Chapter 22
TOBIAS
“We’ll be okay.” Rowen’s soft hand lands on my neck, as if trying to seal the promise into my skin.
“Why can’t they just go without you?”
I want to kick myself for sounding so clingy. No one likes a clingy boyfriend. But the thought of Rowen talking to another vampire—two vampires, actually—is making my heart pound.
Rowen’s jaw ticks, and for a long moment, he says nothing. “I have to go, Toby. Can’t you see that? They know about the coven. I have to be a part of this.”
I understand the purpose of the trip. Their…
friend, a vampire, has information on someone from Foxx’s coven, which might help them plan a strike.
But I don’t understand why Rowen has to go if all they’re doing is talking.
The urgency in his voice makes it feel like this mission rests entirely on him.
I brace a hand on his hip, trying to ground myself. “You said they’re just talking to Kaine. So why you? Why can’t you just get the information when they get back?”
“The pack needs me.” He steps in, warm breath ghosting across my skin. He looks like he wants to say something, but he shoves it aside. His voice lowers. “I’ll be okay.”
I huff out a breath at his non-answer, then pull away and walk toward the door.
“Toby.”
I wave him off. “Just go, Rowen. I’ll see you when you get back.”
He follows me into the hall. “Tobias!”
“I said, go!”
Ivy stops in her tracks, eyes wide. I ignore her and continue on, bare feet freezing against the hard floor. I should’ve grabbed socks, but whatever. I can go back for them once he’s far away in the city.
Once in the darkroom, I turn and lean against a wall.
The ball in my chest is twice the size now, pressing against my lungs.
I gulp in air, trying to calm down. I’m being ridiculous.
I need to trust Rowen and his pack to take care of themselves.
But… two vampires? In a city full of more vampires and other supernaturals?
I’ve lived in Prodigy my whole life; I know the dangers that crawl through its streets.
Bending forward, I fist my hands against my legs and count to ten. He’s been there before too. Rowen has been in the city many times. Hell, I’ve seen him in action. I know how quick he is on his feet. How lethal his wolf can be.
So why does this feel different? Feel… impossible?
I dig a heel against my ribcage, trying to scoop out some of the darkness. Come on, Tobias. You can do this. It’s just one day. He’ll be fine. Rowen will be fine!
But it’s like there’s some part of me that is missing now. A cord stretching thinner and thinner the further away he gets, and I’m terrified if it snaps, he won’t find his way back.
“Fuck.” I’m in his goddamn house! Of course, he’ll find his way back.
My head throbs from the sudden stress. Sliding down to the floor, I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. I’ll be okay. He will too. In a few hours, everything will be normal again.
It takes a while, but eventually the panic subsides, though the tightness stays. It probably won’t go away completely until Rowen returns. Still, at least I can breathe now.
Getting to my feet, I turn the light on.
The red glow is comforting, familiar. So is the smell of the various chemicals.
Rowen lectured me yesterday about spending too much time in here, but he doesn’t get it.
The magic that happens here. The transformation.
Watching art appear out of nothing—it’s like creating life.
Plus, it’s the only way I can give something back.
The pack has given me so much, so developing some of Glen’s old photos feels like repaying some of that debt. It’s easing some of the guilt.
I turn the enlarger on, then adjust the current strip of negatives in the metal slide below the projector.
The next photo is of Sasha and Taren. I recognize Taren’s sister so easily now.
Their arms are around each other as they walk toward the camera, their free arms poised above their heads, forming a small heart against the setting sun.
It’s a gorgeous photo. Sasha was gorgeous. They both are. I ache every time I see the young woman’s face now. She shouldn’t have died. No one should have. None of this should be happening.
Fuck Foxx and Rip and the whole damn coven.
By now, I’ve mastered how to add the light-sensitive photo paper to the pressure clips in near darkness. It only takes a few seconds to burn the image into the paper, then I shut it off and move it to the developing liquid and repeat the process with a practiced rhythm.
I process each one before moving to a new strip of negatives.
Glen has entire binders of them, stored away in a filing cabinet by month and year.
For some of my favorites, I’ve created duplicates, experimenting with longer exposure times or different filters just to see what they do.
It fills me with so much joy. Passion. Purpose.
Being in this room is the only way I feel alive lately—aside from when I’m with Rowen.
I smile as I think of him. Every time my hands dip into warm developer, I feel a little better. Or at least I tell myself I do.
The knot in my chest tells me otherwise.
Please get home safely.
After adjusting a new negative, I glance at the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. Rowen has been gone for four hours already. It’s going fast… yet somehow dragging.
They were only supposed to pick up supplies and meet Kaine. Just talk. But my chest has gotten tighter the longer he’s away. It feels like someone’s sitting on me. I’ve checked the clock so many times that the ticking has become another pulse in my head.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to calm down. “Get it together.”
The most recent photo in the developing tray is almost done.
I move it around with the tongs. It’s a shot of the property in the spring, with daffodils lining the porch.
I should feel calm looking at it, but the longer I stare, the more the shadows seem to shift. Like ripples under a frozen surface.
There’s something darker between the trees. Something watching.
Is that…
I blink hard, and the image is normal again.
Exhaling slowly, I shake it off. “You’re fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.”
A dull throb hits behind my eyes, the force of it blinding me. I press a palm to my forehead as a sudden spike of heat races down my neck. It tingles along my shoulders and stops at the mark on my left side. The heat that is always there, always burning beneath my skin, flares hotter—painfully so.
I cover it with my hand, then pull away quickly. The heat seems to pulse in my veins, and a tickle forms at the base of my skull.
“Just a little more.”
I jerk around, heart slamming at the sudden voice. It wasn’t me.
The room is empty, but the sound echoes in my head like a cannon.
Just a little more.
A little more.
A little…
I stare at the door, which is just as I left it. There is nothing, no one. Just the hum of the ventilation fan, the soft drip of water from the rinse tray.
My mouth goes dry, and I slam my eyes shut. It’s just the stress. That’s all. It has to be the stress.
But the memory of my mom pacing the hallway, talking to shadows and things that weren’t there, is too vivid, too real. The way she’d stare off, her gentle rock. Her whispers.
They’re talking again, Toby. The voices are whispering.
She’d say that right before she’d break things.
I press my lips together, refusing to mutter a single sound.
It’s just in my head. It’s just in my head…
It brings me no comfort. I don’t want it to be in my head any more than I want Rip to be standing in this room.
“There. Got it.”
I nearly scream when I hear it again. Of course it’s his voice. Rip. Because my brain’s an asshole!
I shut off the fan, just to be sure it’s not playing tricks on me—but there’s nothing. Just an echo of a sound that seems to move through the room.
Fear lances up my spine, and I shake my head. “No, no, no.” This isn’t real.
My hands tremble as I clean up, and I splash cold water on my face. When I glance in the small mirror above the sink, the red light warps my reflection. My eyes look darker, my skin almost translucent. For a second, I swear the shadow behind me moves.
I whirl around, but the space is empty.
The air feels heavier. Every breath tastes like metal.
I need to get out. Now.
Pushing through the rotating door, I stumble through the studio into the hallway. The sudden dim gray of the house hits me like a wave. My knees buckle, and I grip the wall, waiting for the spinning to stop.
“Tobias?” Jasmine’s voice reaches me from somewhere nearby. A second later, her warm hand touches my arm. The contact snaps me back to reality.
I look up at her, heart pounding.
Worry is all over her face. Her hair is wet and smells of lavender, like she’d just taken a shower. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” I cut in, the words coming out too fast. Too sharp, too defensive.
Jasmine flinches, stunned by my tone.
I try to push past her, but the floor sways. “Just a migraine,” I manage. “I think I’ve been in the darkroom too long again.”
She hesitates. “Do you want me to get Red?”
“No. Please. I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down.”
She nods slowly but is clearly unconvinced. I keep walking before she can say anything else.
It feels wrong to go into Rowen’s room without him, so I turn into my room and shut the door, sitting on the edge of the bed. My body trembles, and cold sweat trickles down my back. My shoulder throbs where the mark is—steady, rhythmic. Almost like a second heartbeat.
I dare not touch it. I don’t want to feel the burn.
It’s only hurting because I’m thinking about Rip. That’s all this is. His voice. The memory.
Pressing my palms over my ears, I reach for silence. But to my horror, the whisper is still there. Not words anymore. But a sound, a steady back and forth. Like breathing.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop,” I murmur. “Please stop!”
It doesn’t stop.
This can’t be happening. It can’t. “Make it stop!”
I dig my elbows into my knees and rock, praying to a force I’m not sure I believe in. “Please make it stop.”
The whisper in my head doesn’t answer. But it doesn’t leave either. It lingers, patient. Waiting.
Maybe I really am losing my mind.
I curl onto my side and pull the blanket over my head. It smells so wrong, feels so empty without Rowen.
Gods. Rowen.
Where is he? My chest burns. My eyes sting. And for the first time, I understand what my mother must’ve felt—how terror can live inside you and wear your own voice.
I’m going crazy.
It’s happening.
I’m going—
Rowen can’t know about this. None of them can. If they knew it was happening—that I was turning into my mother—they’d toss me to the street for good.
I need to hide it. Shove it down and control it. Pretend I’m fine.
For how long, though?
Mom suffered for over a third of my life before eventually taking her own life. Do I really think I can outrun that? Hide it from the pack forever?
Is that going to be my fate too? Losing myself bit by bit until I jump off a bridge?
I don’t want to become her. Not now. Not when I finally have something worth staying for.
But I can feel it starting.
And there’s no way to stop it.