Chapter 7
ROWAN
Darkness wraps around me like a weighted blanket with a grudge, and the first thing I register—besides the pounding in my skull—is the deep ache in every single one of my muscles.
I groan, wincing at the sound of my own voice, and try to piece together the scraps of last night’s dreams. Well, nightmares are more like it.
At least I hope they were.
With the last one, I’d been running through the forest, moonlight slicing through the branches above, silver and cold on my skin. Wolves at my back, teeth snapping, claws tearing into the earth, and preparing to rip me to shreds.
Yet, I wasn’t afraid.
I was faster than them, stronger even. My lungs burned, but in that satisfying, runner’s-high kind of way.
The freakier part? I wasn’t alone, and the one running beside me wasn’t who I would have ever expected. That detail still has me rattled enough that my first thought upon waking is to reach for my ferret.
“Archie?” My hands fumble across the mattress, patting at the sheets before reaching for the light, but a sudden realization slams into me.
“I’m right here, Ro,” an accented voice says, closer than I anticipated.
Oh, hell.
Or, as Iris would say—shifter shits.
Not everything I’m remembering was, in fact, a dream.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, and a moment later, a warm, fur-covered weight settles into my lap. I automatically begin stroking Archie’s back, doing my best to ignore the memory of him ballooning to Great Dane proportions last night.
“I think so,” I murmur, finally adjusting to the darkness. My vision sharpens far faster than it should, every edge in the room distinct, every shadow clear. “It’s still a lot to process.”
His cold nose nudges my hand, settling me. “I imagine it will be for some time,” he says gently. “But you can handle this. Not only because of your own strength, but because you’re not alone.”
“Right. And what excellent company we’ve found ourselves with.” My groan echoes in the quiet, half-laced with sarcasm, half with genuine exhaustion. “A crazy old granny and a rabid dog.”
Archie actually chuckles. “I’d normally agree with you there, but while Iris is her own breed of Hollowborn and Cade might be…a little rogue, both of them have their own dire reasons to keep you alive.”
Sure. One wants me to inherit the family business—which would make my mom rise from her grave just to strangle me—and the other slapped a “mate” label on me like I’m a prize-winning cow at a county fair.
Bad news for them. I’m not interested in living at NightShade, and I’m not for sale, or for the taking. Not even for a sexy, terrifying, shouldn’t-be-real, beast of a man.
“You know I can’t stay here, Archie.” My voice softens before I can stop it. My mother might have kept this entire supernatural circus a secret from me, making the last twelve hours infinitely harder than they needed to be, but I get it now.
Especially if she knew what I could become.
Some sort of freak from a twisted fable.
I swing my legs out of bed, half-expecting them to ache from the nightmare wolf chase, but instead, there’s a weird lightness flowing through me. My muscles still feel sore, but underneath is something new. An energy that hums like power under my skin.
Fantastic. Maybe I’m becoming a human battery now.
“I’m going to shower,” I say, shuffling toward the bathroom.
It’s not until my feet touch the tile that I realize the warmth beneath them. Right. Heated magical floors. Let’s just hope that I don’t break anything by doing something I’m not supposed to.
Going through the motions, I’m grateful to find everything seems relatively normal in operation when it comes to hot water and soap, and I can’t lie.
Stating the various scents to nobody in particular while I’m washing up is kind of fun.
Vanilla, roses, cashmere, strawberries. Everything was spot-on.
When I step out of the shower, I expect to be wind-blown from the automatic drying feature, but instead, my skin tingles, and it’s like the water just evaporates off me. Even from my long hair.
I run my fingers through the strands, not a tangle to be found.
Okay, maybe this I can get used to.
Please let the closet be this simple as well.
I move to open the bathroom, naked from head to toe, but freeze. It was one thing to prance around without clothes on in front of Archie when I thought he was an animal, but now…
Yeah, not happening.
I put my pajamas from last night back on and make a mental note to grab clothes before I come into the bathroom next time.
My furry best friend is still on the bed.
His eyes are closed like he’s sleeping, but maybe he realized what I did and was trying to be polite.
Still, I keep quiet as I go into the closet.
Inside, there are racks of shirts, sweaters, and even dresses.
Each of them has varying patterns and colors, but most of everything looks like something I’d wear depending on the occasion.
My stomach growls, so I don’t linger too long, settling on a green V-neck tee and a pair of light wash jeans, neither of which were in my suitcase.
Though I do find my black flats on a shelf and wear those.
As soon as I come out, Archie hops down to the floor—like he never went back to sleep—his nails clicking against the hardwood. He follows me to the door, and I scoop him up before we step into the hallway.
“Should I be more careful about the guests in this place?” I whisper, glancing left and right before daring more than a few steps.
“No. Iris kicked everyone out before you woke last night,” he replies, nose twitching. “As far as I know, it’s just us, Iris, Liz, and a couple of long-term staff members rattling around.”
Well, that’s a relief.
Still, the house doesn’t feel empty. The sconces along the corridor brighten as I pass, shadows bending away from my steps. A draft stirs, though none of the tall windows are open, carrying a hint of spice and candle smoke. I can’t tell if it’s meant to welcome me or warn me.
I pause when the carpet runner under my shoes ripples faintly, the weave shifting as though it’s smoothing itself flat for me. My stomach twists. Subtle or not, this place is too alive.
We follow the faint clink of silverware and muffled voices, deeper into the belly of the house. The doors lining the hall look different each time I glance at them—knobs glinting, colors darkening, carvings in the wood I swear weren’t there a second ago.
“How did I not notice any of this yesterday?” I ask Archie, not really expecting an answer.
“It’s easy to miss what you’re not looking for.”
Why does that seem like he’s talking about more than this house…
The moment I step into what I assume is the dining room, I’m assaulted by the scent of coffee, maple syrup, and something that smells suspiciously like decaying roadkill.
“Good morning, Rowan,” Iris calls far too cheerfully from the head of the table, her floral robe somehow even more flamboyant than last night.
“We’re having pancakes and plotting doom.
Sit anywhere you’d like, but maybe not there—” she points to the chair nearest her right hand “—that one’s cursed. ”
I blink at her. “Cursed?”
“Oh yes, the last three people who ate there developed mysterious rashes in awkward places. Best not to tempt fate.”
Right. Totally normal breakfast conversation.
The table itself is long and heavy, polished oak veined with faint, glowing runes that pulse lazily under the plates like they’re breathing.
Steam curls up from silver cylinders without lids, and the air around them smells like a hundred different kinds of coffee, each mug seemingly brewing itself to whoever reaches for it.
When I step closer, a fresh plate slides into place before me with a quiet clink, as though the table anticipated me.
I’m surprised when I see Cade at the opposite end, considering Iris kicked him out last night. His golden eyes lock on me with the kind of focus that is too early in the day to process.
He doesn’t look away when he states, “You didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m glad someone was keeping tabs on my REM cycles,” I mutter, sliding into a chair two seats away from Iris and as far from Cade as possible without leaving the room entirely. The seat cushions adjust beneath me, molding like memory foam on steroids, enough to make me almost sigh.
“Coffee?” Liz asks, appearing beside me with a mug already in hand. Her hazel eyes glint like she’s in on some private joke.
“Absolutely. Make it a double shot of ‘how did my life get here’ please.”
She smirks but doesn’t comment. As she sets the cup in front of me, it fills itself with a rich, dark brew, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The scent shifts—dark roast, vanilla, maybe a hint of cinnamon—as though my mood decided the flavor for me. I should ask, but I can’t muster the energy.
Iris claps her hands, the sound sharp in the quiet. A platter of pancakes drifts down the length of the table, landing perfectly between us, syrup already warm and glistening. “Ooh, I like that one! Maybe I’ll brew a pot of ‘existential dread’ next. I bet it would go great with scones.”
Nobody says anything. I merely blink, trying to decide if Iris is actually crazy or just wants us all to think that.
Liz slides into the seat across from me, unfazed by any of it, and a plate of scrambled eggs appears without her lifting a finger. “The house has excellent intuition,” she murmurs, like that’s normal.
Iris continues, “Now that we’re all present, we need to discuss the next steps. Namely, how we keep you alive long enough to avoid fulfilling your destiny—assuming it’s the unpleasant, world-ending kind.”
I guess there’s no more pretending I’m human and shouldn’t know any of this exists. If I had wanted that, I should have stayed in bed longer.
“How about we put up some ‘No Murdering the Hollowborn’ signs?” Liz winks at me. “You know how supernaturals love their laws.”