Chapter 31
KIERAN
A week.
Seven brutal days, and she still wasn’t waking up.
I’d sat here long enough to lose count of how many times I’d watched her chest rise—how many times I’d checked to make sure it still did. Sleep? Useless. Eating? Forget it.
All I could do was sit on this god's damned chair, staring at her, like some pathetic fool… willing her to open those stubborn eyes.
We were holed up in some half-rotted house on the edge of the Hollowborn quarter—the part of Velmore Vespera had dumped every soul she deemed weak or magicless.
Her little graveyard for the unwanted.
They had their own stretch of woods behind the houses—twisted, bone-thin trees packed so tight the dark bled between them like ink.
The air back there felt wrong, too still…
like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Even the wind avoided it. You couldn’t pay me to step between those trees—unless I were drunk enough to forget I had a brain.
Ronan was still out cold, and yeah, I was in better shape—but honestly, that wasn’t saying much.
Vespera had made it her personal mission to break him.
Being chained up while Ronan took every brutal hit to protect temptress, it tore me apart.
But I get it. There’s something about her that drags you in, makes you want to watch her back, keep her safe.
Hell, maybe even love her. But that’s not me. I don’t deserve it.
I wouldn’t even know where to start with that kind of thing. I’ve never loved anyone.
And Darian—yeah, that bastard might be my best friend, my brother—but the fact he walked off with Vespera and her merry band of Psychos?
Pissed me off more than I can say. He knew we’d been taken.
Knew damn well there was a good chance we were getting tortured—Ronan especially—and he did nothing. Not a fucking thing.
Temptress, on the other hand, helped us when she didn’t have to. I know she has feelings for Ronan, but she still came knowing what it would cost her, outing herself like that and knowing there was a massive possibility she could have died.
I don’t have it in me to give her the kind of love she deserves.
Too much damage. Too many ghosts. But I care—more than I’d ever admit out loud.
I respect the hell out of her. And if all I can offer is standing by her side, being someone she can count on…
then I’ll be that. A friend. A shield. Whatever she needs.
At least, that’s a lie I keep feeding to myself.
I never understood just how much power she had been holding back—not until I watched it rip her apart right in front of me, while Malrik forced that potion down her throat.
Fuck. It gutted me. Tore straight through every wall I’d built, every defence I thought I had left.
Something split open inside me—something I’d spent years drowning in whisky and bad decisions.
I don’t ever want to feel that again. That helpless, gut-wrenching, soul-twisting kind of pain. Not for her. Not for anyone.
But especially not for her.
“When the hell did you grab your bike?”
Ronan's voice cuts through the quiet as he hobbles down the steps, looking like he picked a fight with a phantom lynx—and got his ass handed to him.
One eye swollen damn near shut, bruises splattered across his jaw, ribs wrapped up tight, and both wrists are bound in thick bandages.
Luckily, we heal fast, but he's still walking. Still alive.
Thank fuck he's awake.
I run my hand along the body of my Ducati Panigale V4, matte obsidian black with red accents along the fairing, the kind of machine that doesn’t just move—it roars.
“Drew snagged it before everything went to shit,” I say, tapping the seat. “The kid knows what I need.”
He lets out a low, tired laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drifts toward the woods behind us.
“She’s still not awake,” he mutters, voice rough,
I nod, “She will.”
I don’t let myself think otherwise.
He turns to me, fury simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s the wrecked look in his eyes that hits harder. Ronan doesn’t break often—but when he does, it's like the whole world tilts.
“We owe her, Kieran. We owe her everything,” he says, voice sharp with so much emotion. “I’ll slaughter every last fucking vampire if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.”
I get it.
“I want to give her a real life,” he adds, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Even if I’ve gotta share that life with others, then I will.”
The blood mage—that’s who he’s talking about. Because Darian has made it damn clear where he stands, treating temptress like she’s nothing. I can’t see anything good coming from that, and there’s no way I’m gonna get involved. I can’t.
I rest my hand on his shoulder, fingers trembling—fuck, I’m craving a drink badly.
“We will… just everything’s fucked up right now.”
He catches the tremor in my hand. “When was the last time you had a drink?”
I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. “Doesn’t matter.”
He narrows his eyes. “Come on, man. Your eyes are bloodshot, your whole body’s shaking, and your fingers look raw—as if you’ve been tearing yourself apart.”
I stop halfway up the steps, letting out a sharp breath. “It’s my mess, not yours. I’m handling it.”
A rough chuckle slips from him, dripping with sarcasm. “Obviously.”
I flare my nostrils but don’t argue. Instead, I turn and head inside, pushing open the front door.
The living room hits me with the stale weight of neglect—walls painted a dark, peeling forest green, worn shelves cluttered with dust and forgotten trinkets lining every inch.
A grimy chandelier hangs crooked from the ceiling, casting weak, flickering light over mismatched chairs scattered haphazardly around the room.
The carpet—hell, I couldn’t tell you the colour anymore—it’s threadbare and stained, the kind that’s seen better decades.
In the centre, a massive stone fireplace spits low flames, the heart blackened with soot and long overdue for a clean.
Ronan limps in behind me, making a beeline for one of the battered old chairs by the wooden table near the fire. He stops short, eyes narrowing at the mess spread across it—glass jars, scattered and gleaming in the firelight. None of that shit was there before.
Cautiously, he picked one up, holding it up to the dim light like it might bite him. His face twisted.
“Why the fuck are there eyeballs in this?” He muttered, then squinted closer. “And… is that a tongue?”
If he could’ve gone green, he would’ve.
Before I can blink, Malriks there—materialising out of nowhere, ripping the jar straight out of Ronan's hand with a feral growl. “Don't touch my little witch's presents.”
I lift a brow, already regretting opening my mouth about any of this, but Ronan beats me to it.
“Presents? Seriously? Have you ever heard of flowers, you unhinged bastard? Maybe some chocolate? Not dismembered body parts and then leave it where I eat.”
Malrik just smirked like he had been complimented, turning the jar slightly in his hand like it was fine art. He tosses the jar slightly in the air, catching it with a grin that was far too proud of himself.
“I think trophies from your enemies make perfect gifts. You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
Ronan opened his mouth, but the sicko grabbed another jar, popped the lid, and with zero warning, dumped a handful of bloodied fingers right into Ronan’s lap.
“What the fuck!” He bolts upright so fast he sends the chair clattering backwards—then trips over it anyway, falling to the floor like a damn sack of bricks. Fingers go flying in every direction as Ronan curses about his wrists.
I lean against the doorframe, snorting to keep from losing it completely.
Ronans on the floor, glaring up at Malrik, swiping the scattered fingers off himself with a grimace. “You deranged fuck. Keep your murder confetti to yourself.”
I clear my throat., cutting through the chaos. “As entertaining as this is, we’ve got shit to talk about.” I stroll over and flop into another chair. “Get rid of those jars.”
Malrik just scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “Thought you’d appreciate them. They’re from vampires after all.”
I lean back, foot bouncing. “Why the hell are you, of all people, killing vampires?”
He grins, his tongue running across the slight fangs he has, and it pisses me off. “Because, you dense bastard, vampires want Ravena. So, I kill them. Simple as that.”
Who the fuck is Ravena?
Ronan catches the look on my face and settles back in his chair with a wince. “Cherry’s Ravena.”
I blink, letting it sink in. So that's her name. Of course, it's something pretty, just like her.
I really need to stop thinking about how pretty she is.
“So, what now?” I ask, eyeing them both. “Vespera is going to find us sooner or later. And without temptress, we’re dead men walking. Plus, we need her to pull that dark magic out of Darian.”
Malrik let us in on what's been happening to Darian, which finally explains his recent… odd behaviour. Another thing I owe that little temptress a thanks for. She's risking her neck to save him, ever after treating her like shit over the past few months.
Malriks' eyes flare bright red at the mention of Darian—and ugly, molten light that makes the room colder. His shoulders bunch, a vein throbbing at his temple, and the smile on his face curdles into something far worse.
He leans forward, “That fucker is lucky my little witch has a heart. If it were up to me, I’d have ripped his damn heart out ages ago.”
“Easy, Malrik.” Ronan snaps, his voice low but firm. “You might hate him, but he’s our family. And don’t forget he’s infected because of Vespera. So cut the guy some slack, we don’t even know how much it’s affecting him.”
I could feel my patience slipping fast—we weren’t going to get anywhere with Malrik and Ronan bickering like children. Time was running out, and we needed to act fast.