Chapter 33
The rooftop wasn’t much. Just the sloped, shingled top of a gardening shed tucked behind one of the estate’s many ornamental hedges.
Riven spotted it only because the moonlight hit just right, revealing a low trellis he could climb and a patch of flattened ivy that suggested someone had sat there before. Maybe a servant on a break.
He hauled himself up with a grunt, boots scraping the trellis, palms catching on rough stone. The roof was warm where the afternoon sun had baked it, and he lay on his back for a moment, catching his breath.
Then he sat up.
The view was better than he expected.
Below him stretched the private Virellien gardens, sprawling in calculated elegance.
Neatly trimmed paths wound between moonlit topiaries and glossy black trees with glowing crimson flowers that pulsed like heartbeats.
Low hedges divided sections of imported flora—dreamvines that shimmered blue in the dark, whispergrass that twitched when the wind passed, and the eerie, pale stalks of deathshade lilies, which only bloomed for those bound to the House.
Beyond the gardens, the grounds sloped sharply downhill, a wide green stretch leading to the black iron gates of the estate. The security checkpoint was a glimmering little node of white light far below, nestled against a perimeter fence warded with spells Riven couldn’t begin to name.
It was beautiful. In the same way a wolf was beautiful before it sank its teeth into your throat.
Still, for the first time all day, Riven felt like he could breathe.
He lay back again, hands folded behind his head, and stared up at the dark. There weren’t many stars—too much magical interference—but the moon was fat and full and bright. The kind of moon that used to make him feel like something better might come.
Now it just looked like a cage door, wide open, and still impossible to reach.
He blew out a breath.
You’re doing this for her, he reminded himself.
His sister and her stupid, impulsive choices. The way she’d gotten in so deep with the wrong people that the only way out had been him taking the fall.
One year.
That was the deal.
Just one year in the grip of the Virelliens. He could survive it. Endure it. Crawl out the other side bloody but alive. A year wasn’t that long.
Except it hadn’t even been a week.
And already he felt like he was unraveling.
She hasn’t even reached out.
That part stung. Maybe more than anything else.
He’d expected guilt. Fear. A message. Anything.
But there’d been silence.
Because she didn’t care.
None of them did.
Riven closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face.
His mother had vanished when he was six. His aunt, who’d raised them, treated him like an obligation and his sister like a golden ticket. The only person who’d ever really tried to protect him was his father, and the man had worked himself to death doing it.
He could still remember the hospital room. The way his father had tried to smile, even as the heart monitor beeped slower and slower. He’d died in debt. Died terrified of what would happen to his children if they couldn’t pay.
And now here Riven was, doing the same damn thing. Destroying himself for someone who wouldn’t do the same for him.
He turned his face toward the slanted roof tile, and his eyes stung.
You’re so fucking pathetic.
But that voice—the one that usually lived in his gut—wasn’t alone tonight.
There was another one. Just as unwelcome.
Thane has protected you.
He scowled.
That wasn’t the same. That wasn’t—
Except it was, wasn’t it?
Thane had killed for him. Had gotten in the way of bullets and Soulglass-maddened monsters. Had stepped in when the Matriarch tried to break him in front of the whole table. Had made sure he wasn’t alone after the sniper attack. Had taken his mouth like he owned it—but never once forced him.
Protected him like—
No.
Riven sat up sharply, every muscle coiled tight.
No.
He wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t start thinking Thane Virellien was anything close to a protector, a savior. The man had only gotten involved because Riven was now Virellien property. A prized tool that needed to be kept in working order.
Thane wasn’t kind, he wasn’t soft. He was a knife, and knives didn’t save you. They sliced you open.
Riven let out a low, bitter laugh. His breath fogged in the cool air.
One year.
He just had to remember that. One year of playing their game. Of being the Matriarch’s tool and Thane’s pawn and whatever the hell else they wanted him to be. Then he could walk away.
If he was still himself by then.
He glanced back down at the gardens. The red-glowing flowers pulsed again, almost in time with his heartbeat.
The whole estate was like that, alive in ways he couldn’t understand—whispering, watching. It made his skin crawl. He wondered if they had wards up here, too, if Thane was tracking his location right now. If he’d show up in five minutes to drag him off this roof like a disobedient dog.
He wouldn’t put it past him.
Still, Riven didn’t move. He stayed there, hunched on the sloped tiles, watching the distant glimmer of the city through the gates.
He could see cars passing. People living their lives.
People who hadn’t sold themselves to a mafia of beautiful monsters in exchange for a sister who didn’t give a damn.
His hands clenched into fists. One year. He’d make it through, and when he did, no one would ever own him again.
Movement below caught his eye.
His gaze snapped down to the edge of the property, just past the slope of lawn that spilled from the gardens toward the main gates. At first, he didn’t see anything, just shadows moving oddly in the moonlight.
But then a figure stepped out of the tree line, silhouetted in silver.
Another followed, scaling the perimeter wall with eerie silence and slipping down beside the first like a shadow rejoining its master.