for half a second, she knows.
Gods, she knows.
And she shifts again—just a little sharper this time.
Just to watch me burn.