Chapter 8
Eight
TALULLA
Did Cassandra keep me on the phone until I got to the front of the building?
Yes. Yes, she did.
She repeated the instructions like a prayer.
How to get in. How to get out. Which corridors to avoid.
Which cameras were fake deterrents, and which ones would absolutely ruin my life.
She made me look at pictures of the entire fucking place until I could’ve drawn it from memory, drilled the path to the archives into my skull, and reminded me—again—that I was not to improvise.
I always improvise.
Now I’m standing in a dark alley across the street, the invisibility potion burning its way down my throat, my pulse steady in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.
And just like that, I’m back.
The building looms in front of me, all Victorian elegance and quiet authority.
Ornate stonework. Tall windows. The kind of place that looks historic enough to be harmless, which is exactly the point.
There’s a gate I need to climb, iron bars cold and unforgiving, guards pacing in and out like they belong here.
They do.
I don’t.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I hate how good this feels.
There’s a reason my father was furious when I walked away. I wasn’t just trained—I was engineered for this. I was his best soldier, his sharpest blade, the one who never hesitated. And even now, even after months of pretending I can be normal, my body remembers exactly what to do.
I am the best. Still. Even if I haven’t hit a gym in a couple of months.
I scale the gate without a sound, land light on my feet, slip through an open door like the building itself is letting me in.
Inside, the place is exactly what Cassandra described—and worse.
Sterile white walls. Aluminum tables. Cold lighting that makes everything feel clinical and stripped of humanity. No warmth. No clutter. No personality. This isn’t a home or an office; it’s a facility. A place designed to catalog threats, not people.
Flynn would hate it here.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp and unwelcome.
Good. He shouldn’t belong in a place like this.
According to Cass, the archives are in the basement. Which is where I am now, staring at a solid steel door that might as well be laughing at me.
So I wait.
I hate waiting.
Every second ticks loud in my head. Twenty-one minutes left. Plenty of time. Not enough time. I bounce on the balls of my feet, senses stretched thin, aware of everything—footsteps above, the faint hum of electricity, the way this place feels alive in a way that has nothing to do with magic.
I don’t have all day.
Fuck.
Okay. Maybe I should’ve texted Flynn.
Just maybe.
Footsteps.
As I continue to commiserate my choices, someone finally comes down and heads straight for the door. He’s a tall broad-shouldered man, probably not much older than me.
As he punches in the code he stops in his tracks and turns toward me.
For half a second, my heart forgets how to beat.
He’s close enough now. Close enough that if this potion failed, if anything went wrong, I’d be dead or detained in under five seconds. He inhales slowly, head tilting like he’s considering something.
And then—
Nothing.
His eyes slide right past me, uninterested. Witches can’t get in here. Vampires definitely can’t either. Why would there be anything else to worry about?
He finally turns back and finishes the code.
Good boy.
As soon as the door opens, I slip in behind him.
As I said, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I’m in with about seventeen minutes to spare. I start my quest, making sure not to touch anything unless I know that’s what I need.
The archives are pristine. Everything is labeled, categorized, obsessively organized. This is a place run by creatures who value control above all else. I move carefully, touching only what I need, my hands steady, my thoughts loud.
This was too easy.
The thought skitters through my mind, unwelcome but persistent. But if they can’t see me and can’t smell me, what exactly are they going to do? Nothing.
So I continue to browse, and now actually go through files starting from A.
No Amber here though.
I do the same with the letter M. Maybe it could be Mission Amber? Nope it is not.
Then it’s onto the letter P.
Plan Amber? Nope again.
Files on my entire family. One on my father. A separate one on me. My chest tightens, curiosity flaring hot and dangerous, but I force myself to keep moving.
Project Amber. There it is.
“Bingo,” I whisper, a grin tugging at my lips.
I photograph every page quickly, efficiently, checking my timer between shots.
I got five minutes to get out of here.
I put the file back, my job technically done, and that should be it.
It should.
But my feet carry me somewhere else.
The “L” section.
I hesitate, teeth sinking into my lip hard enough to taste copper.
And of course there’s a file.
A pretty damn thick one too.
Flynn Lancaster, condensed into paper and ink and judgments made by people who don’t know him. I want to open it. I want to tear it apart. I want to know what they think they know.
And that’s exactly why I don’t.
This—this—is how it starts. Digging for things he hasn’t offered. Looking for reasons to fight. Sabotaging something good because I don’t trust peace.
He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
I don’t need a file for that.
So I put it back.
I do, however, take photos of my file. And my father’s. As if I’m not aware of the content already.
I couldn’t help myself. I’m not perfect.
Three minutes.
Time to fucking run.
The exit is a blur. I move fast, reckless now, nearly colliding with something—someone—but I don’t stop. Careful doesn’t matter anymore. Survival does. I need to disappear from the premises before it’s too late.
I vault the gate with seconds to spare, sprint across the street, and barely manage not to reappear midair as the potion wears off.
I turn back, lungs burning, adrenaline roaring in my ears—
And I laugh.
I fucking did it.
I laugh again, breathless, triumphant—and then my gaze drops.
To a pair of very expensive loafers.
Shoes I know intimately. Shoes I have kicked off more than once.
I look up.
Flynn’s icy-gray eyes meet mine, unreadable, infuriatingly calm, and definitely not amused.
Of course he’s here ready.
“Fangs,” I say, still panting. “Fancy seeing you here.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous. Fond. And absolutely pissed.
Well, fuck. My shoulders drop.
I might be in a little bit of trouble.