Chapter 75 Danica #2
Erik hovers over Bryn, silver eyes scanning her with clinical precision. His fingers ghost over her arms, checking for injuries with the detachment of a battlefield medic—except for the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"The tík did not touch me, silfrhár," Bryn growls, bristling at the implication she couldn't handle herself. "Save your concern."
Erik's inspection doesn't falter. "She must never discover what you are." The statement falls between them like a sworn oath.
Rhyland's strong arms lock around me like steel bands, his rhythmic rocking at odds with the lethal tension in his muscles.
The world feels distant, underwater, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
Each breath catches in my throat like I'm trying to inhale molasses, my chest tight and burning.
"What. Did. She. Do?" Each word drops from Rhyland's lips like arctic shards, the temperature around us plummeting as his power leaks into the air. His fingers dig into my hip, the possessive grip anchoring me as darkness crackles at the edges of his aura.
"Adrian," Bryn announces. "The fallen scholar lives."
On the way here, while I was busy auditioning for a panic attack commercial—still winning that role, by the way—Emily filled Bryn and Sable in on the Adrian saga. Because my trauma bingo card needed just one more stamp to win the grand prize of complete emotional collapse.
Rhyland turns to stone beneath me. His arms constrict until my ribs protest."That's impossible." Each word drops like an executioner's ax. "I watched Azrael tear out his heart."
"The Soul Stone," Sable whispers. "She used it when she opened the rift and dragged him back."
"Wait—holy shit." Lucian freezes mid-gesture, his face draining of color as the realization hits like a sledgehammer.
"Adrian?" The name comes out strangled. "That's who she pulled?
That sanctimonious voice when he wrecked my car taking Seraphina.
When Sable got blown to bits? When that bomb—" His fingers curl into fists, veins standing out along his forearms. "That scholastic little shit—
He runs a hand through his golden hair, manic energy radiating off him in waves. "I mean, seriously? Heart extraction is just a minor inconvenience now? What's next—the Titanic just needed some flex tape? Fucking hell, I need a drink. Or ten. Actually, fuck this—I need an entire liquor store."
The edges of my vision blur and pins and needles prickle across my cheeks. Each breath comes faster than the last, too shallow and too quick, like I'm trying to inhale through a coffee stirrer.
Rhyland's hand slides to cup my cheek, the rough calluses catching against my skin as he forces my gaze to meet his. Ocean-blue eyes lock onto mine with that alpha intensity that usually turns my knees to jelly.
"Angel." His voice drops to that commanding rumble that vibrates through my bones.
His thumb traces my lower lip, which has gone numb.
"We'll handle this—all of it." His other hand splays possessively across my ribcage, monitoring my rapid breathing.
"But right now, I need you to fucking breathe before you pass out in my lap. "
"She's g-got him under h-her c-command." The words scrape past my constricted throat. "He n-needs help."
Rhyland freezes, his muscles locking down so tight I can feel the tremors of restraint.
A tsunami of memories crashes through our bond—Adrian's betrayal, the pain, the blood.
But underneath that, a grudging understanding pulses.
After all, my man and his brothers know intimately what dancing on Lilith's puppet strings means.
"Oh fuck, that noise sideways." Lucian's face twists into something savage despite Seraphina still tucked against him.
"I don't care if he's got more mind control than a Marvel villain's origin story—that backstabbing bookworm can rot in whatever necromantic happy meal box Lilith dragged him out of, Princess. "
The world slowly rights itself as feeling creeps back into my tingling lips.
I blink hard, convinced I'm still oxygen-deprived because there's no way I'm seeing what I'm seeing.
But the telltale crackle of demonic energy gives him away—Brax, shapeshifted into a perfect replica of Will Ferrell in Elf, complete with yellow tights, curly-toed shoes, and a jingling hat that makes him look absolutely ridiculous—handing me a glass of water.
"I—" My brain misfires, still trying to process Adrian's resurrection while staring at a demon masquerading as Buddy the Elf.
I don't even have the mental bandwidth to unpack this right now. I accept the water glass, my hand still slightly shaky.
Rhyland's hand trace steady circles on my back as I drain the glass, each stroke pulling me further from the edge of panic.
"Well, this is awkwardly festive given our current situation," Lucian quips, antlers askew. "Nothing like a vampire queen crash and a ghost from Christmas past to really deck the halls."
As the reality of our situation sinks in, the festive atmosphere takes on a somber note. The twinkling lights and garlands seem almost mocking now, a cruel reminder of the normalcy we can't have.
"Holy shit," Emily blurts, taking in our testosterone-laden crew, decked out in fuzzy holiday sweaters. "Did Santa's workshop throw up in here or what?"
"You guys did all this...?"
"Observant as ever, Princess," Lucian snarks. "We only transformed the place into the North Pole's wet dream while you were out getting your lady bits landscaped."
"Surprise," Erik deadpans, his stoic expression made ridiculous by the blinking nose on his sweater.
"By Odin's beard," Bryn marvels, circling Erik like a predator assessing prey. "The mighty silfrhár reduced to wearing festive garments. Most... intriguing."
"The timing could be better," Sable offers softly, "but it's beautiful."
Damon materializes beside her, his usual silent entrance. "Hey, sorry I was asleep—heard all the commotion." He slides next to Sable, taking her hand in his.
"Yeah, thanks for the assist, Sleeping Beauty," Lucian snaps.
"Nothing says 'team spirit' like snoozing while the rest of us transformed this place into Santa's sweaty workshop.
I personally hung fifteen miles of twinkle lights while Erik was on ladder duty.
You know what he says when you ask him if the lights are straight?
'Adequate.' That's it. One word. It's like decorating with a Terminator who occasionally hands you tape. "
"Lies." Erik retorts.
Bryn studies the tree. "These ornaments... they serve no defensive purpose. And yet, there is a certain beauty in their frivolity."
"That's kind of the point, Xena," Lucian snarks. "Christmas is all about the unnecessary shit that makes you feel good."
"And you," Emily purrs, sauntering toward Brax in his Buddy the Elf getup. "How'd you know I have a thing for guys in tights? Though I gotta say, I've never wanted to sit on Buddy's face before, but you're making me reconsider my life choices."
Brax's eyes gleam devilishly as he adjusts his pointy hat.
"For the love of god," I gag, watching them eye-fuck. "Can you two save the North Pole exploration for when we're not in a crisis? I'm traumatized enough without watching my best friend seduce an elf."
Erik clears his throat, drawing our attention. "Given the circumstances, a bit of cheer might be in order." He gestures at the half-decorated tree. "We saved the best part for you."
Rhyland pulls me close, his ridiculous sweater soft against my cheek. "We wanted to surprise you, Angel. Give you something normal before..." He trails off, his hold tightening protectively.
I lean back into his warmth, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. "It's perfect. All of it. I just wish..."
"Hey, none of that," Emily interjects, her voice fierce. "Lilith doesn't get to ruin this, too. We're gonna deck these fucking halls, drink too much eggnog, and have a goddamn merry Christmas. And if that bitch shows up, we'll shove a tree so far up her ass she'll be coughing tinsel."
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me, and just like that, the heaviness lifts a bit. Leave it to Emily to find the silver lining in a shitstorm.
My focus snaps back to Lucian—the only one of my testosterone trio who couldn't care less if Adrian spontaneously combusted in front of us. Unlike Rhyland's brooding concern or Erik's calculating assessment, Lucian's face screams, "Not my circus, not my traitorous monkeys."
"Look, Lucian," I manage, fighting to keep my tone steady. "I get it—Adrian's currently public enemy number one. But he's being mind-fucked by your psycho mom, and if anyone knows what that's like..." I let that sink in. "I won't leave him to be her puppet. Not when we can help."
"Jesus Christ." Lucian pinches the bridge of his nose, reindeer antlers wiggling. "What's next on this magical redemption tour? Marriage counseling with Satan? Trust falls with Moretemis? Maybe we can all hold hands and sing Kumbaya with the forces of darkness?"
"She's right." Guilt, and regret pulse from Rhyland like a bruised heartbeat—the weight of dismissing my concerns about Adrian before everything went sideways.
His arms tighten around me, his voice a low rumble against my back.
"Adrian is our brother." The words carry the weight of centuries.
"If there's even a chance to save him from that bitch's control. .."
"The tactical disadvantages are... significant." Erik adds. His fingers trace absent patterns on Bryn's arm. "Though leaving him as her weapon could prove more costly."
"Okay, timeout." Emily makes the time-out gesture. "Not to rain on this rescue mission parade, but how exactly are we planning to yank Adrian from the clutches of Demonic Vampire Barbie? Because last time I checked, that bitch was collecting power-ups like it's Mario Kart."
"Ha!" Lucian snorts, his big brown eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Lilith does strike me as the type to spam blue shells and camp the rainbow road shortcuts. Bet she's got Adrian riding bitch in her Princess Peach mobile—"
I level my patented death glare at him, which usually makes even Rhyland think twice.
He clears his throat, trying—and failing—to school his features into something resembling seriousness. "What? Can't a guy appreciate a quality gaming reference while discussing our impending doom? No? Fine. Back to our regularly scheduled crisis."
"Thank you."
He smirks. "But you gotta admit, she does have that Bowser energy—"
"Lucian!" We all shout in unison.
"Fine! Jesus, tough crowd."
"Does she even know what the full stone does?" Brax asks, his Will Ferrell face scrunching in concern as his hat jingles with every head tilt.
"Oh sure, because Lilith strikes me as the type to collect ancient artifacts without reading the instruction manual," Lucian drawls. "Next, you'll ask if Deadpool knows the difference between maximum effort and maximum cleavage. Spoiler alert—he appreciates both equally."
Brax stares at Lucian, Will Ferrell's expressive face frozen in a deadpan glare that looks wildly out of place beneath the jingling elf hat—like Santa's happiest helper just discovered coal in his stocking.
Lucian rolls his eyes, "To cause more chaos, bring her shadow boy-toy—Moldy-Wart, over for a playdate—because being Queen Bitch of the Universe isn't enough. She's probably planning to redecorate the realms in fifty shades of black while she's at it."
Brax shakes his head, bells jingling in a discordant melody. "Moretemis can't be brought over with the stone alone. It doesn't work like that."
"Right. We know she needs a sacrifice—hence Thunder Struck over there." Lucian jerks a thumb at Rhyland. "Pretty sure grandson of a thunder god and premium shadow goddess DNA was listed under 'Special Skills' on her Tinder profile.'"
"No. Not even that can bring him over."
Azrael's words echo in my head—how he needed Rhyland's sacrifice to bring Moretemis through. It makes sense now—Rhyland's blood carries both Asgardian divinity and Olympian darkness—the perfect key to unlock a dimensional nightmare.
But if Brax is saying even that wouldn't work.
What the hell is Lilith really planning?
"The stone doesn't just mimic Dani's portals—it can weave shadow essence between realms," Brax explains grimly.
"Unbra isn't just darkness. It's the void behind existence.
With the complete stone, Lilith wouldn't pull Moretemis here.
.. she'd merge our realm with his, trapping us all in eternal darkness. "
Well, fuck me sideways with a candy cane. Merry Christmas to us.