Chapter Three
Kayden
The wound in my ribs throbs with every step. But not as much as my pride.
She's here.
Her.
The girl who left me bleeding, bound, and half ash.
And just like that, it all floods back. The pain—raw, electric, crawling beneath my skin. The choking taste of that moldy rag jammed in my mouth. The helplessness as sunlight crept across the floor, inching toward me while I had no defenses.
Rage simmers beneath the surface, dark and molten. The part of me that never forgets is already salivating at the thought of retribution. Sweet, brutal retribution.
Asher's focused on getting her inside. Always the damn soldier.
The storm kicks up just as we step into the house. Thunder rolls through the sky like a war drum.
"Turn up the heat," Asher says, already barking orders like I'm one of his men.
I'm not. But still, I toss a few logs into the fireplace. Flames roar to life. So does something in me.
I want her awake. Just not for the same reasons he does.
I want to see the look in those big, green eyes when they land on me. The panic. The recognition. The realization that I'm not dead.
Not even close.
"This is going to be a grand reunion," I murmur, watching as Asher lays her down on the sofa. "I've got many questions for our mystery guest. And I intend to get answers." I smile, feral and sharp. "Oh, I do."
Asher shoots me a look. "You're sure it's her?"
I scoff. "Like I could forget someone who—"
I stop myself.
I told him the story. The girl in the black dress with blood-red detail. The bait.
But not the details. Not how it felt.
How some part of me knew I was walking into a trap, but I followed her anyway. How warm her lips were against mine. How her breath caught just before she kissed me. How her fingers gripped my shirt, like she couldn't decide whether to push me away or drag me under.
It felt real.
Then the bite. Her blood. It tasted like sunshine and warmth, life itself.
And then the metal walls. Chains. Clinical air. Fist cracking across my jaw.
I blink, and the memory slams into me like a second hit.
"The guy I ripped apart back there," I say slowly. "He was in the container."
Good riddance.
Asher frowns. "But now he was after her."
Something changed.
"We'll get all the answers," I say, voice low and full of promise. "One way or another."
Asher's eyes narrow, that concerned older-brother thing written all over his face. "If she doesn't go into hypothermia. She's shaking from the cold. We need to get her out of those wet clothes."
"I can help," I offer with a grin, already stepping in.
"No." The word lands like a command, firm and clipped. He plants a hand against my chest. "Get one of my clean shirts and a few blankets from upstairs. I'll handle it."
"All right," I say, throwing my hands up. "You wanna be the one to undress the mystery girl, be my guest. Didn't peg your holiness for the hands-on type."
I smirk and saunter toward the stairs.
He doesn't dignify that with a response. Boring bastard.
Once I return, Asher gets things under control. He changes her under a blanket into his shirt, dries her hair with a towel, wraps her like a human burrito, and drags the couch closer to the fire.
"She's warming up," he says, fussing over her clothes, tossing the soaked ones in the wash like he's running some supernatural inn for lost girls. "You should patch yourself up. That wound's deep."
He opens a drawer, pulling out a first-aid kit.
I wave him off, tilting a glass of his good scotch toward my lips. "This is all the medicine I need."
I sink into an armchair across from the couch. She's still unconscious. Still silent.
But I'm waiting. Because when Sleeping Beauty wakes up… she's not going to find a prince.
She's going to find me. Her executioner.
Asher looks over at me and shakes his head, like he can hear the thoughts clawing around in my skull.
"If she's the one you told me about—"
"She is."
"Then she's also the one who spared your life, in the end," he finishes.
I frown. "I wouldn't have needed saving if she hadn't tricked me in the first place."
He doesn't argue. But I can see the thoughts churning behind his eyes as he crosses his arms and stares into the fire.
"She drugged you. They locked you and drained your blood. It was a targeted and organized operation. And now she's on the run from the same people. I wonder what it's all about," he says, quiet but sharp.
"Then we'll find out what it means." I grin, wicked and hungry. "Because guess what, brother?" I tilt my glass toward the couch. "The princess awakes."
Sage
The first thing I register is warmth. Heavy, cocooning. A fire crackling somewhere nearby. My limbs ache, my head swims, thick and sluggish, like cotton packed into my skull. Thoughts drift slowly, unfocused.
Then it hits me. The lake. The pursuit. The wildbane.
That sharp, bitter taste still clings to the back of my throat like poison.
I blink against the haze. My eyes are sticky, vision blurred. Shapes sharpen gradually. A room I don't recognize. Wooden beams. Firelight dancing. And across from me, in an armchair…
A man.
"Darius?" I croak, my voice hoarse and raw.
Did they take me back already? How long was I out?
"No Darius here, sunshine."
The voice is low, smooth, and far too amused for comfort.
I blink again. Focus.
His shirt is torn and clinging to his frame in places, dried blood crusting across his side. His hair is a black, rain-flattened mess. He looks like he fought in a war on the way here.
But none of that matters, because I know that face.
My breath catches. A sick, sinking recognition blooms in my chest.
Him.
My eyes lock onto his. Dark brown, almost black in this light. Sharp jaw. Predatory grace carved into every line of him.
"You," I whisper, voice thin with disbelief.
The vampire finishes his drink and rises slowly, like he has all the time in the world. A smile curls on his lips, but it's not kind. It doesn't touch his eyes.
"Well, well, well," he drawls. "What a small, supernatural world we live in. Imagine my surprise finding you, all damsel in distress, in our forest."
The edge in his tone is razor-sharp, tucked beneath that lazy charm. But I feel it—the danger. The weight of it presses into me before he even moves.
Instinctively, I shrink back. I can't get far, tangled in layers of blankets, body still sluggish from wildbane and cold. But every nerve is suddenly awake.
He steps closer. The fire behind him flickers, and his shadow stretches across the floor like something alive.
This is Kayden Darrow.
The one I tricked. The one I seduced, drugged, drained. The one I left to burn. And clearly, he remembers.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His grin fades. What replaces it is worse, quiet, and intense. The kind of look that turns blood to ice. His presence fills the room like smoke, choking the space between us.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and tight. Almost gentle.
"You remember me, of course," he murmurs. "Sunshine."
He crouches, at eye level now.
"Oh, the memories we've made…" His tone sharpens, almost mocking. "Such warm, beautiful moments—your mouth on mine, your blood on my tongue…" He leans in. "…and your friends draining me like some fanged science project. Then leaving me to roast in a metal box."
He smiles again. All teeth this time. "Ring any bells?"
"Kayden, step back. You're scaring her, and we need answers," a second voice cuts through the heat, calmer and controlled.
I turn toward the source. He's standing near the fire, half in shadow. Tall. Broad. His posture is precise and grounded, like a soldier standing at ease—the kind of stillness that comes from decades, maybe centuries, of discipline.
His hair is the same dark shade as Kayden's, cropped shorter. His eyes catch the firelight, a warm amber that flickers like molten glass. No menace, but no warmth either. Just cool, clinical observation, like he's assessing whether I'm a threat or already handled.
"Why do you always have to suck the fun out of everything, brother?" Kayden drawls, not taking his eyes off me. "She'll talk, scared or not. Won't you, sunshine?" His expression twists into that dark, delighted grin again.
Brother.
Adrenaline sharpens everything. The haze is gone. The file flashes to the surface of my mind.
Kayden Darrow. Birth name: Alasdair. Turned in 1746.
Older brother: Ewan Asher Darrow. Turned the same year at age thirty-three.
There was a lot less data on him. His military record was flagged.
Darius's researchers never managed to fully confirm whether he was the Colonel Darrow.
The one who went MIA during the Tet Offensive in '68.
The body of the soldier, who had earned every medal short of sainthood during three tours in Vietnam, was never found.
Everything about the way he stands says soldier.
Wonderful. Two vampires. One furious, one calculating. Both ancient. Both with reasons to hate me.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to stall. Think.
I shift my gaze to Asher, avoiding Kayden's entirely. "Where am I? Why am I here?"
"You're in our home," he says, voice level. "We found you unconscious in the hands of men who clearly didn't have your best interests in mind. We intervened and rescued you."
"Rescued," I repeat, flat.
From going back to Darius, to a certain death-by-vampire is not much of a 'rescue,' but I keep that part to myself.
"Oh, sure," Kayden says with a cold smile. "We specialize in rescuing damsels in distress. Though not all of them have a record of luring vampires into traps, do they?" The words come out low and sharp. My stomach knots.
Wrapped tight in the warm blankets, I'm unable to move, have no control over my own body. I start to peel them off, careful not to rush, only reclaiming space. As I do that, I slide to the far edge of the couch.
Kayden leans back, grin widening. He's enjoying this—watching me retreat like a cat with a cornered mouse. Not lunging, savoring the game.
In the supernatural world, there's a hierarchy. Creatures of life, like me, sit low on it. Vampires, especially old ones like these, are natural predators. We're prey. Unless we organize and strategize together. But I'm alone now. So alone.
Worse. I'm fairly new to all this, weaker and less trained.
I can't take on two ancient vampires head-on. But maybe I can outthink them. Edge into some leverage. Stall long enough to figure a way out.
Asher's voice cuts through the crackle of the fire. "The ones who chased you weren't human. What were they?"
I consider for a beat. Then give him just enough. "Leshy. Forest spirits."
Asher's brow furrows, already working through what that means.
Meanwhile, Kayden cocks his head, arms folding across his chest, a brow lifting with mock curiosity. "And what does that make you? A tree sprite? A walking bouquet?"
That's a question I shouldn't answer.
I deflect instead, moving off the couch. My feet hit the floor, and immediately I freeze. I'm not wearing my clothes.
I'm in someone's oversized shirt, hanging just long enough to brush mid-thigh, the hem swaying above bare legs inked with vines and wildflowers. I catch the scent as I move—clean, faintly masculine, some old brand of cologne that clings to the fabric.
I frown. "What the hell is this? Where are my clothes?"
"You were freezing," Asher says evenly, eyes pointedly turned away. "You were going into hypothermia. I had to get you out of the wet ones."
My back straightens. My arms cross. "Do you always undress unconscious women you bring home?"
I back up a step. Then another, positioning the sofa between me and both of them.
Asher holds up his hands in a maddeningly calm way. "Your clothes are in the washer. Nothing inappropriate was intended."
I hesitate. The logic doesn't track. Why wash the clothes of someone you plan to kill?
Kayden laughs, low and sharp. "Oh, please. Don't start playing the innocent card now. Bit late for that, sunshine."
He prowls a step closer, his gaze raking over me slow and unapologetic. There's heat in it. Hunger. Something darker tucked behind the glint in his eyes.
"A tragic reversal, isn't it?" he murmurs. "The predator turned damsel. Quite the plot twist."
His eyes linger on the tattoos that wind over my thighs. His voice drops, rougher. "Though I have to admit, the ink does add a certain charm. You're quite the canvas, sweetheart."
I grit my teeth. The urge to snap is strong, but he's not finished.
Kayden leans forward, the smirk fading. That glint in his eyes hardens into something lethal.
"But you still haven't answered my question," he says. "You're dodging. Quite skillfully, I'll give you that." His gaze holds mine like a vice. "And I'm starting to wonder why."
I cross my arms, masking the spike of fear in my chest. It's probably useless. He can feel it, taste it in the air, like smoke before flame. Still, I try. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of watching me flinch.
I glance away from his eyes—those dark, devouring eyes—and focus on the fire instead. Just to ground myself. Beside it, a pile of wood. Logs. Splintered branches.
One catches my eye. Roughly broken. Jagged on one end. A makeshift stake.
Would it work? Doubtful.
But maybe, if it comes to it, I could take down one of them before they tear me apart. Better that than going out like prey, a cornered thing with no teeth.
My gaze snaps back to Kayden's, voice steady. "What do you want to know?"
His eyes flare, lip curling with impatience. "Oh, we're playing twenty questions now? Fantastic."
He starts walking toward me, slow, measured and graceful. Danger seared into every move.
A smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn't soothe. It taunts. His eyes burn with a cocktail of hunger, heat, and something wild and unhinged underneath.
"Let's start simple," he says, tone too smooth and sharp. "What the hell are you?" A step closer.
"What were you doing draining my blood?" Another step.
I match his pace in reverse, backing away toward the hearth. My spine tenses.
Asher's voice cuts through: "Kayden. Back off."
But he doesn't.
He prowls closer, closing the distance between us like the room is a hunting ground, and I'm a bleeding animal.
"And the question that's haunted me most of all…" His voice drops lower, laced with something sharp and cracked.
He steps so close, I feel him. The air tightens. His presence presses into me like a storm surge, suffocating and magnetic. I can smell him—dark and spicy, blood and rain and something primal beneath the surface.
Every nerve lights up. Every instinct screams.
Flight is impossible.
So fight.
Something deep and ancient uncoils inside me. Not just fear. Not just survival.
"...Why the hell did you spare me back then?"
The words barely land before I move.
My hand snaps out, faster than he'd expect me to move.
The broken branch is in my grip before he registers it, and I drive it forward, fast and hard—straight toward his heart.