Chapter 32
Wild Rose
When the Music Dies
I pull the blanket tighter around my body, even though the warmth within these walls envelops me. The flickering candles cast shadows, dancing across the crackling fireplace, empty teacups, and the space between us—still as ever, yet thick with stolen glances. The storm that swept in so suddenly has stolen the evening, turning dusk into night in the blink of an eye. After yet another forbidden rendezvous, we soaked in the bath, wine in hand, our pasts spilling out like the water around us, mingling and merging in the dim light. For the first time, I truly saw the man behind the mask. His rawness, his vulnerability, his brokenness—a hurt I could feel in every inch of me.
I saw his agony when he spoke of his parents’ death, a pain that cut deeper than I could ever have imagined. It threaded its way through my own veins, burning in my bones like the same poison he uses to torment those who fall beneath his hands. And then I understood the cruelty that dripped from him, for in his eyes, I saw the reflection of the world that had shaped him—taught him to become a creature of darkness, forged from the fires of a harsh and unforgiving world. Monsters are not born, they are made. And he has been made by the hands of those who never cared to see him as anything but a tool for their own twisted desires.
But even in the midst of it, there was something undeniably captivating about him. I smelled the blood that clung to his skin, the weight of the lives he had taken—those he had condemned to the same fate he so willingly embraced. The bodies he had torn apart, broken and poisoned, left behind as if they were nothing. He is no saint, and he never will be. This world, so stark in its cruelty, will remain a canvas of shadows, painted in shades of grey. And yet, I have fallen for him. Madly. Wholeheartedly. I have fallen for a man as sinister as the night itself, his hands as dark as the claws of some ancient beast, pulling me deeper into the abyss where he calls me his own. But in my eyes, he is an angel with tattered wings, struggling to fly, to find redemption in a world that has already condemned him.
Outside, the wind howls, the sound echoing through the empty rooms, but my eyes find him across the room. No words are needed. I hear him, feel him without a sound passing between us. Despite the table that separates us, I feel the warmth of his skin, the pull of his presence, as though he is already in me, sinking deeper with each passing moment, making me his in ways I can neither fight nor escape.
“I miss you.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re far. I need you under my skin.”
“You silence the voices in my head.”
He smiles that boyish smile that flatters me beyond anything. It’s innocent and true. Footsteps sound, and Naseria and Miro enter behind Oscar. I was worried the rain would never stop, so Sebastian sent Oscar to fetch them back.
“He will be here shortly, sir.” Sebastian nods and Oscar trudges back out.
Perhaps it was the liquor, or maybe the sexual afterglow, but Sebastian was not just vulnerable, he had unbarred his wildest thoughts and prayers. And within our devoted intimacy, he uttered words that sort relief in my woes.
“Tonight, I want you to meet someone. A friend of mine who made it possible for me to lock Iris under the estate.”
“Who is he?” his hands caress my boobs, the water turning warm with how long we have been soaking in it.
“Rune.” His lips kiss my shoulder ever so gently, like I could break.
I had been an open book myself, spewing out what he already knew, but he listened with a cavernous passion as his hands explored my flesh. I cried and for the first time, it felt good, like stones had been lifted off my back.
A quick text made Naseria and Miro aware of the long night ahead of us. Sebastian had his lure, and so did we three, but he made a promise to me today. Those that have made the rivers in my eyes are walking skeletons with their hourglasses running out.
Details and knowledge were to be shared. A scheme to move forward had to be designed, but a lot more had to be voiced before we rode back tomorrow morning. Oddly, this encircled esprit de corps, although I knew the word must be foreign to him.
“You fucked him, didn’tyou?” Miro playfully squints his eyes, discreetly signing away from Naseria’s eyes. And try as I may, a small chuckle slips past my lips .
“What’s so funny?” Naseria sits up straight, her eyes taking note of my own.
“The weather,” I lie through my teeth, and what an awful lie at that.
“The weather?” Her eyebrow rises as she drawls every letter, like I could not possibly mean it. From the side of my eye I see a somewhat amused Sebastian — well, as much amusement that can show on his face.
“Yes, I quite find the rain funny.” My hand rubs my chest, a thing l do when I’m being dishonest. She stares at me a minute too long and goodness, how can she not see past the little white lie. While Miro couldn’t care less, Naseria would make a bigger deal out of the fact that I slept with Sebastian. And now doesn’t exactly seem like the right time to share that particular truth.
“Are you mad?”
“Probably, but you knew of that already.”
“I did, didn’t I?. I tend to take in strays,” her tone lurks humor.
“How charitable of you.” She leans back into my lap, gently guiding my hands through her strands of hair. The room falls into a soothing silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft glow of the burning wood. But soon, his guest enters, a shadow slipping into the room like a midnight stranger, commanding attention without uttering a word.
“Good evening.” His voice flows easily as he removes his coat and drapes it over a lone chair. Naseria sits up, her eyes narrowing as she observes the man, who now settles comfortably beside Sebastian.
“è davvero bellissima, fratello. Non c’è da meravigliarsi che tu sembri un bambino in un negozio di dolci.”
“Non sono mai stato uno che taglia le lingue. Non farne un’abitudine.” Sebastian answers, seemingly bored with the conversation.
“Potresti anche marchiarla come un cane per strada.” He laughs a rich, deeply British chuckle, despite the fact that we have no understanding of the words they’ve just exchanged.
“This is Rune,” Sebastian says.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I reply, breaking the silence like a soft ripple on still water.
“The pleasure is mine, sweetheart.” Rune’s smile is smooth, much like Miro’s. The kind that slips easily into a woman’s confidence. But there’s something different in this one—a playful challenge, a jab aimed at Sebastian to provoke him.
I wonder what jealousy looks like on Sebastian. Does his perfect composure falter, or his calm shatter like delicate glass? Does he grind his teeth to dust, or would he poison those who dare show me any interest? The thought lingers in my mind, strange and unsettling, yet I cannot push it away.
A young woman glides in, a tray of tea in her hands, and places it on the table with quiet grace before vanishing once more.
“We’ll need more than this,” Rune muses, lifting a cup to his lips.
“Perhaps alcohol would serve better,” Naseria suggests, rising to fetch a bottle from the collection resting by the wall.
“I like this one,” Rune says, casting Sebastian a wink, his smile widening with intent.
His hazel eyes and brown hair would surely make a woman faint. There is no doubt about it. But men like him—like Sebastian are walking enigmas with red flags. Naseria pops the screw open and pours Bourbon in everyone’s tea before placing it down.
“What’s your story?” Rune nudges the tip of his shoe against the edge of the table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. It’s not just the action, but the way he carries himself—effortless, timeless, as if he’s not bound by the ticking of the world’s clock. His eyes sweep over us with an unreadable depth, a gaze that lingers in ways I can’t quite name.
“I mean, you’re all here for some reason or another. My question is, once you find the one you are hunting, would you kill them or perhaps risk it with the police?” His tone carries a blend of condescension and genuine curiosity, and I can’t help but feel certain Sebastian has shared our secrets with him.
“You ask as though there is another choice,” Naseria replies, her voice guarded.
“Bear with me, I’m just having trouble picturing you all committing such a crime as to take a life.” His eyes rake over Naseria unsettlingly.
“Isn’t that the point? Never let them see you coming?” she retorts.
“Not quite. I prefer my odds.”
“Good thing no one was asking,” she snaps back. I might blame the alcohol, but Naseria has always had a tart tongue.
“Enough,” Sebastian cuts in, his voice steady. “Your banter can wait for another time.”
“The Stamatoties Clan was founded by Iris, whom Sebastian and I ended, though it seems to have resurfaced. I hear your sister, Nova, was killed. And your uncle, Callum, isn’t it?”
I hum, a sound too bitter to be called a response.
His name alone sends a shiver down my spine. The days pass more easily when his memory stays buried, far from my thoughts. Mama tried so hard to love him, to care for him, but Callum is no spirit capable of love. He is a shadow—a man who knows neither how to give affection nor how to receive it.
“He caused the accident, but he too is part of the clan, and this is what you all know, among a few scattered details.”
I hum again, taking a slow sip of the tea, feeling the burn of the alcohol slide down my throat like liquid fire.
“So, I suppose the only thing you haven’t pieced together is the mastermind behind it all.”
No, but we were getting close.
“Other than the three sisters, no,” Naseria replies.
“Iris’s son,” Sebastian’s nonchalant voice fills the air, and it takes a moment for his words to settle in. “When we burned the clan, we mistakenly left one brick standing. Back then we weren’t aware that Iris had birthed a son. And ever since he discovered his mother is still alive, he has come in search of her.”
“And the three sisters, how do they know of each other?” I ask
“Call it luck, if you will. They seek the bodies for their organs, and he craves them for his rituals. It’s as if they are slaying two birds with a single stone.”
How the tables have turned. This piece of the puzzle had never been hinted at, and for the longest time, we believed there was another Iris—a madwoman, unhinged, orchestrating chaos and spilling blood across every corner.
More liquor flows, articles scattered across the floor, the crackle of the fire mingling with the patter of the rain. We spend the night, lost in the chronicles of what we know, sifting through the shards of our plans. Rune calls it not a plan, but a way forward—a method, if you will, of moving through the storm.
“And what of the circles?”
“All four circles were conjured from an ancient myth, one that speaks of four rings, each a doorway to a realm untouched by time. Born from forgotten whispers, they are not merely symbols, but chains that bind the living to the forsaken. Each circle carries with it a curse, one that draws us into an abyss where light is but a distant memory.”
The way to catch a thief is to think like one, to steal diamonds, and only then will you catch the jewel. The fourth and final oath lies in the Ridge, just behind the Academy. This is where the awakening will happen, where the harrowing truth waits, and where sacrifice becomes inevitable.
“What of the dead bodies, the victims. Why hasn’t the town done much?”
“Because the church is covering it up, for reasons we are yet to uncover.”
According to the red book—the one we stole but never truly understood—the swans hold a special place in the ritual. They symbolize purity. And what better way to swear a blood oath than by slaughtering ballerinas on the eve of it all?
“But why the Academy?”
“Before my father constructed the Academy for my mother, Iris had turned the land into a slaughterhouse. There was a cabin near the cliff’s edge, where each night she claimed a life, casting her victim into the ocean. Yet, no one knew of her hidden lair until the infrastructure was in place.”