Chapter 33 Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
It’s suffocating, pretending the days are ordinary when they’re anything but.
Every step feels like walking on a tightrope that might snap at any given moment, causing me to fall deeper and deeper into an abyss of uncertainty.
I skirt the dining room like it’s cursed, but it’s not the room that’s cursed. It’s me.
Even the doorway strangles me, invisible hands wrapping tight around my throat. Behind it, the silhouettes wait, draped in sheets, caught mid-gesture, mid-meal, mid-life. Grotesque statues frozen in the moment the world betrayed them.
And then the thought circles back, again, like some sadistic broken record. What if they’re awake in there? Not dead. Not gone. Just… aware. Trapped in their own bodies, listening to the world move on, screaming for help in silence no one can hear.
It’s the nightmare that claws at me most—the idea of being locked inside myself, fully conscious but voiceless, watching life carry on without me. Gods, it terrifies me.
And yeah, I know. It’s projection. My brain doing what it does best lately—making horror movies out of things that are already horrific enough. But logic doesn’t stop the thought from digging in, doesn’t stop my chest from tightening until it feels like I’m the one suffocating.
Better dead than trapped like that. That’s what I tell myself.
That’s what I’d want. Which probably makes me sound morbid, but hey, better honest than stuck giving stone-faced dinner parties for eternity.
And knowing my luck, no one would bother with a sheet—I’d be left there in full display, mouth frozen open mid-scream. Charming.
Ugh. This is why I avoid the dining room like it’s ground zero for the plague.
One glimpse and I’m undone. Those shrouded figures aren’t just furniture tucked under sheets, they’re people I love.
People I never got the chance to love, even if once upon a time they’d been my sworn enemies.
That’s the cruelest part: all the potential cut off mid-breath, every unfinished fight, every unspoken apology, every “maybe someday” locked away in stone.
Worst of all are the worried glances. Minerva keeps darting looks at me like she’s waiting for me to spontaneously combust. Marcus’s are no less pointed, and Leonard has doubled down on the dad jokes.
He’s laying it on so thick you’d think bad humor was a weapon of war.
Normally I’d laugh, maybe even toss one back just to shut him up, but right now?
It all just sinks in my gut like I’ve swallowed lead.
Days grind by. Every second stretches long enough to feel like an hour, and every hour feels like a slow torture.
By the third night, I’m wound so tight my skin buzzes.
My hands can’t seem to stay still. I keep rubbing my palms together until they’re raw, pacing grooves into floorboards.
My jaw aches from me clenching it so hard.
The scrape of a chair, the groan of a floorboard, all makes me want to scream just to bleed off the pressure.
I head into the kitchen to get a snack I won’t eat. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with me. It’s like I’m trying to prove to myself that the knot in my stomach isn’t so tight it feels like I went for surgery to tighten it further.
As I open the fridge, the sensors flare, red light slicing through the dark that has my stomach bottoming out. My pulse rockets, rattling in my throat. For a breath, I can’t tell if it’s dread or relief making me shake. Maybe both. Either way, it’s here. Finally. Showtime. I run out of the kitchen.
The alarm is still ringing in my ears when Marcus barrels into the hall. Truth is, we’ve been bracing for this since the night we got back, circling the same what-ifs, like dogs chasing their tails. I’m sure that’s offensive to my wolf but she’s too busy scenting the prospective deaths.
Marcus looks grim. He’s as still as our petrified family members, and yet he silently vibrates. Also, his eyes give him away. That same cold fury glints there, the same hunger for payback I feel breaking out under my skin. Misery loves company, I guess.
Minerva strides in next, whip coiled in her hand, lips pressed into razor-thin lines. She doesn’t ask if I’m ready, just scans me once, like she’s taking inventory, and nods. It’s comforting, knowing she is confident that we’re gonna make it out alive.
Then there’s Leonard, jogging in like he’s late for happy hour.
He’s already grinning, already cracking a line about how we should’ve dressed for the occasion.
The joke’s terrible. The grin’s faker than the knockoff Rolex Belvedere borrowed for Marcus when we met the coven.
But hey, at least he’s consistent—bad humor in the face of impending doom is practically his brand.
Serafina glides in quietly, bow already strung, posture so precise it makes the rest of us look sloppy. She doesn’t speak when she’s in this mode. Honestly, it’s intimidating. Like watching a storm pretend to be human.
Our wolves shiver at the edges of their control, claws just beneath the skin. It’s like standing next to live wires. One wrong spark, and the whole lot of us are ash.
We don’t talk. We don’t have to. The air is already thick with all the baggage we’ve dragged here. Rage, grief, vengeance. My pulse rattles in my throat, and for the first time in days, I’m not suffocating on the silence. I’m feeding on it.
Marcus finally sweeps his gaze over us, eyes moving like he’s ticking mental boxes—ready, ready, probably doomed, ready. Then his attention lands on me, and for the briefest second, a flash of fire sparks in his irises before he slams the mask back on.
I’ve caught it more and more lately, that flicker when I’m in nothing but leggings and a tank.
Not exactly haute couture, but apparently enough to short-circuit his composure.
Maybe it’s just muscle memory, leftover heat from the first time we went after Maximillian, when my shirt got ripped off and…
well. The evening got memorable fast. Or maybe it’s something else. Something he’s not saying.
I can’t lie, I like it. There’s something delicious about being looked at like that when I’m dressed for war, not seduction. Even sweat-slick and strung out, he sees me. Wants me. And I love that.
Not that now is exactly the time to be cataloging Marcus’s micro-expressions like some lovesick teenager. But hey, impending doom or not, a girl’s allowed her distractions.
He seems to give himself a mental shake, then nods sharply toward the hallway leading to the ballroom.
Then he gives a single, sharp nod toward the stairwell.
That’s it. No pep talk. No stirring words to rally the troops.
Typical Marcus. Straight to the point, all business, zero bedside manner.
Honestly, if the man ever tried to inspire us with something heartfelt, I think we’d all die of shock before the enemy even showed up.
And just like that, we move.
Weapons get checked, claws flex, spells murmured under breath like half-prayers, half-threats.
The whole room hums with tension, every sound sharper than it should be.
My palms are slick, but I play it off, shifting my grip on the dagger like it’s strategy and not nerves.
If anyone notices the way my fingers tremble, they’re polite enough not to mention it. Or maybe they just know better.
The halls stretch long and cold as we move through them, the air heavy with anticipation.
Every creak underfoot sounds like a warning shot.
Minerva keeps pace beside me, whip wrapped in her hand, her gaze flicking toward me like she’s silently letting me know she’s here.
Leonard’s ahead of us, tossing out one of his awful one-liners under his breath. I blow out a breath.
We descend the staircase together, each step dragging like the tick of a clock counting down to an execution.
The air thickens with every level we drop, pressing on my lungs, heavier and heavier, like the house itself knows what’s coming and would rather look away.
Our shadows project onto the walls like a movie of our doom.
Everything feels like a warning, as if telling us we’re heading into a trap.
Which, let’s be honest, we probably are.
Now that I think about it, if it isn’t a trap, I’d feel very suspicious.
When we reach the doors, Marcus pushes them open without ceremony.
The hinges groan, the sound splitting the silence like a drumroll before an execution.
The space beyond yawns wide, vast and echoing, every polished surface gleaming under the chandeliers.
It’s spotless—of course it is, the staff see to that—but the shine only makes it worse.
All that care, all that order, in a room that never gets used seems a waste, but then again, it fits in with how Marcus runs his home.
Crossing the threshold is like stepping onto a stage. The air feels ceremonial, as if even the walls know blood is about to be spilled. Tonight, the ballroom isn’t for dancing. Tonight, it’s ready for war. Romantic, really—nothing says date night like chandeliers and the promise of carnage.
Everyone moves without needing to be told.
Serafina slips toward the windows, bow drawn, her eyes scanning the dark like she can already see the first targets.
My wolf hovers close to the edges of my skin, muscles taut, claws pricking through every part of me.
Her restraint is loud in my ears. A steady, violent heartbeat. It’s dangerous, overwhelming, deadly.
Belvedere drops his satchel to the polished floor and crouches low, glass vials clinking softly as he lines them up. The colors inside swirl like bottled storms, and for once he looks focused instead of smug.
Minerva loosens her whip, the leather coiling and uncoiling in her hands like a snake craving to strike.