Chapter 14
14
Amir
I stand on the rooftop, arms crossed, watching with a small smile as Anora climbs into her ride-share alone. The sight fills me with pride. She stood up to that waste of a man—Mike—and held her ground. My heart swells at the thought. She’s stronger than she realizes.
Glancing over my shoulder, I frown as Andrew struggles with the stack of paintings, adjusting his grip and muttering under his breath. Once Anora’s ride disappears into traffic, I flick my fingers, and the paintings vanish.
“Thank God!” Andrew exhales, rolling his shoulders and smoothing the front of his shirt. “Those things are difficult to keep up with.”
I smirk. “Weakness doesn’t suit you, Andrew.”
Ignoring me, he moves to my side, peering down from the rooftop toward the craft fair.
“Are we killing Mike tonight?” he asks, his tone almost hopeful .
I shake my head. “No, there’s something else I need to handle first. Summon Damon and Kade for me.”
Andrew nods but hesitates, his gaze drifting back to Anora’s now-distant rideshare.
“What about her?”
My eyes lock onto Mike, who’s just stepped outside the building. He looks around, scanning the street for Anora. His phone is already in his hand as he heads down the stairs toward his car.
“Mike will follow her to Thirst Trap, ” I say, watching him closely. “I’ve known men like him for centuries—men who can’t handle losing. Men who mistake obsession for control.”
Andrew groans beside me. “Does that mean I can go home now?”
I glance at him, smirking. “Yes, let’s go check on Hazel.”
Not waiting for a response, Andrew steps off the edge of the rooftop, dropping smoothly into the alley below. Even though I keep him cloaked from human eyes, I know his distaste for teleportation. Most supernaturals hate it, but I don’t have the patience for his preferences.
With a brief burst of energy, I teleport to the bar, materializing in front of the counter just as Hazel pours herself a glass of lemonade.
She glances up, her curls spilling over her shoulders, her face fresh and relaxed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. I hate how casual her attire is—a goddess like her dressed so casually grates on me—but now is not the time to argue about such things.
“Where have you been all day?” she asks, lifting her glass.
“Checking on my mate,” I admit with a smirk, walking over to the counter to stand across from her .
“Stalking Anora again?” she teases with a playful smile.
I place both hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly as my thoughts race. There’s so much to do—starting with the violent end of the monsters who hurt Hazel. Then there’s Mike, whose death will need to drag out far longer. Add in courting Anora properly and explaining to her that she’s a witch… and eventually, I’ll have to deal with Aya and whatever chaos she’s stirring up.
“I need more hands,” I mutter, half to myself.
Hazel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead, she grabs another glass, fills it with lemonade, and places it in front of me.
I wince.
Unlike shifters, I don’t need to stick to water, but human drinks like this? I don’t enjoy them—too artificial, too sweet. Still, from the look Hazel’s giving me, I know she won’t let me avoid it.
“To celebrate,” she says, holding up her glass. “For finally coming out of your shell.”
I groan but take the glass. “The things I do to make my women happy.”
She laughs as she clinks her glass against mine.
I take a sip, and the flavor hits me immediately. The tartness of the lemon is sharp on my tongue, balanced by the sweetness of the sugar. It’s light and sticky, blending with the bitter undercurrent.
I swallow hard, setting the glass down in front of me. “It’s not poison, but it’s close.”
Hazel bursts into laughter, shaking her head at me.
“I feel so safe with you, Uncle,” she says between giggles. “You’re nothing like my mother said you were.”
The amusement fades from me at her words. I sigh and drop my gaze. Aya—Hazel’s mother—spent Hazel’s childhood poisoning her view of me with lies. Hazel will never understand what dark magic really does, how it eats away at you, stripping everything until you’re unrecognizable. Aya isn’t herself anymore. She hasn’t been for years, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s even anything left of her to save.
But there’s no point in explaining that to Hazel right now. She doesn’t need that burden added to her own.
Instead, I reach out, touching her hand briefly. “You’re wrong about that, Hazel. I’m everything your mother said I was—and more. But only with the people who deserve it.”
Her eyes soften, but neither of us says anything more. There’s too much to be done. And tonight, that work begins.
“Since I’ve indulged you, do I get the honor of you indulging me for the evening?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
Hazel narrows her eyes at me, instantly suspicious. “Um… what do you want?”
I smile, taking a deliberate step back. Lifting my hand, I wiggle my fingers, casting a silent spell. Golden and gray light sparks from my fingertips, swirling in soft flickers before solidifying into a clothing rack in front of us.
The rack is simple yet elegant. Polished metal bars curve smoothly at the top, holding a variety of dresses hung neatly. Each dress is different—some long and flowing, others fitted and daring. A mix of deep jewel tones, soft creams, and blacks gives the display a timeless, feminine, and bold appeal.
Hazel stiffens as soon as the rack appears. Her posture changes—her shoulders tense, and I can already sense her instinct to run.
“That’s okay, Uncle,” she says quickly, her voice tight. She moves around the counter, power-walking toward the stairs that lead to the apartment above the nightclub. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”
I flick my fingers subtly, casting a teleportation spell before she can escape. She vanishes, only to reappear right in front of the clothing rack.
“Shit,” she mutters, glaring at the dresses. Her back is to the rack, but her narrowed eyes are fully focused on me.
“Look, Uncle,” Hazel says firmly, her tone almost pleading now. “I think it’s nice that you want to give me a wardrobe update or whatever, but I don’t wear dresses anymore. I haven’t worn them in over a decade.”
Both of us know why.
Placing my hands behind my back, I step closer to her, allowing the moment to stretch just enough to drive my next words home. “Those monsters stole your light, Hazel. Your femininity. As your uncle, as your protector, it’s my duty to give it back to you.”
Her glare hardens, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it.
“No, Un—” she starts, but I lift a single finger, silencing her instantly.
“Niece,” I say gently but firmly, “you will give me this.”
She exhales sharply, nearly hissing her annoyed breath as she turns back to the clothing rack. Reluctantly, she reaches out, her slim chocolate-brown fingers tracing along the edge of a sheer black dress, then brushing over a deep emerald green one.
She hesitates, her touch lingering just a little too long on the fabrics as her fingertips skate across silk and lace. I notice the subtle change in her scent—an ache, a longing. She doesn’t say it aloud, but it’s there. The miss of her former self. The part of her that remembers who she was before the streets, before the fight, before all of it .
Her lips press into a thin line as she slowly moves from one dress to another, skimming her fingers across each piece like she’s almost afraid to touch them.
I watch the way her fingers tremble against the silk, how her eyes light up despite her fear. Each dress represents something stolen from her - not just clothing, but identity, freedom, the right to feel beautiful without fear. The fabric whispers against her skin, and I can smell the salt of unshed tears, the bitter tang of remembered pain mixing with the first tentative blooms of hope.”
“Pick a dress, niece,” I tell her softly. “You’re dancing with me tonight.”
She pauses. Her hand stills on the rack, and she slowly turns to look at me, confusion flickering behind the warm brown of her eyes. She lifts a single finger to her lips, as though in thought, before turning her gaze back to the dresses.
When she finally smiles—a small, tentative, but real smile—I feel victory stir in my chest.
This is the first step to healing my niece. Hazel doesn’t yet understand how much she’s lost. A decade of fighting for supernaturals, living rough on the streets, and shielding herself from the world has chipped away at her sense of light, safety, and womanhood. But I’ll give it back to her, piece by piece. I mean to see her thrive again, to rest, to reclaim the softness that was stolen from her.
I will not allow anything less while she is under my care.
The responsibility of protecting her settles in my bones, an ancient instinct deeper than blood. She carries Aya’s face, her grace, but none of her darkness. Looking at her now, I see traces of who my sister once was—before the magic consumed her, before everything fell apart. I couldn’t protect Aya, but I won’t fail Hazel. Not as long as I live .
Hazel reaches for a dress that catches her eye—a deep navy-blue gown. It’s simple yet elegant, with a V-neckline and a fitted bodice that flows into a slightly flared hem. The fabric, soft and smooth, seems like it was made just for her. She presses it against her chest, holding it up as if measuring how it would look on her.
For a moment, she looks… excited. Her eyes light up as she imagines herself in it, and I catch a glimpse of the young girl she used to be—full of life, unashamed of her femininity and beauty.
But then it fades.
The excitement drains from her face, and she suddenly stiffens, panic setting in. She freezes, her fingers clutching the fabric tightly before she drags a hand through her mess of wavy, tangled hair. Her breathing quickens, and I can see her mind flooding with doubts. The light in her eyes dims.
She glances at me, worry written all over her face.
I chuckle softly, flicking my fingers. A large basket appears on the bar counter, wrapped in clear plastic and filled to the brim with toiletries and hair products—everything Hazel could possibly need to feel like herself again.
“Whatever you need, Hazel, simply ask, and I’ll acquire it for you,” I tell her. My voice is steady, like I’m stating an unbreakable fact. “Nothing will prevent me from getting that dance with you.”
Her eyes flicker to the basket, and a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t say anything, but her fingers relax slightly around the dress.
I turn, sensing Andrew’s approach before he even steps into the room. He enters the nightclub, pausing in his tracks as his eyes land first on the basket, then on the coat rack. His expression is a mix of confusion and surprise as he makes his way closer to the bar .
Hazel beams as she spins toward him, holding the dress against herself again. “My uncle is taking me dancing,” she says, her voice alive with a new warmth that wasn’t there before.
Andrew glances at me, his face softening just enough to catch me off guard. For the first time, I wonder if my grandson might hate me a little less.
But he doesn’t linger. He looks away, stepping over to the bar and grabbing the gift basket. “Come on, Hazel. Let me help you get ready,” he says, his tone calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.
I frown as Hazel’s eyes fill with tears. Emotional as always. The tears cling to her lashes, threatening to spill over, and she sniffs as her lips press into a trembling line.
“Hazel,” I mutter, sighing in frustration. “Please. I hate it when my women cry.”
She sniffles, the sound soft, as she blinks hard and swipes at her eyes to keep the tears at bay. Slowly, she walks toward me, her movements measured, as if processing every step. When she stops in front of me, I can see her jaw set, her emotions teetering between joy and sorrow.
Standing on her toes, she reaches up and places a hand on my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her palm through the fabric of my shirt as she leans in. I hesitate only for a fraction of a second, tilting my head to meet her, and she plants a soft kiss on my cheek. A quiet thank you. A quiet love.
When she pulls back, she looks at me with that same bittersweet smile I’ve grown familiar with. “Your mate is a lucky woman, Uncle,” she whispers, her voice steady but gentle. “I hope she knows that.”
Before I can respond, she turns, taking the gift basket from Andrew as he steps aside for her. Without a second glance, she makes her way up the stairs to the apartment above the nightclub.
Andrew follows after her, but not before pausing for a moment. He looks at me—his usual edge softened—and for the briefest second, I wonder if he might finally understand me. Then he’s gone, disappearing up the stairs behind Hazel.
I stay there, unmoving, staring at the empty space they’ve left behind. Slowly, the edges of my lips curl into a small, sincere smile. No, Hazel—Anora isn’t the lucky one. I am.
I glance upward. Not at the ceiling, but toward something far beyond it. My prayer is silent, the words forming in my thoughts even if I know they won’t be received.
“Thank you, Mother Fate,” I murmur under my breath, my voice low.
I don’t expect a response—not anymore. She no longer lingers with me, no longer gives her guidance. Still, in my soul, I’m certain she hears me.
The ancient power in my blood stirs at the thought of her—Mother Fate, who blessed and cursed me in the same breath. Who gave me this endless life, this burning need to protect, to guard, to shield. Centuries have shaped me, but in moments like these—watching Hazel reclaim her light, knowing Anora is finally within reach—I understand why she chose this path for me. Some things are worth bearing forever.