Chapter Eighteen
Chapter
Eighteen
SAGE
Malachi must have made good on his promise, because I wake up in another world.
For a moment, I don't move, my body still heavy with exhaustion, my mind sluggish as it struggles to recall the last thing I remember. The sensation of soft, cool sheets against my bare legs registers first—silk, impossibly smooth, impossibly expensive.
This isn't my bed.
My eyes snap open, heart immediately kicking into a frantic rhythm. Where am I?
I sit up too quickly, the world spinning slightly as my fingers clutch at the sheets. Not sheets—a duvet, thick and luxurious, the color of deep onyx, embroidered with silver threads.
I blink, trying to make sense of my surroundings.
The bedroom is lavish in a way that makes my stomach twist. Everything is oversized, designed with excess in mind.
The bed itself is absurdly large, the kind of thing you'd see in a palace, draped in the softest fabrics imaginable.
Dark wood and polished marble blend seamlessly in the space, the walls lined with deep bookshelves and floor-to-ceiling windows covered by sheer black curtains.
A chandelier, sleek and modern, hangs above, casting soft golden light across the room.
Everything feels too refined. Too rich. Too perfect.
And I have no memory of how I got here.
A sharp pang of unease lances through me. The last thing I remember is—running. Fleeing into the dark. Then Malachi, Gideon, Elias—Asher.
My stomach clenches. They must have brought me here.
I shove the blankets off, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor beneath my bare feet is warm—heated, because of course it is. The sheer indulgence of it only makes my nerves tighten.
This isn't just some high-end hotel. This is a mansion.
And I am very much a prisoner.
I push up from the bed, hesitating for only a second before making my way across the room.
The furniture is sleek, modern, and unbelievably expensive.
A sitting area near the windows boasts a velvet couch and an impossibly low glass coffee table, while a sideboard stocked with crystal decanters gleams under the chandelier's glow.
But it's the closet that stops me in my tracks.
The door is already slightly ajar, the space beyond glowing with soft ambient light.
I swallow hard, fingers brushing the smooth handle before pushing it open fully.
The moment I step inside, my breath catches.
The closet is bigger than my entire apartment.
Racks of clothing—in my size—line the walls, organized with clinical precision. Dresses, skirts, blouses, coats—a wardrobe that looks hand-selected, tailored to my body before I ever set foot in this place.
I turn, running my fingertips over the fabric. Satin, silk, cashmere. Expensive in a way that makes my stomach tighten uncomfortably. The shoes alone could probably cover my rent for a year.
This isn't normal.
Nothing about this is normal.
But neither is a man paying three million dollars for the pleasure of my—what did he call it?—essence for one night.
Swallowing against the lump rising in my throat, I step out of the closet and head toward the only other visible door—the bathroom.
If I thought the bedroom was excessive, the bathroom is obscene.
Dark marble, sleek and polished, stretches across the floors and up the walls, shot through with veins of gold and silver.
A massive walk-in shower with rainfall fixtures and steam settings stands to one side, glass walls framed by intricate black steel.
The countertops are black quartz, lined with expensive bottles of products I don't recognize but know cost more than anything I own.
And in the center of it all?
A bathtub.
Not just any bathtub—a deep, freestanding soaking tub, big enough to drown in, already filled with steaming water, wisps of fragrant steam curling toward the ceiling.
I take a slow step forward, my reflection catching in the oversized mirror above the sinks.
I look like I don't belong here.
My hair is wild, my makeup smudged, a stark contrast to the impossible luxury surrounding me. I'm wearing a slip of satin I don't remember putting on.
My pulse thrums against my throat.
They were prepared for me.
They had all of this ready.
I grip the edge of the countertop, my breath shallow. "What the hell is going on?" I whisper, barely audible even to myself.
The water in the tub ripples slightly, a single droplet splashing over the edge, and I realize my hands are trembling.
This isn't real.
It can't be real.
And yet, the heat from the bath reaches my skin, the scent of something heady—amber and spice—lingering in the air.
I'm awake.
I'm here.
I turn away from the steaming bathtub, the rising heat curling against my skin. My pulse is still erratic, my thoughts a tangled mess. I need answers—I need to understand what's happening.
But instead, I find Asher.
Leaning casually against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with a slow, amused smirk.
I jolt back instinctively, gripping the edge of the sink. How long has he been standing there?
"Enjoying yourself?" he drawls, voice smooth and lazy, but there's something sharp in his gaze, something deliberate.
"I—" I stutter, tugging the hem of my slip down—not that it helps much. The silk is barely anything, thin and delicate, clinging in ways that make me far too aware of myself. "How long have you been there?"
Asher's smirk widens, his eyes flicking over me unapologetically. "Long enough," he says easily. "And I've got to say, the view is spectacular."
Heat rushes to my face. I look down, too uncertain to hold his gaze.
"Could you... please..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, unable to find the right words.
Before Asher can respond, another voice cuts in.
"Asher, stop antagonizing her," Elias says, stepping into the room with a composed expression.
Behind him, Malachi appears.
Unlike Asher, he's not smirking. His dark eyes scan me slowly, assessing. I feel the weight of them, the way his gaze lingers just long enough to make my skin prickle.
He doesn't look amused.
He looks possessive.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling very exposed. "Please," I say quietly, "I need to know what's happening."
Elias exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"What do you want to know?" he asks patiently.
I hesitate, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "Everything. What is this ritual? Where am I? And what... what did I do back there that made everyone react that way?"
Malachi stiffens slightly, but he doesn't speak.
Elias, as always, remains calm. "We believe," he says carefully, "that you're a witch."
I blink, the words not quite registering. "A... witch?"
"No broomstick," Asher muses. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing you in a cute little witch's hat."
"Asher," Malachi says, voice clipped.
But I'm not paying attention to their bickering. Because I remember.
The power. The way it surged out of me, unrestrained, uncontrolled. The way the warlocks reacted, the hunger in their eyes. Like they knew exactly what I was before I did.
Elias watches my expression shift. "You felt it, didn't you?" he asks softly.
I swallow hard. "If I'm a witch, how didn't I know?"
"That's the real question," Gideon finally speaks up from behind Malachi, his voice low, unreadable. "Witches haven't existed for centuries. Not since?—"
He stops himself, but Malachi cuts in.
"Not since we wiped them out," he says, voice cold.
The words drop between us like a stone in water, heavy and suffocating.
I stare at them, stunned. "You—you killed them?"
Malachi holds my gaze, unapologetic. "Warlocks did," he corrects. "We take power. Witches were power. It was inevitable."
I take a slow step back. "And now, I'm one of them?"
Elias nods. "It would seem so."
My mind reels, trying to process, to fit this information into something that makes sense. It doesn't. None of this does.
Even if I accepted it—which I don't—that still doesn't explain why I'm here, with them.
I take a slow breath, trying to steady myself. "Who are you, then?" I ask quietly.
Elias answers first. "We are warlocks. Asher, Malachi and I come from elite bloodlines." He gestures vaguely around us. "Our heritage gives us a certain amount of power, wealth, influence, control. And... other things."
I bite my lip, hesitant. "Other things like the Ritual?"
He pauses just long enough to make my pulse spike.
"Why don't we go have breakfast," Elias suggests smoothly. "I'll explain everything."
I exhale slowly, exhausted but desperate for answers. "Okay."
Asher stretches lazily, rolling his shoulders. "Sounds boring. I'll pass."
"Shocking," Malachi mutters.
Asher flashes a lazy grin, already heading toward the door. "Try not to scare her off, Malachi. I know you love to brood, but let the girl eat first."
Malachi's gaze snaps back to me, dark and sharp. "Don't take too long," he tells me, his tone flat. "We have a lot to discuss."
I nod silently, unable to find my voice as he turns to leave.