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“Somewhere in time, I will find you and love you again… I promise.” That’s how the dream always goes.

A white light tears through everything, relentless and all-consuming. I know, deep down, that whatever fleeting peace we’ve carved out, whatever freedom we thought we had, is about to vanish.

It’s a strange kind of death—one we can't outrun, only meet head-on. I know that. But still, I hesitate. Not because I fear the end, but because this life—this version of

us

—is the only thing I have left. And I don't want to face what comes next alone.

“You won’t forget me, will you?” she whispers, her breath warm against the curve of my neck.

“Never,” I promise, even if that might be a lie. “I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

Then her lips find mine—for the first time, and the last.

And in the next moment, the light devours everything. A silent promise, severed. Time collapses, leaving only a void between us.

I wake. Alone. With nothing but the ache in my chest—emptiness where she should be. But it’s only a dream… Isn’t it?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Damian: The Mission

I watch her from the shadows, slipping away from the church and into the misting night, unaware of my presence. Three months. That’s how long it had taken me to find her. A year before that to figure out she wasn’t some

Gem

of stone, but flesh and blood—a young woman.

The League had been too distracted with what they considered more

pressing

matters, brushing this off as some over-hyped doomsday cult nonsense. So they handed it off to the Titans, as if a cult with

"The Church

of Blood"

in its name wasn’t worth their time. Though I can’t say I wasn’t convinced it was worth mine.

“She holds the gem.”

That’s all the letter had said.

Raven. Angela (or Arella) Roth’s daughter, is now the soul focus of my investigation. Finding her was a bit of a challenge as there was no record of her birth.  For a time I considered if she was just another figment of her mother’s tormented imagination. But with some digging and a lot of sleepless nights, I was able to follow the details of a story her mother told about escaping the cult months after giving birth to a daughter and leaving her with a nun.

Why her?

I wonder, overbserving the nun. She isn’t anyone of particular note, at least not on the surface. Her mother had been a victim of the Church of Blood, a runaway with no family or support, easy prey for a cult. But Raven? What was it about

her

that made her so crucial to their plans?

“The Church of Blood?” I’d scoffed when Zatanna first mentioned it. The name was ridiculous. “What, they couldn’t be more creative?”

“You may laugh,” Zatanna said, disappointment clea on her face, “but this organization is no joke. They wield dangerous magic.”

I wasn’t moved. “Then why not take them seriously?”

“We are taking it seriously,” Father cut in, his voice like stone. “Why else would we assign it to you?”

I kept close to the shadows as I trailed her, my eyes never leaving her. Whatever this cult wanted with her, I still didn’t have a clue. But the Church of Blood had made their goal clear enough: bring the world to it’s knees and ring in the start of a new world order.

How original.

When I’d been briefed on the mission, I wasn’t  impressed. “If you don’t believe the threat is credible, why waste my time investigating it?”

My father’s scowl deepened. Even the shadows of his cowl couldn’t mask his irritation. “Because it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Why me then?”

“Because if there’s something more to this, I trust you to find it.”

My father’s words resonate, my unwavering gaze refusing to leave her. The first six months of my investigation
led
me down several dead ends. However an old file left behind in an
abandoned
wing of Arkham
Asylum
finally provided a solid lead.

The file was kept under her legal name, but acknowledged the name in which the poor woman’s reality had been fractured. It was stated that Arella suffered from schizophrenia and showed a history of drug use, leading her to believe in wild delusions. Including raving conspiracies about a cult trying to steal her

“Precious Gem?”

Wild, I know…

I was skeptical, sure. But it was a lead, nonetheless. However, discovering my

only lead

had been dead for nearly a decade didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

But the name

Dr. Edward Lyle?

Now

that

made me raise an eyebrow.

I watch her enter her apartment building. As a Aspirant, she hasn’t yet moved into the convent. When her apartment light turns on, I notice the sparsely furnished room holds a few boxes with various labels like

kitchen utensils

and

linens

. But the box marked

charity

tells me she’s in the process of moving out, not moving in.

Her black hair tumbles free as she removes her manilla, running her fingers through it and sighing deeply. I know I should look away when she reaches for the buttons of her rabat, and I snap my gaze away, reminding myself I’m not here to spy on unsuspecting young women—let alone a nun. Not that I’m a religious man, but watching a nun undress would have to be a sin, if there ever was one. No matter how pretty or potentially dangerous she is.

Looking away, I recall my visit to Dr. Lyle.

From what I could dig up, he’d lived in the same house just outside of Gotham for nearly 40 years. But when I arrived, posing as an investigative journalist, I found the old doctor not just sickly, but in the final stages of hospice care.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told his wife, feeling genuine guilt for the intrusion.

She sighed, the weight of a long battle clear on her face, though she seemed resigned. “It is what it is.”

The decent human being in me begged to walk away and not to burden her with the kind of insanity I was after. But then my father’s voice echoed in the back of my mind, reminding me that this moment could decide the fate of humanity. If we’re taking this threat seriously, of course. The last thing I needed was the entire League treating me like an idiot because I thought leaving a soon-to-be widow alone was the

right

thing to do.

“I really don’t want to bother you with this,” I began, treading lightly as not to offend her right off the bat. “But I was hoping your husband could give me some insight into the conditions the patients were kept in—”

“He’s out of his mind on morphine,” she snapped, cutting me off, and I realized I needed to dial it back.

“I understand,” I apologize, cutting straight to the point. “But does he have any old files I could take? Anything you can give me would help—especially if it’s tied to Angela Roth.”

Her gaze hardened, as the name itself was enough to invoke disdain. “Wait here.”

“Thank—” I started, before the door slammed in my face, leaving me standing there, bewildered and questioning my presence. After she didn’t come back for another 10 minutes, I considered leaving before the cops showed up.

“I’ll give it another minute… at least until I hear sirens,” I mumbled, taking in my surroundings. An ashtray filled with cigarettes smoked down to the filter suggested a stressful job, one that had likely rubbed off on his wife of over 50 years. Wind chimes clinked softly as a light breeze crossed the porch, providing a brief sense of tranquility—maybe the kind the old doctor used to find solace in after a maddening day.

When the door swung open, it startled me.

“Here,” his wife muttered, thrusting an old box into my arms.

“Uh, thanks,” I said, taking it. The musty smell of dust and mold clung to it, a testament to its age.

“Again, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” she cut me off again. “

She’s

your problem now. Good riddance.” And with that, gave the door one final slam.

I stood there, befuddled at her tone and the disgruntled way she’d employed the word

she.

Maybe there was more to this than I realized?

Peering back into the apartment, I watch as the young nun wraps herself in a black silk robe—far too decadent for someone about to pledge herself to a monastic life. Indulging in these luxuries while she still can, perhaps? And yet, she sits before a humble antique vanity, its tarnished silver showing through the mirror’s face.

A bit vain for a nun

, I scowl, wondering why a girl in her prime, undeniably attractive, would choose such a restricted life.

The glow of her phone fills the dark corner, and she reaches for it, setting down her brush. Good thing I can read lips.

“Hey,” she says, tousling her hair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was just another twenty-something.

She pauses, listening to the conversation on the other end, then rises from the vanity and heads toward the fridge. But as she opens it, I catch a slight hesitation in her posture.

“I’m still not sure about this,” she says, retrieving a bottle of wine. “If the sisters find out—” She stops mid-sentence, clearly being reassured by whoever’s on the other end, as if they’re convincing her that whatever’s planned won’t be to her detriment.

She stays silent as she opens a bottle of dry white wine. Funny. She strikes me as someone who’d prefer red.

“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” she chides, pouring herself a glass. “I haven’t done anything like this since high school. Of course, I’m not sure.”

I watch as she takes a sip of the golden wine, making an unintentional display with the glass. The sheen lingers on her lips for a moment before she wipes it away with her tongue, in a way that feels too... suggestive.

What am I thinking?

I scowl at myself.

She’s a nun for—

“Perhaps it's time for a break,” I say to no one but the night. “This Rear Window point of view is getting the better of me.”

I place my binoculars away and step away from the ledge of the opposing roof of her apartment. I peer down at my phone screen and find a message from Grayson, likely making sure I'm alright on my own.

How goes it, Lil’ Wing?

Fine,

I write back. He'll just be happy to know I'm alive.

I tuck my phone away and glanced back toward the window just in time to see her end the call and down the rest of the wine in one gulp. She immediately pours herself another glass and takes it to her vanity. Sitting before the aging mirror, she slumps forward, raking her fingers through her hair anxiously. Leaving me to wonder what was said on the other side of that conversation. If I could get her number, I could monitor her communications—something that could prove useful given how little information anyone has on her.

I recall bringing the box back to the Batcave. Looking through it, I found an additional log of notes and a personal journal Arella kept—whether for professional or personal use, I couldn’t yet say—and several VHS tapes stored in thin cardboard sleeves. Each tape bore the name Angela Roth, along with a series of dates spanning six years. The journal correlated with this timeframe, reflecting the doctor’s thoughts and concerns—some oddly intimate.

I shook off the thought and glanced back at the apartment, watching her apply a soft touch of makeup. Are nuns even permitted to wear makeup?

She takes out a lipstick, still sealed in plastic. Dark blood red. A bold color, likely something she’s avoided most of her life. A color of temptation and sin—hardly fitting for a girl about to devote herself to God. At least, that’s what I imagine she’s contemplating, considering the choice of such a lustful shade. She leans in, parts her lips, and lightly swipes the color across her cupid’s bow. The press of her lips spreads the deep red over her full bottom lip. For a nun, she seems awfully familiar with the application.

Then I remember—she wasn’t always a nun. From what I’ve dug up, she had a life before this. A rebellious phase, the kind that usually involved black clothes and a little too much makeup.

My eyes linger on her as she uses her ring finger to touch up the shade. The color enhances the fullness of her lips, making their curves more pronounced. Her eyes, dark blue—almost violet—stare back at her through the mirror. She draws back, tucking her hair behind her ear, seemingly uncertain about the lipstick choice. Her hand hovers over a tissue, as if she’s contemplating wiping it all away, ridding herself of something that could easily jeopardize her status.

Before she can wipe it all away, I see her posture tense, turning toward the door. She hesitates to answer, and I imagine a second knock forces her to rise. When she opens it, a young blonde stands there, dressed in something so thin and short, it could barely pass as a dress—more like a shirt. She barges in, brushing past Raven, her eyes scanning the apartment as she comments on it. She’s far too flamboyant to be a nun, and the short blonde hair suggests she has too much flair to ever wear the habit. I find myself wondering how these two know each other.

A dusting of freckles spills across the blonde’s nose and cheeks. Even with her makeup overdone, she looks young—too young to be legal drinking age. Still, Raven closes the door, and the two exchange pleasantries.

“What are you wearing?” the blonde asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Raven replies, arms crossed, visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t think I have anything worth going out in.”

The blonde peers into a box labeled "charity" and begins rummaging through it. “This dress says otherwise.” She holds up a simple black sundress—the kind that wears the woman, not the other way around.

Raven’s red lips part in a sigh. I see the reluctance in her. As if she’s already made peace with letting that part of herself go, and now this stranger is dragging her back to it. Still, I watch as she takes the dress and turns away, gesturing for her friend—and me—to do the same.

The blonde, instead, steps to the window, taking in the view from the third story. Suddenly, the black robe slips off Raven’s pale shoulders and flutters to the floor. My gaze snaps away, my heart skipping a beat before racing again. I wasn’t expecting that—at least not so soon. Maybe I’m just... ill-prepared.

I force myself to focus, staring down at the rooftops below instead of what’s happening inside. It should be easy—I've trained for far more dangerous situations than this—but the memory of that robe slipping off her shoulders keeps creeping back, uninvited.

This isn’t the mission. Focus.

In an effort to remind myself of said mission, I think back to the grainy image of those old tapes. A young woman barely in her twenties, slumped over, her face gilded by a mess of matted back hair.

“What is your name,” A male voice says off camera, clearly belonging to Dr. Lyle.

The figure remains unmoved and her silence leaves an eerie dread in the air.

“What is your name,” the doctor asks again, this time with more demand in his voice. “This is important. You want to protect your daughter, don't you?”

She peers up from her clasped hands, her dirty fingernails, visible even through the digital blizzard “Arella,” she whimpers horsley, her eyes almost black behind the shadow of her hair, which along with the degraded film, hide the better details of her face.

“Is that what they called you?”

“Yes…”

“Who?”

“The Church of Blood.”

I pull my focus back to the rooftop, gripping the binoculars tighter than necessary. The memory of those tapes surges again—the haunting image of a young woman, at grips with her sanity, whispering

"Arella

" through cracked lips.

It’s not just a name. It’s a reminder of everything this woman has been through, and everything her daughter is about to face.

The Church of Blood. I still can’t figure out what they want from her, but if her past with them was as dark as it seems, then this isn’t just about some misguided spiritual awakening. There's something far deeper and far more sinister.

I glance back at the window just as the girl steps into the sundress, the fabric clinging to her pale skin as if it had been tailored specifically for her. Her friend claps her hands together, clearly pleased with the outcome, and ignores the storm brewing beneath her friend’s expression.

The blonde steps behind her, admiring her reflection. "See? Told you. You look hot."

Raven gives a faint, uneasy smile, though her body language betrays her discomfort. She’s hiding something—more than just an old rebellious streak. The weight of it hangs in the air between them, thick enough to cut through.

"Let’s get out of here before you change your mind." The blonde twirls toward the door, announcing something about heading out for drinks.

Still I can’t help but see the evident hesitation on her friend’s face as she bites her lips and takes a long look at herself in the tarnished mirror. The girl she used to be, fighting against the woman she’s trying to become, and I can see it in every tiny motion, every fleeting glance she casts at the dress.

I’ve seen enough.

I turn away, knowing I can’t watch any longer. Not just because I’m spying on a girl undressing—but because I’m starting to understand that this mission is more complicated than any briefing could’ve prepared me for. She’s not just a pawn in this twisted game. She’s the key.

The vibration of my phone breaks the silence, and I glance down to see another message from Grayson.

Lil’ Wing? Any updates?

I sigh, typing back a quick response.

Not yet. Still gathering intel.

It’s a half-truth, but he doesn’t need to know how tangled up in this I’m becoming. How her past—and this church—is starting to pull at threads inside of me that I’ve spent years weaving together.

I pocket the phone and slip further into the shadows, my thoughts lingering on the old tapes, the ravings of a broken woman, and the suffocating feeling that this church is playing a much longer game than we’d ever anticipated.

And this girl? She’s right in the center of it. Whether she knows it or not.

I slip down the fire escape and into the alley across from her apartment building. Just as I reach the edge of the street, I see the two girls step out into the cool, drizzly night.

“You need to stop worrying,” the blonde says dismissively, her voice casual, as if they’re discussing something as trivial as weekend plans. “You need to get all this crap out of your system before you literally kiss fun—dick—and, well,

everything

—goodbye forever.”

I see Raven flinch at the bluntness, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to shield herself from more than just the cold. The thin black jacket she’s wearing doesn’t seem to help much. “Isn’t that kind of the point?” she asks dryly.

The blonde laughs, like it’s the dumbest question she’s ever heard. “Yeah, but no one said a nun has to be a virgin.”

I scowl at the sheer ignorance of her response.

“I think you’re missing the point about not giving in to temptation, Tara.”

“And I think

you’re

missing the point about original sin and absolution, Rae,” Tara shoots back, clearly enjoying her friend’s discomfort. She rolls her eyes and waves off the seriousness. “Anyway, can you at least

try

to have some fun tonight?” she adds, as they stand at the bus stop, waiting. “I know TT’s is kind of a hole, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

Raven doesn’t reply, just nods in reluctant agreement, her posture stiff.

I consider this new information. TT’s. A rundown nightclub in the next town over, a place for college kids to drink cheap beer and listen to live music. If there’s anywhere I could get close to her and stay unnoticed, it’s there.

I turn away, unseen and head back to the boarding house where I’ve rented a room for the  unforeseeable  future.

Again my mind slips back into that snowy image, that visceral sight of a young woman, inches from breaking to the point of never being put back together again.

“What is the Church of Blood?”

A whimper resonates in Arella’s throat as if recalling some deep rooted trauma that quaked in her bones. “They tried to take my baby,” I could hear the tears, undetectable in the video footage.

“Why?”

She only shakes her head. “They said she was His Gem… that He needed her to enter this world.”

“Who?”

“Her father.”

I slip back into the room through the unlocked window, the night’s chill still clinging to my skin. The creaky floorboards groan softly beneath my boots as I move in the dark, barely illuminated by the faint streetlight filtering through the dusty blinds. The boarding house has a peculiar smell—aged wood, damp fabric, and a hint of mildew. The old, lumpy mattress  offers little comfort; not that I needed a reason to avoid sleep, but I'd rather sleep on a bed of nails. I sit on its edge, removing my mask before running a hand over my face.

Arella.

Her

mother. The fragile, broken woman who had whispered truths between sobs, offering just enough to invoke questions, but not enough to unravel the full mystery. The Church of Blood. They had destroyed her, twisted her mind beyond repair, and now they were reaching for her daughter. I can’t let that happen.

Staring at the cracked wallpaper, my mind races. Raven doesn’t know it yet, but she’s standing on the edge of the same abyss that swallowed her mother. This mission was supposed to be simple—observe, gather intel, and report back. But I'm finding nothing is ever simple when it comes to

the Church

.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, dragging me back to reality. I fish it out, already knowing who it is.

Grayson.

Lil’ Wing?

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. I can’t tell him everything—not yet.

Instead of responding, I shove the phone back into my pocket, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I know I’m playing a dangerous game, keeping things from Grayson, but I need more time. I need to understand what the Church of Blood truly wants with Raven before I make a move.

A creak outside the door catches my attention. I stand, moving silently to the window, my senses alert. The street below is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. I scan the alley, looking for any sign of movement, any hint that I’ve been compromised.

Nothing.

I exhale slowly, tension easing slightly, but my mind remains sharp. The Church has eyes everywhere. I can’t afford to let my guard down.

I return to the bed, leaning back against the worn headboard. My thoughts drift back to Raven, standing in front of that mirror, torn between the life she’s leaving behind and the one she’s about to enter. I don’t know how much time I have before the Church makes their move, but I can feel it—their presence looming like a dark cloud, ready to consume her if I don’t act fast.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small, black book I’d found in the old records—the journal that had once belonged to Arella. Its worn leather cover is soft under my fingers, the pages yellowed with age, but the words inside are as potent as ever. I flip it open to a random page and my eyes follow the unsteady handwriting.

"He watches me, always. Even when I sleep, I feel Him. His voice fills my mind, telling me what I must do… telling me to bring her to Him. My daughter.

His Gem."

A chill that runs down my spine is impossible to ignore. There’s something about those words that feel familiar--too familiar. They remind me of what I’ve seen in Raven—the hesitation, the fear she tries to mask behind that brave exterior. She knows something, even if she doesn’t fully understand it yet.

I close the book, setting it down on the nightstand. The pieces are starting to come together, but I’m still missing something. Something crucial.

I’ll find it. I have to,

I promise myself in the wake of my restlessness.

TT’s. That’s where I’ll go. If I can get closer to her, I could learn something that can help me protect her from the same fate that destroyed her mother. Or at least fit her with a tracker which would make my job a hell of a lot easier.

I change into my civilian clothing, my mind drifting back to the video. Arella’s broken voice echoing through the static, speaking of Raven’s alleged

father

—the entity that the Church of Blood worshiped. The one they believed would enter this world through her.

"He needs her to enter this world,” she stammers, reality a fleeting plane for her now. “Without her, the prophecy can not be.”

“What is the prophecy?”

Arella’s voice quivers but refuses to answer. A long moment passes and Dr. Lyle decides to move on.

“What did you do with her?”

Her cries suddenly twist to laughter and a strange smile stretches across her face. “I’ll never tell… She can never be found.”

Raven—she’s the key to everything. And if the Church gets their hands on her, they’ll finish whatever they started.

I can’t let that happen…

Dr. Lyle pressed on about Arella’s daughter—or more accurately, Angela’s.

“Everyone had a different name,” she explained, her voice worn and fraying at the edges. “Brother Blood, their leader, told me I was special. He called me Arella, which was supposed to mean ‘angel’... his angel.”

The idea twisted something inside me. Some delusional man manipulating a broken girl, warping her into his version of ‘special.’ Angela Roth fit every predictable cliché of someone lost, desperate for love and acceptance... so naturally, she’d fall prey to a cult like his.

“This Brother Blood... is he your daughter’s father?”

Her head jerked up, disgust flashing in her eyes. “No,” she hissed, like the question had physically stung her.

“Then who is?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, her voice betraying the tears she was barely holding back.

“Try me.”

When I get to TT’s, there’s a small line at the door. A doorman, tall and built like a tank, gives me a nod and waves me through without asking for ID. That’s a relief. Not because I’m underage, but because the cover identity I’ve been given feels off. Little details. My birthday says January, but mine’s in the summer. It also says I’m a year younger than I am, and the address is somewhere in California I couldn’t care less about.

Father always says a good cover identity has to feel natural: a name that suits you, a birthday that’s close enough to your own, and a hometown you could believe in. But maybe that’s the part I can’t fake.

‘Home’

never meant much to me--never really felt like anywhere, if I’m being honest.

Inside, the atmosphere is typical—dark, hazy, with low lighting and a hum of muffled conversation under the bass-heavy music. The crowd’s a mixed bag, mostly college students, which makes sense given how few places cater to them around here. But even so, there’s a sense of familiarity in the air. The

"regulars."

People who’ve been here too many times, know each other's faces, and stick to their routines.

I scan the room. The dance floor is crowded—college girls, some more inebriated than others, stumbling between laughter and desperation. A few older men hover at the edges, too old for this scene and too obvious in their intent. They circle like hyenas, waiting for one of the girls to make the mistake of straying too far from her friends and break from the safety of the center.

It’s disgusting. Weak. Exploiting someone too drunk to know better? Pathetic.

I turn my attention back to why I’m here, scanning for my target. So far, no sign of her. Maybe she listened to her instincts, realized what kind of place this is, and bailed. Or maybe she’s sitting somewhere in the shadows, hoping no one notices her. Girls like that? Shy, awkward, out of place—they're easy prey. The kind that predators like these men can smell from across the room.

Then I spot Tara; at the bar, talking to some guy, older but not quite dangerous. She shifts slightly, and that’s when I see

her.

She’s sitting just behind the blonde, trying to disappear into the background. Her body language says it all—nervous, uncomfortable. She’s playing with her straw, clearly wishing she were anywhere else.

My eyes linger longer than they should, studying her. Her discomfort is almost palpable, like she’s counting down the seconds until this night ends. She’s hoping her friend doesn’t leave her behind for a guy whose name she won’t even remember in the morning.

That’s when her eyes lock onto mine.

For a second, my heart ceases. I’m caught, trapped in her gaze. I should’ve looked away—dammit, I should’ve known better. But for that split second, everything stops. The whole world narrows down to the space between us. And something about her eyes feels familiar… Like I've rediscovered something I've lost.

She smiles. Barely there, just a hint of it, but enough to knock me further off balance.

“Shit,” I scoff, hardly forming the word on my lips as I know I’ve been caught and could very well have compromised the entire mission.

I feel her eyes on me, like a quiet accusation. There’s a chill in her gaze now, a fleeting sense of rejection that poisons the air between us. I could see how she’d take it—being ignored the moment our eyes met. People are sensitive that way. But I don’t have time for that. Let her think what she wants. If she’s smart, she’ll keep her distance.

I turn away, but I can still feel the weight of her attention lingering. She won’t forget me now, and that’s a problem. I didn’t want her to notice me—not like this. But there’s no going back, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

I peer back from my periphery to see she’s looked away abruptly as another enters her orbit—an older man, scruffy with questionable grooming. Her nose scrunches as if hit by a sharp scent that offends her senses, a harsh biological rejection far worse than the one I unintentionally dished out.

His lips move and asks her name, which she avoids telling him. However, the man refuses to disist and prods further.

“Let me buy you a drink,” passes his lips as her eyes scrutinize the thin dusting of facial hair she is not impressed by.

“I’m not interested,” is all she says, and stares into her nearly empty glass, a sense of regret showing itself in her
posture as she shrinks from him.

“Come on, it’s one drink,” he insists, not taking no for an answer and I can’t help but take a few steps closer—for a better view, of course.

“I’m not here for that,” she sighs, shaking her head, contemplating leaving as she slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She turns to leave and again her eyes find me. Their color cuts through the dim light as if pleading for some sort of intervention she instictivley knows I can provide. I pause, caught again, but this time it is her that looks away.

Again, I watch her face twist with aversion as an uninvited hand takes hold of her arm. I can see by her manner that there is disdain in her voice as she orders him to let go, which he ignores as if it's second nature.

A flicker of anger ignites in me, as a sense of injustice claws my better judgement, and once more I take a few more steps in their direction. However, I hesitate to act. Leaping forward and inserting myself into this interaction would only jeopardize the mission further. Unless… No--that would be foolish--unethical even.

The man’s smirk doesn’t waver, and he leans in closer, his breath a rancid reminder of his disregard for her personal space. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that. One drink won’t hurt.”

Her gaze flicks back to me, and this time, there’s a plea in her eyes—a silent cry for help that cuts through the haze of the crowd. I can’t ignore it. The choice is clear: I can either continue watching from the sidelines or step in and risk revealing myself.

“Damn it,” I mutter, charging forward and shaking off my resistance. I replace it with my best impression of my

‘imposing nature,

’ as Jon Kent once put it. “She said no,” I command, my voice low and unyielding. There’s an intensity in my tone; it’s a demand, not a request.

His eyes narrow as he sizes me up. For a moment, he seems to weigh the odds, and there’s a glimmer of doubt in his bleak eyes—a realization that he’s outmatched. Self-preservation quickly becomes his priority. He releases her, casting a resentful look her way, as if she’s just another girl who slipped past his predatory grasp.

“Bitch,” he hisses, retreating with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

I can see the words hit her, carrying the stench of sour liquor. Confusion and guilt mix in her expression, as if trying to make sense of what she did to warrant such cruelty.

“Don’t pay him any attention,” I say, forgetting myself. “He’s just trying to guilt you into feeling sorry for him.”

“I do,” she sighs. “He’s lonely—that’s sad.” She pauses, her gaze shifting to me. “Thank you,” she adds with a smile.

I hesitate to return the smile, knowing I shouldn’t even be here. “It’s nothing.”

She shrugs. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words, contemplating abandoning the mission altogether. But then I think of the League, or worse—my father. I realize I have one card left to play. “Let me buy you a drink, and I’ll tell you,” I offer. If I can get close to her and earn her trust, not only can I track her more closely, but I can also protect her from the same fate that destroyed her mother.

“Deal,” she says, holding out her hand, unaware of the open invitation she’s extending. “You first.”

“Damian,” I reply, momentarily forgetting the cover identity that just doesn’t feel right.

“Like the kid from

The Omen?”

she laughs, and I can’t help but smile in response.

“Funny, I’ve never heard that before,” I say sardonically, still holding her hand, knowing the tracker is now implanted in her skin. “So, what’s your name?”

“Raven.”

“Pretty name.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The moment I discovered I was pregnant, my heart fell into my stomach. I’d hardly recovered from the intense ritual. They chose me as His bride, to offer my innocence as a gift—a symbol of love. However, love was not what came of it, but in its place a horrifying ordeal I cannot put into words, but very much haunts me every time I close my eyes. That face… those eyes.

In the days that followed, fear and trauma kept me bedridden. The agony coursing through my battered body made every small motion unbearable. The illness that befell me in the days that followed, I mistook as part of my body mourning its innocence. I always knew there would be blood, but not that much.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks stretched into a full month. Still, my cycle was the last thing my fractured mind had considered. It wasn’t until one of Blood’s disciples came in to change my bedding that the reality hit me. She remarked, almost casually, that it had been over a month since I’d last menstruated.

“He’ll be pleased…” Her words snapped me back to reality so hard, I felt the world stop.

In that moment, the resentment I’d held toward God, toward everything, melted away, and for the first time I prayed. Not just prayed, but begged to see blood on my sheets, for anything to stop this nightmare from growing inside me. But the second month came, and with it, the awful silence of my body. No blood. Only the slow swelling of my belly and the flutter of life within me—a life I could neither deny nor accept.

For nine months, I was numb. Practically on the verge of denial, drifting through each day as if it wasn’t happening to me at all. Waiting to wake up from this nightmare, but that waking moment never came. Everything I thought I knew in this world had turned into a lie. The people I once considered family had betrayed me in the worst way. The words they fed me about love and loyalty—about unity—were worth as much as a crown of wilted violets, crumbling again into the wind. Meaningless.

And Brother Blood... he didn’t love me. I see that now. He groomed me, twisted my broken heart into something he could use—sell even. Then he handed me over to a monster without a second thought.

God only knew what unspoken fate grew in my womb as the weeks fed into months. Until pain overtook my body, as if the very life was being ripped from—my soul.

However, I was not permitted to suffer this very personal anguish alone. Church members clustered around me, screaming for me to push through agony, even threatening to cut me open if they had to.

It was the first time I’d felt anything in months, the pain so great I thought I’d die—even begged for God to take me. And in that instant, I gave forth one last firm push and everything fell silent. A numbness over took me, this one more visceral, as if my very soul teetered between life and death. I could feel myself drifting, as if mindlessly making the choice to let go, when suddenly a sharp cry pulled me back.

It was like nothing I had ever heard, as if a sound that I knew the meaning of, a voice calling for me and only me.

That was when I saw her for the first time—my baby, covered in my blood—the blood I prayed for every month. I shot up with strength I didn’t know I had and demanded they give me my baby. Blood’s highest disciples tried to refuse, but Blood ordered she do so.

“She is the Gem’s mother, after all.”

His words were distant and cold, like they weren’t meant for me at all. As if I had already served my purpose and was now just another cog in the machinery of their twisted plans. But none of that mattered anymore—not Blood, not the disciples, not even the horror of the past nine months.

All I saw was her. This small, fragile little girl I’d fought so hard not to think of, or feel anything for was now my entire world. She was my daughter.

I held her close, her warmth pressing against my chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt something other than fear, pain, or even indifference. I felt a flicker of something terrifyingly beautiful. Love.

But with that love came the crushing weight of realization. This child, my child, was born of everything I had endured, everything I had suffered. She was both a blessing and a curse, a symbol of the darkest chapter of my life, yet the only light I had left.

I named her Raven. It was the one thing they couldn’t take from me—the one piece of myself I could give to her, untainted by Blood or his disciples.

As I held her, her small cries fading into the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing, I made a vow. I would protect her, no matter what it took. Even if it meant defying Blood, defying everything I had once believed in, I would not let her be consumed by the same darkness that had swallowed me whole.

Because she was mine, and I was hers. And together, we would find a way out of this nightmare. Eve if it killed me to do so.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I slide into the empty seat at the bar beside Raven, signaling the bartender with a quick glance. "Cranberry and vodka for her," I say, my voice steady and controlled, despite the underlying tension I feel building between us. "And a beer for me, thanks."

I can feel her presence without needing to look, a subtle shift in the air as her eyes study on a deeper level. She says not a word, but I don't need her to. The silence between us has its own language—though one I'm still learning to read.

“Come here often?” I ask, knowing the answer, but she doesn’t know that.

She shakes her head. “Not really. You?”

“First time,” I reply as the bartender sets our drinks down and I hand him a few bills and tell him to keep the change.

“You a student?”

I nodd, knowing it's a lie--knowing it’s not the last one either of us will tell. “What about you?”
 
She hesitated, weighing her words as the truth teeters on the edge of her tongue, ready to spill forth. I can see her internal struggle, the temptation to push me away before she wanders too far from her carefully charted course. “Yes.”

I pause, staring back at her, unsure of what she means. “What?”

“I mean, yes I’m a student too… sorry. Long day.”

I brush it off, noting her slip of the tongue. “I mean it is Friday. What’s your major?”

“Theology and philosophy,” she replies between sips of her drink, confidence creeping in. Perhaps because this lie holds a shred of truth. “You.”

“Criminal Justice,” I say, my face impassive. It’s not entirely a lie, “I’m also working on my minor in criminal psychology.”

Her eyes sharpen on me as if she can see something
no one
else can. “You wanna be a hero?”

I flinch, as
if
she’s found a chink in my armor. “I wouldn’t say that,” I stammer as I’ve struggled with the idea of myself being seen as a hero. It's something I feel I’ve always fallen short of.

She gives me a skeptical look as I take a long sip of my beer. Raven watches me like she knows me—knows me in ways I don’t even know myself. I begin to wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if letting myself get this close was the right move. But before I can think it through, a sharp voice cuts through the silence between us.

“Well, Rae, I see you’ve made a friend,” the blonde says, smiling as she wedges herself between us.

Raven’s gaze falls from mine to her friend, and I catch a flicker of resentment in her eyes. “Tara, this is Damian,” she sighs, sounding almost defeated, as if bracing for the inevitable—either something colorful or, worse, Tara trying to come between us. Not that I’d let that happen. But maybe I’m overthinking it.

“Well, Damian,” Tara giggles, “I hope you like shots.”

“Tara, we’re not—” Raven starts, but Tara bluntly cuts her off.

“Come on, Rae,” Tara sing-songs with a wicked grin, “it’s Damian’s treat.”

Way to put me on the spot.

Raven shoots me a horrified look, clearly embarrassed by her friend’s boldness. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” I say, dryly, already resigned.

"Good boy," the blonde hums, flashing me one last sly smile before turning to the bartender. "Three shots of tequila."

"Tara, what are you doing?"

"Sealing the deal for you," she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for me to catch.

I've concluded that tonight is some sort of last hurrah, a final opportunity to be a normal twenty-something before making a lifelong commitment. The bartender pours three shots of silver tequila in front of us. Tara sets a glass in front of Raven, giving her little room to protest.

"To new beginnings," Tara smiles, holding up her glass, "and handsome strangers buying us alcohol." She downs it while Raven's eyes land on me with uncertainty. I nod and throw the shot back, barely flinching at the smooth burn, unlike Raven, whose face twists before biting into a lime.

"Another round," Tara demands, and I wonder if the

handmaid's vocation

is really her calling. She seems better suited for life in a brothel, not a convent.

The bartender places three more shots in front of us, and before Raven can say anything, Tara’s already thrown one back, her expression giddy with the warm buzz settling in.

Raven hesitates, eyeing the shot like it's a trap. “I probably shouldn’t,” she mutters, uncertain.

“All the more reason to, Rae,” Tara counters with a dismissive wave, nudging the glass toward her. “Come on, it's just one more. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

Raven bites her lip, her fingers lingering on the glass, but refusing to lift it. “I don’t want to.”

Tara leans in, her tone suddenly sharper, masked by the playful grin on her face. “Raven, don’t be that girl.

You came here.

We’re supposed to have fun tonight.

Remember

?”

“I’m having fun,” Raven says, but her voice falters, and she glances at me as if hoping I’ll intervene.

I remain still, watching the scene unfold, but the tension between them is thick. Tara is relentless, pressing forward, her laughter laced with impatience.

“You’ll feel better after this, trust me.” Tara’s voice dips into something almost condescending as she lifts her own glass. “It’s not like it’s going to kill you, right?”

Raven’s hand trembles slightly as she picks up the shot, her shoulders stiffening under the weight of Tara’s gaze. She looks at me one last time, and I can see the conflict in her eyes—caught between wanting to appease her friend and not wanting to do this at all. But with a sigh, she raises the shot halfway to her lips.

“There you go,” Tara chirps triumphantly, already raising her own glass. “Cheers!”

Raven’s face remains tense as she quickly downs the shot, grimacing as soon as the burn hits. She winces harder this time, reaching for the lime, her discomfort obvious. I glance away, feeling the bitterness rise in my throat.

Tara laughs, loud and unbothered, while Raven looks down, quietly miserable. I wonder if it’s always been like this for her—doing things just to avoid rocking the boat, to keep the peace.

“See?” Tara grins, oblivious to Raven’s discomfort. “Not so bad, right?”

But Raven doesn’t respond. She’s already retreating into herself, shrinking away under the pressure that Tara keeps piling on.

I throw my second shot back, chasing it with a sip of beer. I've had enough of this back-and-forth. “So, Raven,” I say, keeping my voice steady and casual, “how about somewhere quieter?”

I keep my words measured—not too forward, but enough to signal that I want to get her away from Tara’s suffocating presence. Maybe it’ll be enough to give her the space she needs to breathe, and me the chance to understand her better.

“You hear that, Rae?” Tara chimes in, her voice dripping with mockery. “Tall, dark, and handsome wants to get you

alone

. Whatever spell you put on him, you’ve got to teach me.”

Raven rolls her eyes, pushing herself off the stool. “If it means getting away from her,” she says dryly, “I’d follow you into the depths of hell.”

I smirk, catching the flicker of humor in her eyes.

“Very funny,” Tara sighs dramatically, leaning against the bar. “But fine then, go play nice. I’ll be here, weeding through the Tinder rejects.” She throws a sidelong glance at me. “But Damian, if you get too bored, you know where to find some real fun.”

“Don’t count on it,” I replied, not even missing a beat.

Her smile dissolves into a grimace as she flashes me an unholy hand gesture. So very unbecoming of a nun.

Raven slinks past her, her face a little bewildered at her friend’s behavior. I lead her away from the bar, the dim lighting fading behind us as we slip into a quieter corner. The low thrum of music muffles the noise, creating a strange air of privacy. I can feel the tension still clinging to her, an invisible thread stretched between us.

“Sorry about her,” Raven finally says, trying to let go of her nerves. “Tara can be…”

“A lot,” I finish and take a sip of my beer, feeling the alcohol begin to seep into my blood.

Raven only laughs and places her straw to her lips. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

“Why, what were you gonna say?”

“She’s a bitch.”

I chuckle, “Tell me how you really feel?”

Raven scoffs lightly, but there’s a hint of something more serious in her eyes. “It’s not like that. She just doesn’t understand what I want.”

“And what is it that you want?” I ask; the question hanging between us, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.

She hesitates, her gaze flickering around the room as if searching for the right words. “Honestly, I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. I know that sounds like such a cliche.”

“It’s not,” I assure truthfully. “It sounds very familiar.”

“How?”

“People expect me to be something I’m not. It’s exhausting,” I offer, getting the sense she can relate. I mean she’s an aspriant nun in a college bar, what more proof do I need?

She nods slowly, and for a heartbeat, the distance between us feels like it’s been bridged. “It’s like everyone has this idea of who I should be. It’s suffocating.”

I lean closer, wanting to close the gap that Tara’s intrusion created. “You don’t have to worry about that right now. Worry about what you want,” I say, as I get the feeling her wants and needs are never considered.

She lets out a shaky breath, clearly torn between hesitation and a desire for freedom. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It can be,” I offer, daring to reach out and lightly touch her arm. The contact sends a jolt through me, a spark that ignites some fire in the air between us. “What do you really want, Raven?”

For a moment, it feels like we’re suspended in time, the world around us fading away as her walls start to crack. Her expression shifts, something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “I want…” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper. “I wanna leave…”

I stare at her, unsure of what to think. “Okay.”

I watch her eyes flutter, as if what she’s said is not entirely what she feels. “I mean with you.”

“What?” I stammer again, not expecting that answer, trying to process the weight of her words. “You want to leave with me? Right now?”

She looks back at me, concerned, like maybe I’m not the kind of man she hoped I’d be… Whatever that is. “I mean, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that,” I assure her. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a laugh, trying to keep it light. “Just... not

that

.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” I stammer. It’s not a problem, per se, but typically when two adults of the opposite sex leave a bar together, it’s implied that an intimate encounter might follow. And given that Raven is the subject of my investigation, that sort of action would fall squarely into the realm of misconduct, which could jeopardize the mission. The fact that she’s also an aspirant nun only complicates things further—ethically and morally. The lines blur as the alcohol takes hold and something deeper pulls at me. It’s a line I know I should not be crossing.  Yet I am.

“Where do you wanna go?”

“Home,” she breathes with longing, more sentimental than lustful. Like the concept of home was elusive and untethered. Like home didn’t exist the way it should. “I was hoping maybe you could walk me there?”

The request seems innocent enough, and even if it’s not, I am more than capable of saying no. “I’ve handled worse.”

Raven smiles at my cynicism. “I live in the next town over. It’s about a 45 minute walk. Think you can handle that?”

“I know I can.”

We take a final sip of our drinks for courage, and I feel the light buzz hum in my veins as we make our way through the crowd. I take Raven’s hand as I lead her through the thick mass of bodies, all in varying stages of wavering sobriety. Her grip tightens in mine as we awkwardly try not to brush against those around us, especially those in the midst of a heated embrace.

As we escape the throng, I spot Tara in the distance, talking to an older man, his face tucked deep beneath a hood. A strange feeling nags at me, something off about the situation. She could be in danger. I should have hit her with a tracker when I had the chance. Maybe it’s not too late.

“You wanna tell your friend we’re leaving?” I ask.

Raven tracks my line of sight and spots Tara. “I’ll shoot her a text when we’re far enough away.”

If this wasn’t part of the mission, I’d see it as a victory, but given the circumstances… I let the thought linger. “If you don’t tell her, she might think something bad’s happened.”

“If I go over there, she won’t let me leave,” Raven reasons, clearly frustrated.

“I’ll tell her, then,” I reply, knowing she’s right, but also knowing how to shut Tara up.

“You really think she’s gonna listen to you?”

I shrug. “I can be very persuasive.” And I will say whatever I have to, fit her with a tracker, and get her out of the way.

As I approach, Tara notices me and steps forward, dismissing herself from the man she’d been talking to. “Come looking for that good time?”

I smile and shake my head. “Not exactly. I came to tell you that Raven asked me to take her home.”

She pauses, a hint of shock on her face. “To do

what?”

The key to a good lie is that it always holds a shred of truth. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

She peers around me and spots Raven, mouthing with exaggerated gestures, “You’re going home with him?”

I glance back to see Raven confirm with shaky confidence, which only serves the ruse I’m crafting. “I guess she’s more fun than you thought.”

“No, she’s desperate,” Tara says coldly, turning back to me. “She’ll do anything to avoid that V-card.”

I’m not shocked by her remark, but my brow furrows as I try to decipher Tara’s angle. Is she jealous, simply trying to sabotage her friend’s relationships for personal gain? Or is it something deeper than that? Either way, my instinct to keep an eye on her seems more than justified.

Still, I can’t come across as a man too eager to rob a virgin of her innocence, nor can I be completely put off by it. Instead, I have to remain indifferent, someone more interested in the long game.

“She just wants someone to walk her home.”

I watch Tara closely, gauging her reaction. If she’s trying to manipulate the situation, she’s going to have to work a lot harder.

“If that’s what you wanna call it, go for it,” she says, her tone clipped, her expression icy. “But don’t expect much.”

“I expect nothing.”

She glances back at Raven one last time, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really picked a winner with this one.”

“Excuse me?” I say, grabbing her wrist as she pulls away, allowing the tracker to make contact.

Tara huffs, looking back at me with a dismissive wave and retrieves her hand. “Nothing. Have fun with

the nun

.”

I watch Tara walk away, her shoulders stiff with whatever personal baggage she’s dragging behind her. I can’t say I fully understand her motivations, but there’s something off about her. Not jealousy exactly, but more like resentment wrapped in false concern. Maybe it’s worth digging into later.

For now, I have more pressing matters.

And for the record, the tractor is successfully planted.

I turn back to Raven, waiting near the exit. Her posture is rigid, and her gaze flickers between me and the door like she’s not sure if I’ll follow through. There’s something vulnerable about her in that moment—a rare crack in her usually stoic armor.

I make my back to her, and as I reach her, I keep my tone even. “She’s not exactly the trusting type, is she?”

Raven sighs, her shoulders slumping a little. “She’s just… protective. Maybe too much?”

“You call that protective?” I question with a half-smile, attempting to ease the tension, though my mind is still processing Tara’s biting words. “Hopefully you never meet my family.”

Raven looks away, her voice dropping. “Why don't we just focus on you walking me home first.”

I narrow my eyes slightly, watching her carefully. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her silence lingers for a beat too long, and I know better than to push. Not to mention, we both know she's never meetimg my family. Though a part of me would kill to see the look on my mother's face.

“

Where’d you meet her,” I can practically hear mother ask with disdain.

To which I'd only reply “A convent.”

It's safe to say, the alcohol has dulled the edge of my better sense. Which means my normally high guard is leveling.

There’s a distance she’s keeping, a guardedness that even I can’t break through tonight.

“So,” I say, softening my tone as I extend a hand. “Wanna get out of here?”

She hesitates for just a moment before slipping her hand into mine. The touch feels different now—less cautious, more grounded. Like she’s made a choice.

As we step out into the cool night air, the noise from the bar fades behind us. The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and I can’t help but feel like we’re walking a thin line between two worlds: the one she’s trying to escape, and the one I’ve been sent to investigate.

And for now, I’ll follow her into both.

"So, which way?"

She points to the right and gently pulls my hand in that direction. Her manner feels lighter, as if simply leaving that place has lifted a burden from her shoulders.

"You seem relieved to be free of that place."

"I hate crowds," Raven breathes a sigh of relief. "I feel suffocated... there's just too many..."

"People?"

"Emotions," she corrects, and I’m left momentarily perplexed. "It can be very overwhelming."

"How so?"

She glances away, as if fearing my judgment, but continues regardless. "Have you ever heard of an empath?"

"Sort of."

"It means I can feel other people's emotions," Raven explains. "I'm sensitive that way."

"Oh," is all I manage. "Interesting. How does that work?"

"I just feel it, almost like their emotions are my own. The stronger the feelings, the harder they are to control."

I hold my tongue, considering what she's saying. "Sounds kind of like bipolar disorder."

"It definitely feels like that sometimes," she counters dryly. "But it’s not my mind that’s suffering... it’s my body."

I walk beside her, mulling that over.. “So, when you’re around all those people, it’s like... you’re drowning in their feelings?"

"Exactly," she murmurs, as if relieved I understood. "It's hard to shut out, especially when emotions run high. That’s why I avoid places like that."

"Then why go at all?" I ask, curiosity slipping into my voice. "Sounds like torture."

She shrugs, looking down at the pavement. "Sometimes I have to force myself to face it, to keep myself from shutting off completely. Plus..." she hesitates, "Tara likes to go."

"Tara," I repeat. Her name feels heavier now, after our conversation. "She doesn’t seem like she’s doing you any favors, dragging you into places like that."

Raven’s silent for a moment, before offering a half-smile. "She’s not all bad. She means well. But… I think she’s trying to help me in a way I didn’t ask for."

I glance at her sideways, not entirely convinced. "And what do you need help with?"

Raven meets my eyes for a brief second before looking away again, her voice softer now. "A lot of things... but nothing anyone can fix."

I absorb her words, recognizing the weight they carry. The darkness she’s fighting, whatever it is, runs deeper than just the crowded bar or her perceived empathic abilities. It’s something personal, something she’s keeping locked away.

"You sure about that?" I ask, my tone low, testing the waters. "Maybe you’ve just been looking in the wrong places."

She lets out a small, almost bitter laugh. "Or maybe you just want it to be that way."

“What makes you say that?”

Raven as she peers back at me and says something I’m not ready for. “Because you like being the hero.”

Her words hit me with a startling accuracy whether I want to admit it or not and I pause. “I’m no hero,” is all I say denying her claim.

“You say that,” she says in a low voice as she turns to me. “But deep down, I get the sense that you’re a kind, generous soul.”

“That’s the first time anyone has ever accused me of that,” I say walking past her with a slightly clipped voice. Yet there is something strangely familiar about those words. Almost like deja vu.

This would typically be the part where I’d push any romantic notion away and force the walls I’ve built against such venerability firmly in place. Only I can’t do that right now; I have to see this conversation through and not come off as a jaded asshole incable of real intimacy. Or that's what I've been accused of in the past.

“If you knew me, you wouldn't think that.”

“I don’t think that,” Raven counters, almost dismissing me. “But you can.”

It's in that instant I realize how little I know about her—my target. I know about her mother: the pain she suffered to bring her daughter into this world and the lies that shattered her life. And yet, I know so little about her daughter. About Raven.

“You have a bit of an accent. Where are you from?”

Her question pulls me from the entangled web and back into the moment at hand. "I’m originally from a small eastern country."

"Where?"

"Himalayas. I lived there until I was ten."

"That's different," she says dryly. "What brought you to America?"

"My mother thought it would be best if I live with my American father. That kind of backfaired on her,” I add with a light laugh at my mother’s expense, “but been here ever since."

"That must have been hard," Raven muses, empathizing with idea of a little boy caught between two opposing worlds and the division of his parents.

"There are worse things, I suppose?" I say, brushing off the question. "What about you? You from around here?"

She shrugs her head. “Sorta, grew up around here--kinda got shipped around. I left for a bit, but things got complicated and I came back the only thing I could have faith in.”

"You don’t sound too enthusiastic about that," I note, picking up on the flatness in her tone.

“It's not that,” she says after a pause, her eyes flicking to the ground as we walk. "It's just... home is complicated, I guess."

"Complicated how?"

She bites her lip, as if weighing how much she wants to reveal. "I guess I don’t know what home is supposed to feel like. I never really had one." Her voice softens, a vulnerability creeps into her words,  catching me off guard.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. There’s a rawness here, something real underneath the guarded exterior she keeps up so well. I’ve felt that emptiness too—between lives, never fully belonging anywhere. But I’m not one to dive into personal confessions. Not tonight.

“I get that,” I say, my inhibitions breaking down, but not enough to go into detail. Maybe it’s the alcohol hitting me a little harder than I thought, or maybe it’s just something about her that makes me feel less guarded. “Between my parents, I’ve always felt torn. Like I don’t belong in either of their worlds.”

“How so?”

“My mother and father are two very different people. They’re almost like a positive and negative charge—bound to attract, but little else.”

“And where do you fit in that?”

“I don’t. I’m perfectly in the middle. I’m not my mother, but I’m not entirely my father either,” I admit, not saying everything, but more than I typically would.

“At least you have parents,” she says, her tone cold, almost detached, as if she isn’t fully aware of what she’s saying.

I pause, taken aback. Not because I’m unaware, but because of how casually the words flow into the air. “I’m sorry. I—"

“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head, realizing she was too forthcoming. "It’s just—" she stammers, searching for the words. “They just…”

“They weren’t around,” I finish for her, hating to watch her struggle to explain something she shouldn’t have to justify.

“Yeah,” she trails off, her face tightening for a second before she takes a breath. “It wasn’t good, and I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Understandable,” I nod, almost relieved for her.

There’s a pause between us before she speaks again, almost blurting it out. “I wish I could leave sometimes and never look back.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because leaving means change, and I hate change.”

“Yeah,” I say, unsure how to respond. I understand abandonment, being raised to shoulder burdens too heavy for someone so young. But her pain feels different, threaded with something darker I can’t yet name. It’s more than just a rough childhood. "But leaving behind what doesn’t serve you... sometimes it’s the only choice," I offer, keeping my voice steady.

She looks at me, her eyes reflecting a moment of quiet understanding, maybe even relief, like she's not alone in the way her past haunts her. "Yeah," she whispers. "Maybe."

The night feels colder as we walk in silence for a few minutes, the distant hum of the small city filling the void between us. For once, I’m not trying to figure out my next move, not calculating what this will mean for the mission. This moment, with her, feels real—too real.

"So," I break the silence, "where’s this

home

you wanted me to walk you to?"

Raven glances up at the sky before answering, her tone soft. "It’s not far. Just a little further."

Her hand falls into mine again and, against my better judgment, I let my fingers lace between hers. The early fall air rolls in with a chill, drawing her closer to me, seeking warmth. I catch the scent of her hair, sweet with lavender, her vanilla perfume rising from her skin. Instinctively, I glance down at her, and I’m met by those deep violet eyes—such an unusual color. There’s something about her that’s disarming, and I wonder, if we’d met outside of my mission, if things might have been different between us.

“This is me,” Raven sighs, almost disappointed that our walk has come to an end.

“That was a quick hour,” I reply, unable to hide my own disappointment.

“Thanks for making sure I made it home safe.”

“Hate to break it to you, but my job’s not done until I see you inside, with the door locked.”

Raven raises an eyebrow at me, her lips tugging into a faint smirk. "That part of the job too, huh? Babysitting?"

“Call it due diligence,” I say, keeping the mood light. “There’s a lot that can happen between here and your door.”

Her smile takes on a coy look, one I recognize—and know I shouldn’t fall for. “Oh really? Like what?”

But just because I know, doesn’t mean I won’t. I am my father’s son, after all. “Well, for starters, you never know who’s followed you home.”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder as if something unpleasant has just crossed her mind.

“Everything alright?” I ask, my voice breaking through the silence.

Raven turns back to me, a little more composed. “Yeah, I just realized…

you

followed me home.”

Raven’s words hang in the air, and for a moment, I’m caught between the subtle shift in her mood and my own internal clockwork—calculating, adjusting. Her sudden wariness isn’t just a response to me. It’s something else, something deeper.

“Well, I’m not the worst company,” I say, shrugging off the moment with a smirk, though my eyes remain sharp, scanning the street behind us. "Unless you were expecting someone else?"

Her lips press into a thin line, as if she’s trying to decide whether to brush off my comment or take it seriously. “Not tonight,” she replies finally, her tone quieter than before.

I step closer to her door, my body angled to keep her in my line of sight, but also to shield her from anything—or anyone—that might still be lurking. “You sure?” I ask, my voice lower now, more direct.

Raven hesitates, her hand lingering on the doorknob as she looks back at me. She looks torn, as if she’s caught between what she wants and she knows she shouldn't have. “It’s not you--”

“It normally is.”

“Really it’s not--it’s just… There’s always something, y’know.”

“Maybe… what kind of

something

are we talking?”

“The kind where you think God is testing you,” she replies.

Interesting. “You’re religious?” she nods, though I already know the answer. “Maybe God has a different plan for you?”

Raven’s eyes shift away from mine, and in that moment, I can see she’s wading through something heavier than she’s letting on. Her hand is still on the door, but she isn’t moving. Neither am I.

“Maybe God has a different plan for both of us,” I offer softly, watching her reaction. She’s retreating, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to. I can see it in the way her fingers tremble, just slightly, against the wood, knowing she should leave, but something within her wants to stay.

“Maybe...” she whispers, more to herself than to me.

Meaningful silence falls over us, thick and loaded, as if the air between us is carrying all the unspoken thoughts and feelings neither of us have the courage to say aloud. I take a slow step forward, closing the distance, but I don’t touch her. Not yet.

“You ever want something,” I say quietly, my voice low, “but you’re just too afraid to take it?”

Her eyes snap back to mine, searching, her breath catching for a second. I’m not sure if it’s my words or the proximity that’s making her pulse quicken, but I can feel the change in the air.

She lets go of the doorknob, her hand falling to her side. “What are you afraid of, Damian?”

I don't answer right away. Instead, I take another step, closer still. I feel the pull between us, a magnetic force, strong and unrelenting. Her violet eyes lock onto mine, and for once, there’s no shield between us. No walls.

“I’m not afraid of this,” I say finally, my voice rougher than I intended.

Raven’s breath hitches as I lift a hand, carefully brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A move I’ve seen Grayson and Todd do. However, I can’t help but let my fingers linger on her skin, just long enough to feel the warmth--that spark. Her eyes flutter, and for the briefest moment, I see her resolve break.

She takes a step forward, closing the last bit of space between us. Her gaze falls to my lips before flickering back to meet mine, and I know in that instant what’s about to happen. I know I shouldn’t let it, but I do.

There’s no hesitation when her lips meet mine—just the soft, intoxicating pull of the moment we come together. The kiss is gentle at first, tentative, as if she’s testing the waters, assuring it feels right. Then it deepens, fueled by everything unsaid between us.

Her hands find my chest, gripping the fabric of my shirt as if grounding herself in the moment. I let my hands rest on her waist, drawing her closer, feeling the curve of her body against mine. It’s both exhilarating and dangerous—the way her presence completely overtakes my senses. And again I ask myself if we’d met under different circumstances what this could mean for us?

Her breath burns against my skin when she pulls back, just slightly, enough to break the kiss, but not the moment. Her forehead rests against mine, her breathing uneven, her lips still so close, I can taste her.

“That—this… Wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispers, bereft, her voice shaking with a kind of vulnerability I haven’t seen in her before.

“Maybe it was,” I murmur, my thumb brushing the side of her face before tracing the shape of her bottom lip.

She closes her eyes, leaning into my touch for a second before pulling away completely, putting just enough distance between us to regain control. I let her, even though a part of me doesn’t want to.

“I should be going,” she stammers, clearly flustered. “I have an early morning.”

“Okay,” I reply, my own shock settling into something manageable, but I keep my composure. “I’ll wait down here until I see your light go on.”

She pauses, turning back with a quizzical expression. “How do you know which apartment is mine?”

I shift slightly, just enough to avoid giving myself away. “I don’t,” I answer quickly, glancing up at the darkened building. “I just figured all the lights are off, so yours would turn on.”

She visibly relaxes, as though whatever unease had crept up on her has now faded.

“I mean, unless you prefer stumbling around in the dark,” I add, trying to lighten the mood. “I won’t judge. Energy costs are insane.”

She laughs, the tension in her posture easing. “This is so stupid... Do you want my number?”

“Uh, sure,” I reply, momentarily caught off guard. Of course, when I finally charm a girl into giving me her number, she has to be... a nun. If Todd and Grayson ever find out, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Before I can dwell on that thought, she pulls out a pen and gently takes my hand. Her touch is soft, and I can feel the cool metal of the pen as she starts writing on my palm.

“Old school,” I joke as she begins to scribble the number.

“I do a lot of things old school,” she smiles, glancing up at me. “I hope that’s not a problem?”

“Not at all,” I reply, watching as her pen glides across my skin, leaving behind neat, elegant cursive. The swirl of her rolling R, the smooth curve of the A, the sharp dip of the V, and the final looping curl of the E.

I read her name on my palm, her handwriting perfect. Raven.

We share a long, lingering look, both of us knowing what we want but also keenly aware of why we shouldn’t take it.

“So... you’re really gonna wait until my light goes on?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Yeah,” I nod, trying not to let the intensity of the moment get to me. “Which one’s yours?”

She points to the window above us, as if I didn’t already know. But the gesture—the trust—reminds me of how precarious this situation is. How wrong it feels, and yet, it strangely feels right. Familiar in a way I can't explain.

“I guess... this is goodnight, then?” she sighs, though I can still hear her hesitation.

“Yeah,” I reply, but neither of us moves. There’s a pull here, something unspoken, keeping us rooted in place.

Her hand lingers by her side as she watches me, and in that brief moment, it feels like we’re teetering on the edge of something that could change everything. But neither of us crosses that line. Not tonight.

She finally steps back, her fingers brushing the doorknob, but she doesn’t turn it just yet. “Goodnight, Damian.”

“Goodnight, Raven.”

She slips inside, pausing for one last glance before closing the door softly behind her.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the door, feeling the weight of her absence. My gaze drifts to my hand, her name written in perfect script, and then up to her window. A minute later, her light flicks on.

And for reasons I can’t fully grasp, that small beacon of light makes me feel... something. Something unfamiliar but strangely comforting. I turn to walk away, ready to bury myself in work back at the boarding house when I hear my name.

“Hey, Damian.” Her voice cuts through the quiet like a knife through flesh.

I turn to see her standing at her open window, coat off, her bare shoulder almost glowing against the autumn night. “Yeah?” I call back, taking a few steps toward her.

“Thanks for waiting,” she says, smiling down from the second story.

I return the smile, something stirring inside me—something my body remembers but my mind can’t quite place. “Anytime.”

“Text me when you’re home safe!” she adds, her smile widening.

“When I’m home, sure. Safe, that’s another story.”

“Always the hero,” she teases.

“On the contrary.”

“Do me a favor and

be

safe.”

“Anything for yo—”

Before I can finish, an old woman shouts, “For God’s sake, shut up—it’s late!”

I chuckle under my breath. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Seems like it,” Raven giggles softly. “Goodnight, again.”

“Goodnight,” I reply as she closes her window and waves.

I turn and make my way down the sidewalk, following the cracks as my com buzzes, alerting me to a call. I pull the device from my pocket and see Grayson’s name glowing against the black screen. If it were anyone else, I’d let it ring.

“What do you want, Grayson?”

I hear his gruff sigh on the other end. He doesn’t expect a warm greeting from me, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide. “Has anyone ever told you how charming you are to talk to?”

“Has anyone ever told you that I don’t give a fu—”

“Anyway,” Grayson cuts in with a long drawl. “How’s the mission going?”

I pause as reality hits me, my heart pounding like some foolish boy who’d just walked his date home—not a man sent to do a job. “I made contact.”

“Is that wise?” Grayson asks, almost like he already knows, but he doesn’t. Truth is, I’m the last person anyone would expect to get this close to their target. Honestly, I’m a little spooked by the fact that I have.

“It seemed like the right move.”

“How so?”

“She’s lonely.”

“She’s a nun,” Grayson counters.

“She’s acting out,” I assert. “Tonight, I followed her to a bar. I think she’s questioning the vow she’s about to make.”

“So nuns get cold feet too?”

“That, or they’re total hypocrites.”

“Which do you think Raven is?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Grayson’s silence on the other end drags for a moment, long enough for me to hear my own thoughts creeping in. This isn’t supposed to be personal. But it’s starting to feel like it is.

“Just... be careful, Damian,” he finally says, voice softer now. “If she’s acting out, there’s a reason. Don’t let it pull you in.”

“I’m not,” I snap back, sharper than I intended. “This is a mission, Grayson, not a therapy session.”

“Sure,” he replies, unconvinced. “I just don’t want you to—”

“Get distracted?” I interrupt, my tone edging into something cold. “I won’t. Unlike some people, I know how to keep my head straight.”

Another sigh. This time, more resigned. “I know you’re good at what you do. Just remember—Raven’s not just a target. She’s human. She’s got her own demons. And the last thing you need is to take on more of those.”

Grayson’s words hang in the air as I step into the boarding house, the dull creak of the old door breaking the silence. I hear the conversation dying, but I’m not ready to hang up just yet.

“You act like I don’t know that,” I say, closing the door behind me. The hallway is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the worn floor. “I’m not a rookie. It’s unclear whether she’s even aware of this Church of Blood nonsense. I have to go where the lead takes me. That’s it.”

“Sure. But I know you, Damian,” Grayson replies, a slight smirk in his voice. “Sometimes, your heart gets ahead of your mind. Just… keep them balanced this time.”

I feel my grip tighten around the device, the weight of his words settling in. "I don't have time for this, Grayson."

“Yeah, I figured,” he replies, his voice losing the casual tone. “Just don’t forget—if things start going sideways, call me. We’re all in this together, even if you pretend you’re not.”

The call cuts off before I can respond, and I’m left staring at the dark screen. I slip the phone back into my pocket and head to my room, the creaking of the old floorboards the only sound accompanying me. Grayson’s words sting, though I’d never admit it.

I drop onto the bed and let my head fall back, eyes closing. It’s like the weight of the night is pressing in on me. I think back to Raven—her hesitation, the way she looked back at me one last time before disappearing inside. There’s something off about all of this. Something pulling her toward the Church of Blood, and maybe even pulling me toward her.

The mission is simple: don’t get too close, figure out the threat, eliminate it if necessary. That’s how I’ve always worked. But with Raven… it’s not that clean.

My phone buzzs again, but this time it’s a text from my father as if he knows I’m teetering too close to the edge.

“Haven’t heard from you. What have you learned so far?”

I’m too tired to text him, and I’m not interested in explaining myself so I ignore it. But it reminds me of the promise I made.

“Made it home safe,”

I type across the screen. I stare at the words, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I shouldn’t. It’s better to keep my distance. Stay professional. Detached.

My phone buzzes once more, and once again my father is making his orders clear.

“Remeber to stay focused on the mission.”

I take a deep breath as if inhaling my contempt and hit send. I like to think I get my rebellious streak from my mother, but my father has never been one to take orders and neither do I.

Moments later I hear another buzz expecting it be my father with another ominous warning, but to my surprise it’s Raven.

“Good to know. Sleep well, Damian.”

A light rush fills my chest, as the phantom scent of her hair lingers around me like a ghost and my mind wanders to the memory of her lips against mine.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I scoff and toss the phone aside, already regretting the reply. But the truth is, I can’t shake the feeling that this mission—this whole thing with Raven—might unravel me in ways I didn’t see coming.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t know what any of this means.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Raven

It always starts with a bright light, an overwhelming fear rising within me, as if something so dear has been lost, and I’m desperate to find it. Like a part of myself has been severed, flesh torn from bone. When the light fades, everything is dark, and I’m swallowed by the sense that I am truly alone. Everything I knew, everything I loved and believed in has not only changed, but it’s gone.In my aching fear, I stumble through that darkness, pushing myself to break free from the crippling despair in search of any shred of hope—of my humanity. It is only when I trip and fall over something fleshy and unmoving that I freeze again. My hands slip across a warm, sticky substance that clings to my bare knees and soaks my clothes. It feels familiar, sending a surge of alarm through my veins as my blood runs cold. Gored images of people I think I knew once flash before my eyes, tears welling up as my stomach twists like a knife inside me.“NO…” I say audibly, and that’s when a deep, sinister laughter brushes my ear.“YES,” he growls, his voice low and mocking, inhuman. “AND YOU WILL CARRY ME INTO THIS NEW WORLD WITH YOU—INTO THIS NEW EXISTENCE WITH YOU, MY DAUGHTER.”The laughter echoes in the void, a chilling melody reverberating through the shadows, twisting around me like a serpent ready to strike. There is nothing about it that rings of feminine softness, but a malvealent, masculine cruelty. I gasp, the weight of his words settling into my bones like ice. “No,” I whisper again, my voice trembling as I inch backward, desperate to escape the reality he embodies. “Please, God, no…”“YOU THINK YOU CAN FIGHT IT?” he continues, amusement dripping from his tone. “YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HUMANITY INTACT WHILE CARRYING THE ESSENCE OF YOUR FATHER? I WILL FEED ON THAT WEAKNESS, DAUGHTER. UNTIL YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A HOLLOW SHELL, A VESSEL READY TO BARE MY DARKNESS.”A swell of anger rises within me, hot and fierce against the cold dread. I close my eyes, envisioning the strength I’ve forged through pain and loss. “You will not take me,” I declare, the words feeling fragile yet defiant on my tongue. “I will not let you win!”Again, he laughs, and I hear the shift of a lock behind me.“NO, I WON’T,” he purrs in a wicked tone as light rushes into the room, casting the dark shadow of what I can only describe as a demon beside me. “BUT HE WILL.”My eyes fall to the ground, where blood stains the floor, a cruel reminder that I am helpless to my unholy father’s whims.“AND THIS TIME, YOU WILL BOTH SUFFER FOR YOUR DEFIANCE,” he growls. “AND YOU WILL BE HELPLESS TO STOP  ME AS I BURN HIS SOUL TO ASH. IT WILL BE HIS BLOOD THAT TAINTS YOUR FLESH, DAUGHTER.” I’m afraid to look, knowing the mound of flesh beside me is a man, someone I once knew, someone I know I loved.“LOOK AT HIM!” he howls like a hunting hound. “LOOK AT WHAT YOUR LOVE HATH WROUGHT!”I say nothing, only shaking my head as tears roll down my face.“I SAID LOOK!!!” Suddenly, his hellfire grasps hold of my throat and forces my head in the direction of the body, but I close my eyes tight. The force of my tears falls like stones from my eyelids, clamping down with biting ferocity. “Please, no…”As I brace myself against the darkness closing in, I feel the weight of despair crushing my chest. A scream threatens to escape my lips, but I suppress it, willing myself to resist. I refuse to give in to his demands, to let him shatter the last remnants of my will. But even as I cling to that fragile hope, the darkness whispers promises of torment, and I can feel his presence creeping closer.“YOU are mine, RAVEN,” his voice drips with satisfaction. “AND HE WILL BE THE FIRST TO FALL. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE OUR DESTINY .”It’s at that moment his sharpened claw slices through my belly, and a horrific sharp pain overcomes me and the scream I fought so hard to suppress, escapes through the wet gurgle in my throat. I jolt awake, flying upright and running my trembling hands down my body, assuring myself that I am truly unscathed. But as I lay there, the echoes of his laughter still reverberate in my mind, a chilling reminder of the battle I am yet to face.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In the afterglow of my nightmare, I’m late for mass. I stumble through my morning routine, my eyes still rimmed with remnants of last night’s mascara, but there’s no time for a thorough wash. Instead, I brush my teeth and splash water on my face, but it only smears the makeup further under my eyes. The clock is ticking, and if I spend any more time trying to erase my poor decisions, I’ll miss the bus—and mass altogether. That would be frowned upon, especially today, when we meet our new Mother Superior.

I quickly throw my hair up in a mantilla before rushing out the door, slinging my long wool coat across my shoulders as I fly down the stairs. As I rush down the sidewalk I can see the bus pulling up to the stop. I flail my arms flagging down the driver, and he graciously waits for me to fling myself through the door and onto the bus. However, in my rush, I realize I’ve forgotten my wallet, and in defeat I turn away.

“It’s alright, Sister,” he whispers.

“That’s really not—” I start to protest, but he smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it catches me off guard. There’s something reassuring about his presence, like a gentle reminder that kindness still exists in the world.

“Just this once,” he insists, gesturing for me to take a seat.

“Thank you,” I nod and begin to make my way down the aisle when I hear him say, “Plus, I don’t think the Big Guy would forgive me if I refused to help a nun after she’d

had a long night

.”

“Excuse me?” I ask abruptly, turning to face him.

“I said, I don’t think the Big Guy would forgive me if I refused to give a nun a ride,” he replies with a teasing smile.

“Oh, I’m sure He wouldn’t hold it against you,” I manage a brief smile in return before I rush to the back, a little uneasy.

As I sit, I steal a much-needed breath, my eyes scanning the sparse faces of those around me. A few weary commuters stare vacantly out the windows, lost in their own thoughts, while a couple of students in the front giggle quietly over a shared phone screen. The rhythmic hum of the bus engine mingles with the distant sound of city life outside, creating a comforting backdrop that momentarily distracts me from my worries.

I absently tug at the hem of my coat, reminding myself that today is supposed to be a fresh start. A New Mother Superior. A chance for a new beginning. The weight of my nightmares lingers like a shadow, but I’m determined not to let it ruin my day.

I feel my phone buzz, and I pull it out to see a text from Tara.

“You’re late! Don’t tell me you let that guy eat you alive.”

I sigh as the night before suddenly tugs at my heart. Damian…

“No, I’m alive. Just running late after a few too many drinks, but you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

A minute goes by as three dots dance across my screen.

“Still a virgin?

I shake my head, though no one can see me.

“Yes.”

“BOOO!”

she types without hesitation.

“But seriously, get here. Reverend Mother is asking where you are.”

I glance around the bus, feeling the weight of Tara’s expectations.

“On my way. I’ll be there in ten,”

I reply, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

As the bus lurches to a stop, I take a deep breath, steading myself for the day ahead. The anxiety swirling in my stomach is almost overwhelming, but I remind myself that I’m not alone. I have Tara—and maybe even the new Mother Superior—to confide in. I step off the bus and into the brisk morning air, the chill biting at my skin but invigorating my spirit.

The convent is only a few blocks away, and I pick up my pace, each step a small victory against my lingering doubts. The towering façade of the building looms ahead, a mix of familiarity and intimidation. I push open the heavy door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, and immediately feel a rush of warmth from the soft lighting and the faint scent of incense.

As I navigate the hallways, I can hear the soft murmurs of the other sisters. They move with purpose, each of them busy preparing for the day’s mass. I catch snippets of their conversations, words of encouragement and hope—reminders that I’m part of something greater than my own struggles.

Just then, I spot Tara across the common room, her vibrant energy a beacon amid the more subdued atmosphere. She waves enthusiastically, and I can’t help but smile, my heart lifting slightly at the sight of her.

“Bout fucking time,” she grummbles playfuly, her jest a welcome burst of enthusiasm. “I almost thought you’d be a no-show!”

“I almost was,” I admit, feeling the weight of my earlier fears dissipate in her presence. “Thank God for kind bus drivers.”

Tara rolls her eyes playfully. “If only they could drive you to your next bad decision,” she says with a wicked smile. “But seriously, I thought Romeo might have actually whisked you off to another life.”

“He almost did,” I reply absentmindedly, feeling as if a different part of me has taken over.

“What?”

“Nothing. So, what needs to be done?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation when the Reverend Mother sneaks up behind me.

“Sister Raven, nice of you to show,” she says, startling me as I whip around to face her.

“I’m so sorry… I had to help my elderly neighbor with her cat.”

She studies me, as if she can sniff out the lie. “Don’t let it happen again,” she warns, a wince flickering across her face as she motions to step away. “Oh, and Sister Raven, be sure to make confession today. We wouldn’t want your sins to cloud your virtue,” she adds, her tone laced with authority, as if she can smell the lingering scent of a man on me. “And do wash that black mess off your face. We wouldn’t want our Mother Superior to get the wrong idea about you.”

I feel a flush creep up my cheeks, but I quickly nod, knowing I can't afford any more scrutiny. “Of course, Reverend Mother. I’ll take care of it.”

With that, she glances over her shoulder, her demeanor softening slightly. “Good. We all have our struggles, but remember, the path to righteousness is not an easy one.”

As she walks away, I catch Tara’s gaze, which is filled with mischief and concern. “You really need to figure out your life, Raven,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Before the Reverend Mother decides to throw you out of here.”

I force a laugh, trying to mask the tightening knot in my stomach. “Let’s just focus on today, alright?”

“Fine,” she concedes, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. “But just know, I’m here if you need to

unload...

or if you’re ever tempted to run away with your Romeo.”

As I prepare to head into the chapel, the weight of my recent decisions looms large, and I can only hope today will bring some clarity amidst the chaos.

We file into the mass, and I sit beside Tara, half-listening to the service as my mind drifts elsewhere. The priest’s voice reverberates softly against the walls, a soothing cadence that almost comforts me, but I’m too preoccupied with thoughts of washing the dark smears from my eyes. The cheap fragrance of the hand soap lingers, leaving my skin feeling raw and irritated. I wish I could scrub away the remnants of last night, the haze of regret and uncertainty clouding my mind.

This streak is out of my system,

I tell myself, repeating it like a mantra.

He is out of my system.

But deep down, I know I’m not convincing anyone—least of all myself.

I glance sideways at Tara, who’s intently watching the altar, her expression a mixture of reverence and curiosity. I envy her focus, the way she seems anchored in the moment while I float in a sea of self-doubt. I can’t shake the nagging thought that God might be testing my faith. Is this struggle a sign that I’m not strong enough for this life? The guilt weighs heavily on my chest, constricting my breath as I try to shake off the nagging doubt.

The priest raises his arms, inviting us to join in prayer, and I bow my head, attempting to align my thoughts with the rhythm of the service. Yet, all I can see are flashes of the night before—the laughter, the drinks, and the moment when everything felt too easy, too good to be true. The thrill that had coursed through me now seems like a cruel joke.

I close my eyes tightly, wishing to escape the memories, the haunting laughter that echoes in my mind. I should be here, in this sacred space, embracing the teachings that have been my foundation. But the confusion lingers, a specter in the background whispering doubts that taunt me like a persistent shadow.

The prayer wraps around me, pulling me in and momentarily shielding me from my tumultuous thoughts. But as we all rise for the hymnal, my heart sinks again.

How can I stand here and sing praises when I feel so lost?

I wonder, my voice caught in my throat as I force a smile for Tara, who leans closer, her expression concerned.

“Hey, you okay?” she whispers, her brow furrowing.

“Just… thinking,” I reply, trying to brush off her concern. “You know how it is.”

She nods but doesn’t press further, her gaze flickering back to the altar. I wish I could share my thoughts with her, tell her about the weight on my heart, the conflict in my soul. But I know that to do so would only expose my vulnerabilities, the cracks in my carefully crafted façade.

As the hymn fades, the priest steps forward to the center of the altar, raising his hands to quiet the murmurs that ripple through the congregation. His voice, though soft, carries an undeniable authority.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” he begins, his words slow and deliberate, “today marks an important day for our community. It is with great reverence and gratitude that I introduce you to our new Mother Superior, a woman of deep faith and unyielding devotion.”

I straighten in my seat, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment, as whispers ripple among the sisters around me. Tara nudges me with her elbow, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “Bet she’s terrifying,” she murmurs under her breath, but I don’t respond. Something in the air feels different—charged, as if this moment carries more significance than we realize.

A tall woman, veiled beneath her flowing red robes, stands from the first pew. Her veil trails behind her, stepping gracefully toward the altar. The reverence in the air deepens as she walks, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“It is my honor to introduce, Mother Superior May Bennett,” the priest announces, his voice echoing through the chapel. “She has come to guide us, to serve our spiritual needs, and to lead our congregation with wisdom and grace.”

May Bennett. The name strikes a chord, though I can’t place why. I’ve heard it before, maybe whispered among the sisters or mentioned in passing. But now, seeing her walk toward the altar with such purpose, there’s something unsettling about her—something in the way she holds herself, so composed, so calculating.

As she reaches the altar, she turns to face us, her hands clasped before her in a gesture of humility. Her gaze sweeps across the pews, and for a moment, her eyes meet mine. A chill races up my spine, though I quickly avert my gaze, unsure of why her presence feels so unnerving.

“Sisters,” she begins, her voice smooth and composed, “it is an honor to stand before you today. I have long awaited this moment, to serve as your Mother Superior, to guide each of you on your spiritual journeys. Together, we will walk the path of righteousness, strengthened by our shared devotion to God.”

Her words should be comforting, reassuring. But there’s a certain coldness to her tone, an almost imperceptible edge that leaves me uneasy. Tara shifts beside me, clearly picking up on it too. She leans over and whispers, “Does she seem… intense to you?”

I nod slightly but keep my eyes forward, not daring to speak. The Mother Superior continues, her gaze piercing through the congregation like she can see through us, see into the depths of our souls.

“Let us never forget,” she says, her voice hardening ever so slightly, “that we are here to serve the Lord above all else. Our personal desires, our earthly attachments—they must be cast aside, for they will only lead us astray. We are vessels of His will.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, her words hitting too close to home. The events of the night before—the fleeting warmth of a man’s touch, the thrill of crossing a line I shouldn’t have—now feel like a weight is pressing down on me, like something sinful, something shameful.

As the Mother Superior continues her address, I can’t help but feel as if she knows. Knows what I’ve done, what I’ve thought, what I’ve felt. And that knowledge seems to linger in the way her gaze occasionally flickers toward me, like a subtle accusation hanging in the air.

“Remember, sisters,” she says, her voice dropping into a lower, more solemn tone, “the path to salvation is narrow, and many will stray. But together, under my guidance, we will remain steadfast in our faith.”

The priest nods approvingly and steps forward to lead the congregation in prayer. But my heart is racing, my mind spinning.

Tara leans over again, her voice barely a whisper. “She gives me the creeps.”

I don’t respond, my hands clasped tightly in my lap as I bow my head for prayer. All I can think about is the way She looked at me, like she knew everything. And worse, like she’s waiting for me to slip up again.

I take a sigh of relief as Mass comes to an end. Yet, a sense of listlessness creeps into my heart, leaving it heavy. Something that used to bring me such comfort and peace now only weighs me down with the burden of my own temptations. It’s as if the purity of faith is slipping through my fingers, replaced by an unshakable unease.

As Tara and I rise to our feet, I notice the Reverend Mother and our new Mother Superior heading our way.

“Shit, they’re out for blood today,” Tara whispers, as if we’re prey about to be devoured by circling sharks.

“Mother Superior Bennett, this is Sister Tara,” the Reverend Mother says, introducing my friend, who shakes Bennett’s hand.

“I hear you’re a lively girl,” Bennett observes sternly, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“What can I say? I make the most of life,” Tara smiles with practiced charm, her freckled face and slight gap in her teeth giving her a disarming innocence—an innocence she doesn’t truly possess. I, on the other hand, look the part of trouble, with my dark, smoky eyes and full lips. I’ve never been able to hide behind a facade as easily as Tara can.

“You’re too pretty to wear the habit,” Father Richard Craemer had once remarked, half-joking, as I had approached him with some trivial inquiry.

But his words lingered, haunting me with the uncomfortable truth they suggested—that perhaps I didn’t belong here, that the world outside these walls still had its hold on me. Even now, as Mother Superior’s eyes meet mine, I can feel the weight of judgment, as though she can see the same thing Father Craemer did, the duality of faith and desire warring beneath the surface.

“And this is Sister Raven,” Reverend Mother adds, as Mother Bennett’s eyes study me. “The one I was telling you about.”

“How lovely to meet you, child,” Bennett says, her voice cold yet laced with intrigue.

“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a nervous smile.

“Could you both give us a moment?” Bennett asks, addressing Tara and Reverend Mother. “I wish to have a word with Sister Raven alone.”

They nod, and I catch Tara's eyes flashing with concern as she follows Reverend Mother away. I glance back at her, my own stare full of anxiety. What if she knows? But how could she?

As the two women leave, I’m left standing in front of the ominous presence of Mother Bennett. She regards me with a piercing gaze, as if appraising something beneath the surface.

“You’re a very beautiful girl,” she says finally, her tone unreadable.

“It’s not my intention to be,” I respond quickly, not wanting her to mistake my appearance for vanity.

“I can see that,” she replies, almost arrogantly. “And don’t apologize for it. God made the world beautiful, and you are simply another beautiful part of it.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying to sound grateful but unsure of her intention.

“It is not meant as flattery, child,” she corrects, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “It’s a warning. Just like God, the Devil loves pretty things.”

“That’s why I’ve chosen to give my life to God,” I say softly, hoping my words carry conviction.

“I’m not sure if that's a choice you are capable of making,” she says skeptically, Mother Bennett's eyes narrow as if she's weighing my soul against her words. "You think choosing God is simple? That it's just a matter of will?"

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I believe in my path. In time, my faith will strengthen."

She steps closer, her presence looming like a storm cloud. “Faith is not about time, Sister. It’s about discipline. Sacrifice. You say you’ve chosen God, but have you ever considered that maybe God has not chosen you?"

Her words strike me like a slap, sharp and unexpected. My breath catches in my throat, my mind racing to grasp what she’s implying. I’ve never considered that God... might not want me. The idea gnaws at something deep inside me, a fear I’ve always harbored, but never allowed myself to fully acknowledge.

I blink, fighting to maintain my composure. “I... I believe He has,” I stammer, though the confidence in my voice wavers like a ship on stormy waters.

Mother Bennett’s gaze doesn’t soften, not for a moment. “Belief is not certainty, child. Be very careful where you place your faith—both in yourself and in what you think God wants from you.”

“With all due respect, Mother Bennett, I understand that you’re merely trying to assure me that I’m on the right path,” I begin, my voice calm but firm. “But I’ve spent most of my life in the church, and Sister Azar felt this was my calling—”

“Oh yes,” she cuts in with a smirk, her tone dripping with condescension. “Sister Azar. She was a wise woman, your mentor.”

“She was like a mother to me,” I respond, a flicker of emotion breaking through my composure.

Mother Bennett’s eyes flicker with something unspoken, but her hard resolve remains. Her voice, however, softens—just slightly. “That’s right, you’re an orphan.”

“And I owe my life to my faith,” I reply, meeting her gaze with renewed determination.

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” she replies, her tone now almost pitying. “But have you ever considered that perhaps your Creator has a different path in mind for you?”

I stare at her as clearly the thought has crossed my mind more than I’d like to admit. However, “Sister Azar assured me a path with God was my true calling, that is what I must see through.”

“Very well then,” she says sternly and takes a step forward to pass me. “But if the Creator beckons you to another calling, you must go to it,” she adds placing a hand on my shoulder.

I nod, reluctantly, feeling as if I know my path, though deep down, I don’t know if I truly believe it.

She gives me a suspecting glare, as if she knows the doubt in my heart. “I would strongly recommend confession today.”

I do as I’m told: once by my Reverend Mother and now again by my Mother Superior, fearing maybe they can see the doubt that stirs within my soul. But worse, that they can see the shadow that lurks within the darkest recess of my heart.

There’s a chill in the air now, heavier than before, pressing down on me with each step I take toward the chapel. She’s planted something in my mind—seeds of doubt, twisting my thoughts like vines around a crumbling foundation. Working their way into the cracks and further breaking down the strong will of the stone.

Confession.

I don’t even know if I believe it will help. But I walk down the narrow corridor regardless, my footsteps echoing in the silence, accompanied only by the nagging pull of uncertainty. I’d like to think I know my path, that my faith is strong enough to withstand doubt, that this my my true calling. But Mother Bennett’s warning only deepens the cracks in my resolve. As if she can see that part of myself I try so hard to keep locked away.

Maybe she knows…

I’ve tried so hard to out run my past, yet it still lingers in my heart.

Candlelight flickers across the chapel walls, casting shadows about the confessional, making the space feel smaller—more confining. I pause at the door to the confessional booth, staring at it as if it holds answers, or maybe just more questions I’m not ready to face.

Discipline. Sacrifice. God loves pretty things... but so does the Devil.

The words play in my mind like a haunting melody, each note tightening the knot in my chest. I take a breath, then another, steadying myself. I don’t know if confession will bring peace or if it will only unravel me further. But there’s no turning back now.

I close the door behind me, sealing myself inside the chamber. The quiet feels oppressive, pressing down on me as if it knows the weight I carry. My fingers curl around the edge of the kneeler, gripping it tightly as if it could keep me tethered to something real. I take another deep breath, trying to release the heaviness clinging to my chest.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Forgiveness is not for me to give, child,” a male voice replies, calm, almost too calm, and void of judgment. “Only God can offer you that.”

I hesitate, my throat tightening, and the silence grows unbearable. “Is that not why I’m here?”

“What sins have you committed?”

The words cling to the back of my throat like smoke, suffocating me.

What sins have I committed?

Too many, I think, and none I can fully confess. Not without tearing apart everything I’ve built. Maybe that’s why God has such a hard time forgiving me.

“There are... thoughts I’ve had. Feelings I can’t control,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the darkness inside me more real.

“That is the nature of the human heart,” the priest replies, softly but with a deliberate weight, as if each word holds more than its surface meaning. “We all carry burdens. What matters is how we deal with them.”

My hands clench in my lap, the fabric of my skirt brushing against my knuckles, grounding me just enough to keep from trembling. “But what if those burdens... are dangerous? What if what’s inside me is something I can’t control?”

He pauses for a moment, and the silence feels like it’s breathing. “We are all tempted, Sister. You must have faith that God will guide you through the darkness.”

My pulse quickens, the air in the chamber growing stifling. “What about temptation?” I ask, almost regretting the question the moment it leaves my lips. I’ve already said too much.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he says, his voice taking on an eerie stillness, “that it is not just the Devil who uses temptation? Sometimes, God places temptation in our path. Whether to test us... or to show us our true purpose. Sometimes, temptation is God’s will.”

I blink, the weight of his words settling into the pit of my stomach like a stone. Temptation... as God’s will? It feels wrong, every instinct screaming against it, yet something about the way he says it stirs doubt inside me. Is this truly a test of my faith, or is something more sinister at play? A chill creeps up my spine, the air suddenly colder.

“I... I don’t know if I can believe that,” I say, my voice low but, trembling with uncertainty. “Isn’t temptation meant to lead us astray? To challenge our resolve?”

The priest remains calm, but now his tone carries something darker, something lurking beneath the surface. “Not always, Sister. Sometimes, temptation reveals the truth within us. It shows us the parts of ourselves we try to deny... the desires, the needs... the power we possess but are too afraid to claim.”

My stomach coils, twisting like a snake, his words wrapping themselves around my deepest fears. The power within me—the darkness. I’ve spent so long trying to suppress it, trying to push it down. But what if he’s right? What if it’s not meant to be controlled?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts that cling to me like shadows. “That... that can’t be right. God wouldn’t test me like that. He wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t He?” The priest cuts me off, his voice sharper now, like a blade hidden in silk. “Who better to test, Sister, than someone like you? Someone who walks the line between light and shadow. You feel it, don’t you? The pull... the temptation to embrace what you are. To have all you want.”

A shiver runs through me, my pulse racing. I pull back, feeling the walls of the confessional closing in. “You can’t really think that...”

“I

know

it, Raven.”

His voice shifts, the gentle tone warping into something deeper, something monstrous. It’s no longer the priest speaking. My blood runs cold.

“AND YOU KNOW IT TOO.”

The voice is unmistakable—

HIM

. His voice seeps into my mind like poison, laced with power, dripping with malice.

“SOON YOU WILL SEE THE TRUTH FOR WHAT IT IS.”

I gasp, stumbling back from the kneeler as the walls of the chamber seem to close in on me, distorting, warping, twisting around me like shadows made solid. His voice fills the room, fills my mind, and I can’t escape it.

“No...” I whisper, clutching my chest as panic rises. “No...”

The priest’s voice returns, calm, patient, but with an edge that now feels predatory. “Are you all right, Sister?”

I’m trembling, unsure if I’m even still in the confessional or if the darkness has swallowed me whole. I can feel the weight of something ancient pressing down on me, suffocating me.

But I can’t let him—

them

—win.

“I... I need to go.”

I throw open the confessional door, my chest tight as I flee from the chapel. Shadows twist across the walls, curling into strange forms as I race down the hall. I glance behind me, feeling a dark presence at my back, and the inhuman growl of laughter echoes, lurking closer. I quicken my pace, my escape ringing in my mind as I spot the front entrance ahead. But then, a shadow crosses my path, forcing me to veer in the opposite direction.

Another shadow crosses my path from the chapel entrance, and I hurry past, desperate to find a way out before whatever darkness is trying to catch me can take hold. My heart races, each thud echoing in my ears like a frantic drumbeat. I can feel the weight of unseen eyes upon me, a sinister presence that seems to wrap around me like fog.

I dart through the narrow corridors, seeking refuge, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shapes on the walls. Each step feels like a race against an encroaching dread, whispering my name. Calling me toward an unknown fate. I push through the heavy wooden door leading to the courtyard, the cool autumn air hitting me with its balmy touch.

“Come back, Raven…” I hear a woman’s voice call.

I turn and look back into the dark void, a gust rushes over the flickering candles, turning their flames to dance in the wind.

“I need you, Raven… Come back to me…”

I stand before the doorway, and for a moment I think I see the figure of a woman in black. Her long black hair covers her white face, hiding it’s features. Something seems familiar about her, but wrong.

When suddenly a hand rests upon my shoulder. “Raven?”

I jump at the touch and whip around to see Tara standing behind me, her brow furrowed with concern. The tension in my chest eases, but the lingering dread remains, coiling around me like smoke.

“What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I catch my breath, relieved it’s just Tara. “It’s nothing,” I stammer, still disoriented. “I thought I heard someone.”

She peers beyond me into the hall. “There’s no one there.”

I turn to find the figure has vanished, and embarrassment floods me. “Like I said, it’s nothing.”

“What about your coat?” Tara calls after me.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” I reply, too rattled to venture back inside. I hurry down the stairs, the chill of the autumn air hitting me like a splash of cold water.

Tara says nothing as she follows me, unsure of what to think. I’m feeling uneasy, the last time anything like this happened, my whole world ended.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tara asks, her concern palpable as she stands beside me at the bus stop.

“I’m fine,” I insist, though I’m not.

The bus pulls up, and we wait as other passengers file on. I want nothing more than to push past everyone and curl up in the furthest seat. But I keep my composure, even though I feel ready to crawl out of my skin. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a figure—a priest I’ve never seen before, his hair stark white.

“Sister, wait,” he calls, flagging me down. Tara turns to acknowledge his request. “You forgot your coat.”

I close my eyes, trying to settle myself before I turn to face him. But as I take in the finer details of his features, I can’t help but feel unsettled. A pair of blood-red eyes meet my gaze, and a flash of yellowed teeth flickers my way. His skin is as white as his hair, almost translucent, with veins branching up his temples.

I almost want to assure him he’s mistaken, but I know Tara would only question my actions further. The last thing I need is for this priest to report that I snubbed him.

“Thank you,” I muster, keeping it short as I take my coat, folding it over my arm.

He smiles, his incisors fang-like. “No problem. You left in quite the hurry. Is everything alright?”

I can see Tara looking at me skeptically, her own concerns swimming in that little blonde head of hers. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed, is all.”

“Oh?” He sighs and shrugs. “I thought it might have been something I said.”

His smile spreads like spoiled honey, and I pull back the urge to say it was everything he said.

“We haven’t officially met yet,” he adds, holding out his hand. “Father Sebastian Blood.”

I take his hand reluctantly, something about him leaving me feeling unsettled. “Sister Raven.”

“I know,” is all he says.

As I shake his hand, a jolt of electricity shoots through me, an unsettling connection that sends a shiver down my spine. I quickly pull my hand back, feeling the weight of his gaze like a shadow draped over me.

“I’m sorry I have to go,” is all I say and retreat towards the bus.

He nods. “Sister Raven remember, Temptation isn’t merely a sin, but a greater challenge.”

I pause as I board the bus and look back at him, his blood red gaze holding my violet one.

“You’ll find the right path in the end,” he assures, voice smooth and full of certainty. But there’s something beneath it, something twisted.

I can’t help but feel a cold pit form in my stomach. The air feels heavy, and the unease I’ve been fighting surges again. A part of me wants to scream at his assurance, to reject it, but the words choke in my throat. I force myself to turn away, boarding the bus without another glance.

As the doors close behind me, I can still feel his eyes on me, as if he’s watching, waiting. The bus pulls away, but the creeping sensation of dread doesn’t leave. His words linger, like a whisper at the back of my mind.

The bus ride is quiet, the silence stretching between Tara and me like a thin veil. She doesn’t say a word until the bus empties out, leaving just the two of us. The hum of the engine fills the space, but the tension is harder to ignore.

“That was a little awkward,” Tara finally says, her voice low.

I shrug, still replaying the encounter in my head. “Who is he?”

“From what the Reverend Mother said, he’s a new priest. Joined alongside Mother Bennet. Apparently, he just finished his monastery training.”

I take a deep breath, trying to shake the way Father Blood’s eyes lingered on me, the strange charge that pulsed through his touch. “He has some... unorthodox ideas. At least, that’s the impression I got.”

Tara smirks, tilting her head slightly. “Some of the new priests do,” she agrees, her tone casual, but I can sense her curiosity.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a missed call from Damian. Tara notices, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Speaking of unorthodox ideas,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” I mutter, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The bus slows to a stop, and we step off into the cool night air. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’ve got to finish packing and get a few things in order before the retreat,” she says. “Why, what’s up?”

I hesitate, feeling a little foolish for even asking. “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out.”

Tara glances at me, picking up on my unease. She’s known me long enough to sense when something’s off. “I can’t tonight,” she says gently, “but... if you’re not up for being alone, why don’t you call Damian?”

Her suggestion lands like a rock in my chest. It’s tempting, too tempting. After all, I can still feel the ghost of his kiss, the way my heart stuttered in my chest. But being with him—spending more time with him—it’ll only make things more complicated, especially with everything I’m questioning now. Am I strong enough to resist... or is it part of a bigger test?

“You heard Father Blood,” Tara says, her voice teasing but with an edge of sincerity. “Temptation isn’t just a sin; it’s a challenge.”

I roll my eyes, feeling a flutter of doubt. “A challenge against my vows.”

“Raven,” she presses, her tone softening. “You haven’t taken your final vows yet. You’re still figuring things out. It’s not wrong to explore this part of yourself. If you’re going to, now’s the time.”

Tara bids me good-bye for the night and goes on her way leaving me to the heavy feeling weighing down my soul. Her words gnaw at me, pulling at the threads of my resolve. I bite my lip, staring at my phone in my hand, my thumb hovering over Damian’s name. I take a breath, steadying myself against the conflicting emotions swirling inside me. Before I can second-guess it, I hit send.

As the phone rings, I look out into the night, wondering if this path is truly mine to choose—or if I’m just following the pull of something darker.

“Hello?”

“Damian… it's Raven.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Damian:

I awoke from the same dream again. Only this time something about it felt more real—felt closer.

My pulse thumped in my ears as the very rhythm of that bursting light. I sat up, the remnants of the dream clinging to my thoughts like a ghost I can’t shake. It was always the same, however this time I found myself in a dark corridor, her silhouette slipping out of reach before a suffocating sense of something lurking behind her gripped me tight. As if facing down something I could never see, but could feel vividly.

I run a hand through my hair, frustration biting at me. It was more than just a dream. I know it. I always have… Something’s wrong.

I’ve always prided myself on keeping emotion and intuition separate, on relying on facts and training. But this—this is different. There’s a pull, a warning deep in my gut, and it’s getting harder to ignore. Raven’s in danger. Of what, I can’t yet say. But I can feel it gnawing at the edge of my mind.

With a resigned sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. I want to let this go, but can’t. Ignoring my instincts has never served me well—I needed to find her. Now. Before whatever darkness can close in on her and I’m helpless to stop it.

I checked her location—at the monastery, of course. “Naturally,” I muttered. Sunday morning. I should’ve known.

I get up and go for a run, hoping the cold air will cut through the fog still clouding my head from last night's alcohol and the lingering haze of my dreams. The chill bites at my skin, but I welcome it. It's grounding. The fall air is cool and damp, and I take it in with deep, steady breaths as my senses sharpen. The leaves have turned, a blend of copper, red, and flashes of brilliant yellow—there’s a richness to it. I can see why people flock here to gawk at the scenery, why they pour in from the city, looking for something that feels real.

But I also get why the locals hate them. The outsiders show up with their fake politeness, that empty "thank you" and forced smiles. It’s the kind of courtesy that doesn’t mean anything. The locals, though? They don’t waste time with that. They’re blunt. They might not say "please" or "thank you," but they hold doors open, they let you cut in line if you look like you're in a hurry. Their kindness isn’t wrapped in words. Their actions speak for themselves, even if every syllable they actually speak is just short of

"go fuck yourself."

Or since this is New England:

“Whatever Kid, go fuck your mother.”

I fit right in.

On my way back, I grabbed a coffee, then headed to the boarding house. A quick shower, then I settled into my work. Yesterday, I came across an old record that could’ve helped, but since Raven was a minor at the time, it’s sealed. I don’t have the clearance to access it. And when I tried to get a physical copy, I found out the building that housed it had burned down—every file went up with it.

“That’s disappointing,” I muttered. Plan A—breaking in and taking it myself—was off the table. Now, I had to involve someone else.

I could call Gordon. Oracle would pull the file in minutes. But that would mean bringing my father into it, and I couldn’t stomach that. Stone’s also out for the same reason.

Which left…

“Fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“What the fuck do you want, Spawn?” Todd’s voice greeted me with his usual charm.

I rolled my eyes. “Nice greeting. I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” His tone carries that special mix of skepticism and intrigue only Jason can pull off.

“The kind that doesn’t involve my father.”

“Keeping Bruce in the dark?” I can practically hear his smirk through the line. “I’m listening.”

“I need access to sealed juvenile records,” I say in measured tone trying to ignore his deeper proding. “Do you know anyone who can help?”

He sighs. “Yeah, but you didn’t call her.”

“Who says you’re not the detective in the family?” I shot back. Banter. Always.

“For someone asking for my help, you’re awfully ballsy.”

“It’s my charm. Can you help or not?”

“I might know someone, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“It can’t be Stone or Gordon.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s not them. Neither would be caught dead in the same room as this guy.”

I frowned. “Who is it?”

Jason smirked. I couldn’t tell if he was screwing with me or being serious. “Probably best if you don’t know. Send me the info, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

I hated that it had come to this, but I had to trust Todd—for now. “I’ll send you the file. Let me know what you find.”

“You got it, Small Fry.”

“I’d tell you to go fuck your mother, but you don’t have one.”

“Yeah, tragic,” Jason quipped, flipping it around with that infuriating grin. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck yours.”

“One of these days, I’m going to kill you for that.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath. But we both know that’s a long list you’ve got to burn through. Don’t let me stop you.”

“You get me those answers.”

“When have I ever failed you?”

“I don’t have time for this, Todd,” I muttered. “Just let me know when you find something.”

“Will do.”

I hung up before he could throw another insult my way.

Raven’s past had gaps. Big ones. She was found abandoned as an infant on the steps of a convent, never adopted—odd, considering she was a baby. She wasn’t placed in foster care either. Raised at a Catholic boarding school by the nuns. Unusual.

Then, around sixteen, she vanished from all records—academic, legal, everything.

“That’s what’s in the sealed file.”

And I needed to know why.

I know I shouldn’t. It’s unprofessional. But if Jason comes up short, I’ll have to get the answers some other way. “Might as well get them from the source,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.

I pick up my phone and swipe through the conversation from last night, my eyes scanning the messages. A sigh slips from my chest as memories surface—her warmth pressed against me, the taste of her lips still lingering like a ghost I can’t shake.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I snap, breaking the spell. I’m not supposed to be remembering some date fondly. She’s the subject of my investigation, my target, and here I am acting like an idiot. “Get it together, Damian.”

I toss the phone down, forcing myself to refocus. My mission comes first. Always.

In a wave of unsettled frustration I decide to place my focus elsewhere--her shady friend Tara might shed some light I would’t otherwise see.

I scan her location and see she too is currently occupying the same monastery. However, I did not get her last name. No matter. If hacking a church database is sin, then I’m gonna burn in Hell ten times over as this is probably the fifth time I’ve done it.

Easily I find a file on Tara Markov and open it. Like Raven, Tara seems to have no family, but unlike Raven was not raised in the church. Instead, it shows that she spent time in and out of foster care.

“That would explain the chip on her shoulder,” I glower, recalling her icy demeaner. However I’m still struggling to understand why a girl like that wants to commit herself to God. She practically bemoans it.

Still I don’t see anything that screams for my attention other than her mis-matched life style.

Which bring to the inconsistencies of Raven’s background and her current choices raise questions, but nothing tangible enough to pursue—yet. Frustration gnaws at me as I switch focus to Arella’s journal. If there’s any insight to be gained, it’ll be here. Specifically, I comb through the passages detailing her escape from the Church of Blood. There has to be something useful.

One entry catches my eye:

One of Brother Blood’s disciples, Anna, befriended me. I don’t know if she feels sorry for me or if she feels for my baby, but she goes out of her way to make sure I’m comfortable. Anna is Brother Blood’s “wife,” and though I appreciate her kindness, her willingness to let me nurse and care for my baby myself, I do not know if I can trust her.

I pause. The mention of Anna—Blood’s

wife

—and her conflicted motives grabs my attention. There’s a weight behind these words, an unease woven into the kindness. Arella knew something was off. But what stands out most is that Anna, despite being so close to Blood, had moments of sympathy. That complicates things. How does the wife of a cult leader form bonds with the women he’s keeping prisoner?

The more I read, the more tangled it becomes. Was Anna complicit in Arella’s suffering, or was she just another pawn? I can’t be sure yet. But it’s clear that Arella felt trapped, even when shown mercy. Mercy with an agenda, no doubt.

My mind churns as I dig deeper, trying to piece together how Anna’s role played into Arella’s escape. Trusting someone so deeply entwined in the cult must have been a gamble for Arella, a risk she couldn’t afford, especially with Raven’s life in the balance.

This passage feels like a key, but to what? Did Anna help Arella escape, or was she part of the reason Arella stayed trapped as long as she did? The journal entry is cryptic—like so much of this case—and I can’t ignore that something here feels... unfinished.

Unfinished.

That word gnaws at me, digging under my skin like it carries some significancen. No, the correct spelling is I can't shake. It’s like walking into a room, forgetting why you entered, and then standing there, knowing you’re missing something. I’d be lying if I said my whole life didn’t feel like that sometimes—always one step ahead, but never quite reaching the end.

Without thinking, I pick up my phone again. Against every instinct, I type a message.

Hey, how are you today?

I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, and instantly regret it. Staring at the screen, I grit my teeth, irritation creeping up my spine. I try to rationalize it, tell myself it’s necessary. If I want answers, I’ll have to play along with this—whatever this is. The pretense of a relationship, built on lies and half-truths. But just for a little while longer.

Besides, she’s a nun. It’s not like she’s looking for anything long-term. No one here is. We’re both using each other.

“We’re both lying.” not just to each other, but to ourselves.

Still, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I suddenly feel the urge to get some air.

I couldn’t stay here. The walls of the room were closing in, suffocating me, as if I were already losing my grip on the mission. I can’t afford that. Not now.

The brisk air hits my face, its bite demanding my attention. I don’t mind it. It reminds me of Nanda Parbat, how the cold scent rolled off the snowcaps in early spring from a downward breeze. People in the villages below my grandfather’s stronghold led such simple lives. It makes me miss the smell of sheep passing by, the distant undertone of burning leaves. I think about how it felt, training in the damp air, coming back to the welcome of a warm fire.

I wonder if I’ll ever return to that life—if I even want to.

Still, the cold grounds me in something real, something tangible, away from the web of lies I’ve spun around myself. I check my phone again, half-expecting to see a reply. Nothing. A blessing, really. What would I even say if she responded? Small talk? Casual conversation? That’s not me... that’s not

us

.

Us.

The word feels too natural. Confusion coils in my chest like a serpent as I scold myself for even considering it. “Shit, you’d think they sent Logan on this mission,” I mutter under my breath.

I quicken my pace, the sound of my footsteps crunching on the gravel path in sync with the hammering in my chest. The afternoon’s fading light stretches long across the landscape, the sun slowly withering into its golden grave for the coming night. There's something about the way it hits the trees that gives me pause, momentarily pulling me into a quiet reflection. But then—

A snap.

I don’t react outwardly, only catching movement at the edge of my vision. If someone’s following me, letting them know I’ve noticed would be careless. And I can’t afford mistakes. It could be nothing, but I’m not willing to assume that. I uncross my arms and keep moving, my senses high, muscles coiled for whatever might come next. I won’t let my guard down.

I keep moving, forcing my stride to stay casual even as every instinct sharpens. The snap could’ve been anything—an animal, a stray branch—but it doesn’t sit right. My pulse drums in my ears, drowning out the distant hum of the forest.

Another crack. Closer.

I slow my breathing, eyes scanning the trees without turning my head. Whoever it is, they’re good—silent, almost, except for that moment of misstep. But no one gets the jump on me. Not out here.

I take a deliberate step forward, then pivot hard, faster than they can react—

A blur lunges out from the shadow, too fast, too close.

SLAM.

The weight hits me before I can brace, the world tilting violently as I’m slammed backward into the dirt. The sharp sting of impact jolts through my spine as we crash, tangled in motion. I roll instinctively, but something pins me down, heavy and relentless. My hands shoot up, grappling for leverage—

SLURP…

“I just got ambushed by a fucking dog.”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry!” I hear a woman cry as she sees her dog standing over me with it’s paws planted firmly on my chest.

The dog's tongue lolls out as it happily slathers my face, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m not amused. I can feel the weight of its paws digging into my chest, the relentless pressure keeping me pinned in place as it wags its tail with unbridled enthusiasm. I normally love dogs, but given the circumstances, I’m not in the mood.

I shove the dog off, sitting up and wiping my face with the back of my hand, irritation simmering just below the surface. A woman rushes over, half-bent, arms flailing as she tries to rein in her overly friendly mutt. "Oh my God, I’m so sorry!" she stammers, struggling with the leash. The dog, completely unaware of the chaos he’s caused as he pants happily by her side.

I glare at her for a moment, words lodged in my throat, but I swallow them down. No point in it “It’s fine,” I say gruffly and pull myself up and dust the crumbled leaves and dirt from my shirt.

“I didn’t see you there—I didn’t know he’d run off,” she adds, voice small, but I can’t focus on her apology. The snap from earlier is still fresh in my mind. My instincts aren’t wrong. I know I’m being watched. Maybe this was just a coincidence. But maybe it wasn’t.

I glance at the dog. "Keep your animal under control," I mutter, my voice low but cold enough to freeze the warmth in her apology. The woman’s face flushes with embarassment, and she nods quickly, tugging the dog’s leash tighter.

She stumbles backward, offering another weak apology before she turns, half-dragging the dog away. As soon as they’re out of sight, I scan the treeline again. Every muscle in my body is tense. The attack—if it was coming—had been delayed, thrown off by that damn dog.

But I can still feel eyes on me.

I head toward the edge of the treeline, putting distance between myself and whatever threat might be lurking in the shadows. As I step off the wooded path and onto the main road leading into town, the sun hovers at the tops of the trees, casting a warm glow over the vibrant fall colors. Normally, I’d take a moment to appreciate the view, but I can’t afford that now. I can’t let my guard down.

I need to reach a less isolated area, somewhere with fewer blind spots, away from the risk of an ambush.

I keep my pace steady, footsteps deliberate as I follow the road into town. The quiet of the countryside gives way to the distant hum of life ahead—the faint murmur of voices, the rumble of cars, the clink of metal from some distant shop. It’s a small college town in the western part of the state, unassuming, but I know better than to underestimate quiet places. They often hold the darkest secrets.

The streets are lined with quaint, rustic buildings, their windows glowing with the warm light of early evening. Locals move about their business, but no one pays me any mind. I blend in, just another traveler passing through, and that’s how I want it. The fewer eyes on me, the better.

They probably just think I’m a passing college kid who’ll come and go with each passing semester. Take what I can get and run back to city life without a second thought.

I scan the area without making it obvious, taking in potential escape routes, alleyways, and anyone who might be a threat. Nothing stands out immediately, but the feeling gnaws at me—an unease that I can’t shake. Whoever was in the woods wasn’t just wandering around for no reason. They were watching. Waiting.

I slip my phone from my pocket, checking again for any updates. Still nothing. Raven is silent. Part of me is relieved, but another part... it's restless. She’s probably fine, but this silence feels wrong.

A group of teenagers walk past, laughing loudly, and I instinctively tense. One of them glances my way, just for a second, and I meet his gaze with a hardened stare. He quickly looks away, pulling his jacket tighter, as if to senese I am not the guy to fuck with and continues down the road.

I turn my attention away from the fading chaos and set my sights on the path back to the boarding house. Once I reach the porch, I pause, scanning the street to make sure I haven’t been followed. Nothing seems out of place—no immediate threats. The shadows sit still, indifferent. Satisfied, I step inside, the foyer dim and quiet, the wood floor groaning under the weight of my boots. The old 19th-century house feels like it might give way under pressure as if it’s made of splinters, but I find some comfort in its worn sturdiness.

I push the door closed, intent on locking it when a voice catches me off guard.

“Hello, Daniel.”

God, I hate that name.

I turn to Mrs. Hass, trying to mask the irritation bubbling under the surface. “Mrs. Hass, is something wrong?”

She gives me a puzzled look, her brow furrowing, and I wonder if my tone had come off harsher than intended. “No, Daniel. I was just coming to see if you’d like to join everyone for dinner.”

Dinner with strangers? No, thanks. The idea alone feels suffocating—dull conversation, forced smiles. I’m not built for that kind of mundane social pleasantry.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say, dodging her request with a thin smile, “but I’m drowning in work.” I step back, trying to ease my way out of the conversation.

She presses. “Surely, you can take a break to eat?”

“I just did,” I lie, keeping my tone clipped. The name Daniel Grayson makes my skin crawl every time she says it. Why Stone thought that was a fitting alias, I’ll never know. It’s too friendly, too approachable. Exactly the opposite of what I want to be. “I grabbed something when I was out.”

“Oh. Alright then,” she says, her voice tinged with a faint hint of disappointment.

A pang of guilt hits me. Mrs. Hass is just a kind old woman, opening her home to strangers. Sure, there are concerns about letting people come and go unchecked, but she doesn’t deserve my coldness. She’s harmless. And yet, even kindness feels like something I can’t afford to indulge in right now.

Before I can try to explain myself, my phone vibrates, perfectly timed to save me from the awkwardness. I pull it from my pocket and see her name—

Raven

. An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, warming my face. It’s rare, and noticeable enough that Mrs. Hass catches it, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

“A young lady, I assume?” she asks, her tone playful, her grin sly. My expression hardens again, slipping back into the familiar mask of stoicism.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer it?”

A good question. Should I? I shouldn’t be this close to her. I know that. But what if she’s in trouble? Whoever’s following me could be following her. The thought alone sends a flicker of unease down my spine.

I give Mrs. Hass a curt nod, not trusting myself to say more, and dart up the stairs. As I swipe the screen, the decision is already made. I want to institly regret it, but I don’t--not even for an instant.

“Hello?”

“Damian... it’s Raven,” she says, her voice soft, trembling at the edges. She’s just as unsure about this as I am, both of us questioning if this call is a mistake.

“Hey, how are you?” I ask, stepping into my room and closing the door behind me. The latch clicks shut, sealing me into this private moment, one I hadn’t planned for.

“I’m… good. You?”

There’s a pause. I’ve been better—hell,

a lot

better—but telling her that isn’t an option. “I’m fine,” I lie, forcing my voice to stay level. “What’s up?”

“Um, nothing, I was just…” Her words trail off, the hesitation palpable. She’s reconsidering, realizing how foolish it might seem. I can almost hear the weight of what’s unsaid pressing on her, on both of us. She doesn’t need to finish. I know exactly what she’s thinking—how much is at stake, how dangerous it is to let even a sliver of this conversation crack open the door we’ve been trying to keep shut.

“You were just… checking in?” I offer, hoping to ease her discomfort, though it’s more for my benefit than hers.

A nervous laugh slips through the line, but it’s thin, fragile. “Yeah, something like that.”

There’s something about the hum of her laughter that eases me, and I feel my guard slip as I lean against the door. “Raven, if something’s wrong, just tell me.”

I can hear her take a deep breath, as if bracing herself for what she’s about to say. “I just… wanted to hear your voice,” she admits quietly, barely above a whisper.

“It’s good to hear yours, too,” I reply, the honesty surprising even me.

“What are you doing right now?”

I glance over at my desk, then the empty chair that should be occupied by myself busy with a mountain of work. “Um… nothing I can’t come back to… Why?”

Again, there’s a pause, thick with uncertainty. “I um… I just… See, I was thinking—”

“Are you asking me out?” I interject flatly, picking up on the bashfulness in her tone.

“No!” she blurts, the protest coming out too quickly, as if the very idea is absurd. Because it is, but I’m the only one who’s fully aware of that. She laughs it off, but I can hear the embarrassment creeping in. “I was just seeing if you wanted to get dinner… y’know… as friends.”

I feel my expression soften and a smile creeps into my voice. “Where do you want to meet?” I ask, managing to keep my tone casual, though a rush of something—excitement? dread?—surges through me.

“The Brick, in an hour?”

“The Brick in an hour then,” I say, before I can second-guess myself.

“Great,” she replies, a hint of relief in her voice.

“Great.” One of us should hang up, but something strange lingers between us, as letting go isn’t something either of us wants… However, it’s me who knows the full extent of this lie. “Hey Raven, before you go…”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, okay?” I say, the warning slipping out as if second nature.

“I will. You, too,” she replies softly, and for a moment, the weight of some unspoken connection hangs between us, the call’s end looming like a fragile promise.

“Don’t worry about me” I offer lightly. “See you in an hour.”

I end the call, a flurry of thoughts churn in my mind. Dinner. As friends. But deep down, I know it’s never that simple. Nor is it right.

“If the League catches wind of this...” I let the thought hang, knowing exactly whose wrath I fear most. My father’s disappointment is a particular kind of punishment—one that hits harder than any lecture or reprimand. And worse, this whole thing reeks of something my mother would pull. According to him, she’s the source of my

“questionable Judgment,”

While conveniently forgetting he’s the one with  the questionable taste in women.

She’s also, in Grayson’s words, the reason I’m a

‘closeted romantic.’

I roll my eyes at the thought, dragging a hand down my face. A date. I’m getting ready for a

date

.

“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath. “I meet a girl—and she’s a nun—and the target of a cult I’m supposed to take down.”

Todd would say this tracks, more than I’d like to admit. My father would bark that now isn’t the time for emotional distractions—

Grayson

would agree, just with a softer touch. And Drake? Drake would laugh his ass off, grab popcorn, and thoroughly enjoy watching me get torn to shreds for it.

As I get ready to leave as if on cue, my phone rings. I pull it out expecting it to be Grayson or my father—it’s Kent.

“Micro managing?” I answer clipped.

“And I thought your dad was dry on the phone.”

My grimace deepens as I locked my door and head down the stairs. “What do you want, Kent?”

He pauses, Clark Kent and I have never seen eye to eye, but he’s learned to stay out of my way and let either Grayson or my father delegate. “I’m just looking for a progress check.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The pause on the other end tells me I’ve hit the mark. Kent didn’t call for a casual check-in. He’s fishing.

“You really think I’d lie to you?” His tone stays calm, like he’s dealing with a kid throwing a tantrum. Which only makes it worse.

“I

know

you would.” I push the door open and step into the cool night air, stuffing my free hand into my jacket pocket. “You just have a mealing mouth way of doing it.”

Kent chuckles lightly, the sound grating against my nerves. “I’ll take that as a compliment?”

I don’t respond. The silence stretches out between us, thick with all the things we won’t say. I make my way toward the street, my steps falling into an easy rhythm, trying to keep my mind focused.

“Look,” Kent finally says, dropping some of the playful edge. “Just keep your head on straight. This one’s tricky.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I snapp, glancing at the alleyway across the street where I know Raven will be waiting.

I can hear his voice falter, not expecting me to be so pointed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Did you forget that whole part of the conversation where I accused you of lying and you denied it?”

“I’m just trying offer you advice,” he says defensively.

“Advice no one, especially me, asked for.”

“Okay then,” he mutters, backing down. “I guess keep us posted then.”

“As I have been,” I say half lying, as there are clearly details I’m not keen on sharing.

“Alright then,” he says as I can see Raven waiting for me in the distance. “But Damian...” His voice shifts, becoming softer, almost paternal. I hate that tone. “It’s not just about the mission. You know that, right?”

I stop mid-step, clenching my jaw. I

do

know that. That’s the problem. “You done?”

He sighs like he’s tired of the whole conversation. “Yeah.”

“Good don’t ever tell me how to do my fucking job again.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do, kid.”

“Fuck off.”

I hang up without saying goodbye and shove the phone back into my pocket.

Kid.

That’s exactly what they all think I am. Grayson, Drake, even Kent—always trying to steer me like I’m just another project in need of fixing.

But they don’t understand. They never have. And they don’t need to. I’ve got a target to track, and tonight, that’s all that matters.

“That was a little intense,” I hear Raven say and realize she’d been standing within ear shot.

I smile sheepishly, trying to brush it off. “Work is a little stressful. My boss is an asshole.”

“Oh you have a job,” she asks casually.

“Yeah,” I shrug meeting her when my phone rings again.

I roll my eyes and check the screen to see it’s Kent again. I consider not answering it, but have the feeling if I don’t this could come back and bite me in the ass.

“One second,” I say gesturing to Raven and swipe the screen shifting my mood. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Damian, I might not be your father but you can’t talk to me like that.”

"Exactly,

you're not

my father," I snap, stepping away from Raven to put some distance between us and this conversation. “So stop acting like you are.”

“That is not my intention—”

“Save it for your Boy Scout troop,” I cut in sharply. “I have a job to do. Don’t ever fucking call me again.”

I hang up abruptly, knowing this is likely not the end of it, but I don’t care to think on that now.

“You talk to your boss like that?” Raven questions, shocked at how easy I flip my tone.

I pause, realizing how off color it looks. “I work in freelance security,” I say smoothly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Let’s just say some clients need to be reminded where the line is.”

Raven arches an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “

Freelance security?

That’s what you’re calling it?”

I smirk. “It’s more complicated than it sounds. Think of it like... asset management with a focus on high-risk environments.”

She hums in amusement. “So, you’re babysitting dangerous people.”

“Something like that.” I glance at her, trying not to betray how much I enjoy the banter. “And sometimes the people paying for the

‘management’

need a verbal slap, too.”

Raven gives a soft laugh, but there’s something in her gaze—like she sees through the layers of bullshit and doesn’t mind. “Must be a thrilling job.”

I grin. “You have no idea.”

"I thought you said you were a student," she says, her tone light but pointed, recalling a detail from the night before.

Shit. I scoff silently at myself—let that one slip through the sober cracks. "I am," I reply smoothly. "Just do this on the side. Being a college student doesn’t exactly pay the bills."

She shrugs as I pull the door open for her, giving me a quick once-over, like she’s sizing me up. "Fair enough," she says, brushing past me into the restaurant.

She knows I’m lying—or at least stretching the truth. Whether her choice to keep moving forward is about her own deception or just curiosity, I can’t tell. And honestly? I don’t care.

I follow her inside to a hostess stand where a sign reads that we can seat ourselves. “Where do you wanna sit?”

I scan the restaurant and spot a booth in the very back where I can keep an eye on the door and everyone around us. “How about the back over there?”

She smirks. “You like a dark corner?”

I shrug. “We can sit somewhere else.”

“No,” she muses. “I like dark corners.”

“Then a dark corner it is.”

I gesture for her to go first, playing the part of a gentleman—whether she sees this as a date or not is irrelevant. I offer to help with her coat, sliding it off her shoulders with practiced ease, then guide her into the booth, making sure I take the seat facing the door.

She glances up at me with a small smile as I hang her coat, a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe. I catch it for a second, then sit down across from her, settling in without a word.

“You’re very chivalrous,” she finally says, her tone light but tinged with amusement, like she’s trying to decide whether to make something of it.

I shrug, leaning back into my seat. “Old habits.”

She studies me for a moment, and I can tell she’s trying to peel back the layers—trying to decide if this is just a polished front or something more. That’s the thing about Raven—she sees more than most, even when she’s pretending not to.

“Old habits from what?” she asks, resting her chin in her hand.

“Life,” I say, nonchalant. I keep my tone even, not offering anything more than I need to. The less I say, the harder it’ll be for her to catch me in any inconsistencies.

Her lips curve, not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one. “You’re very good at dodging questions.”

“You’re very good at asking them,” I say, pretending to scan the menu before I look up to catch her expression.

She arches a brow, half impressed but not deterred. “Is that your strategy? Deflect until I get bored?”

I meet her gaze, steady and unwavering. “Only if it works.”

For a moment, she says nothing, just watching me with that sharp, knowing look of hers. It’s unsettling and intriguing all at once—like standing on the edge of something dangerous, but not quite ready to jump.

The waiter swings by, and we order drinks without missing a beat.

“I’ll just do a black coffee,” I say, invoking a quizzical reaction.

“Black coffee… at this hour?”

“I’m kind of a night owl,” I say dryly.

“Maybe because you’re drinking black coffee with dinner?” she teases, then turns to the waiter. “I’ll follow the lead of the insomniac and get an espresso martini, please.”

I roll my eyes with a smile, taking the hint. “Can you add a shot of bourbon to my coffee?”

“That’s a little more like it.”

I chuckle with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. It’s only Sunday.”

“No rest for the wicked,” she says with a telling smirk as the waiter leaves. She leans forward, perching her chin upon clasped hands, and adds in a low voice, “You don’t make things easy, do you?”

“No,” I say, almost smiling. “Not unless I want to.”

She gives me a measured smile. “I get the impression you never

want to.”

I shake my head. “Your impression would be accurate.”

She chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “I can’t decide if that’s refreshing or exhausting.”

“It could be both,” I challenge.

She tilts her head, watching me again with that quiet intensity, like she’s waiting for me to slip up. But I’ve been trained for this—trained to hold my ground, to keep people at arm’s length.

The drinks arrive, and she lifts hers in a silent toast. I mirror the gesture, her eyes never leaving mine.

“To old habits,” she murmurs, her voice soft but pointed.

I smirk, clinking my glass against hers and for the first time tonight I’m able to appreciate how beautiful she looks. “And new ones.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Raven
For something that neither of us would openly consider a date, it goes surprisingly well. Talking to Damian is easy, even if he tries not to be. There’s something about our banter—though adversarial, it’s also playful. Like a game of cat and mouse, it’s a challenge for both of us. But I’m definitely the cat, and Damian will only be caught if he lets me.I’ll admit, it’s a strange strategy, but it’s interesting. He acts aloof, but he’s not disinterested. I notice how his eyes steal glances at me, lingering when he thinks I’m too invested in measuring how much of my martini is left. It feels more like a chess game than a date, and for some reason, I think we both take comfort in that.“So, why don’t you tell me more about your job?”“I’d rather kill myself.”I laugh. “That’s an overreaction.”“You think that,” he says evenly between sips of coffee.“It can’t be that bad.”He eases back. “No, it’s not. I honestly love my job. It’s complicated and stressful, so when I’m away from it, I don’t like talking about it.”I smile at him, sensing that even sharing that much is probably an overshare for him. “Will you at least tell me if you’re good at it? Freelance security? ”“I’m exceptional at it,” he says, confident but not gloating. Just... assured. “That’s why I can talk to my supervisor like that.”“I get the sense you don’t like being told what to do.”“What ever makes you think that?” he jokes as I take the last sip of my drink.“I’ll tell you over another drink.”He stares at me, saying nothing before subtly flagging down the waiter. I can’t read his expression; its unclear whether he’s about to ask for the check and bring whatever is blooming between us to a close, or following it to it natural conclusion. I’m left waiting in the lurch.“We’ll do another round, but this time I’ll take by bourdon neat.” He looks over at me and smiles, gesturing for me to order.“I’ll do a cabernet.”“So you are a red girl?”I grin as I pass the waiter my empty glass. “I’m full of surprises.”“That’s what I’m afraid of.” If anything, the second round only intensifies the atmosphere between us. The bourbon warms him, making his eyes glint with something more than playful defiance. I take a sip of my cabernet, savoring the rich, deep flavors that seem to echo the tension in the air.“Tell me something,” he says, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s your angle? You don’t strike me as the type to casually enjoy a drink with someone who does freelance security .”I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “And you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys being so easily analyzed.”He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates between us. “Fair enough. But I’m curious.”“Curiosity killed the cat,” I reply, feeling bold.“But satisfaction brought it back,” he counters, his gaze unwavering.I lean back, a smile playing on my lips. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why a guy like you would spend an evening with someone like me.”He tilts his head, considering. “Me? I’m pretty sure any guy with a pulse and a set of--” he pauses realizing he’s about to say something uncharacterisingly vulgar, “ eyes would be happy to spend his night with a girl like you.”I smile, enjoying the compliment more than I should, especially given what he doesn’t know. “Thank you, but you don’t strike me as someone lacking for company.” I look at him, daring him to disagree.He holds back an involuntary laugh, and takes a moment to compose himself. “You have no idea,” he says and takes a long sip of his drink, and I can’t tell if his reaction is one of surprise or admission. “Maybe I’m just drawn to surprises,” he adds, placing his glass down as he  narrows his gaze on me.“And what a surprise I must be?” I take another sip, allowing the wine to slide smoothly down my throat. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s still early.”“True,” he says, his expression thoughtful. “But if we keep this up, I might start thinking you’re more than just a surprise.”I see his eyes dart away, as if he regrets saying that out loud. It makes me wonder what he’s hiding—maybe a girlfriend, a wife, or an entire life tucked away beyond my sight. I can’t judge him, though. I’m just as guilty of lying as he is. Worse, if he knew my truth, he wouldn’t still be sitting across from me. Honestly, I’m not even sure I should let him stay.
“It’s normal, y’know,” I recall Tara saying. “A lot of us do it.”
I doubt it’s as common as she claims—Tara has a habit of justifying bad decisions. But I know it happens more often than people admit. The real question is: Do I want to be one of them?“What do you mean by that?” I ask, keeping my tone light but intrigued.“Maybe I’ll find out that you’re just as complicated as I am.”I laugh softly, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. “It’s a little early for you to understand just how complicated I can be.”“Is that a promise or a challenge?” he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.“Why not both?” I reply, leaning closer. “After all, we’re just getting started.”His eyes flick to the clock again. He’s been silently tracking everything—the number of staff hustling around us, where the exits are, who’s coming and going. Damian is observant, almost neurotically so. But he’s not fidgety or nervous. It feels more like instinct—something tied to his work. He did say he was good at it, and I get the sense his attention to detail is part of that.“Do you always keep track of the time on a date?” I tease.His gaze snaps back to mine, and he smiles like he’s caught me. “So this is a date?”“Do you not want it to be a date?” I ask coolly.He stays still, but I catch a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “What I want and what this is... those are two very different things.”He’s hiding something. Now I have to decide if I want to keep playing this game—if I want to unravel the secrets behind his carefully controlled expressions—or if I should leave them buried. The smart thing would be to walk away, to take this evening for what it is: a brief, intriguing encounter, without consequence. But the way his eyes shift, as if balancing on the edge of a confession, makes me hesitate.I swirl the last of my cabernet, pretending to think it over. “And what exactly are those two things?” I ask, giving him no room to retreat behind vague answers.Damian’s gaze sharpens, the flicker of guilt gone as quickly as it came. “You’re playing me,” he says, leaning back in his chair.“Playing you would imply I have something specific to gain.” I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe I’m just curious to see how you’ll slip up.”His lips twitch—half amused, half challenged. “You think I’m going to slip?”“Everyone does eventually.” I raise my glass toward him, and he mirrors the gesture without missing a beat. “Even you.”He makes a show of his empty glass, signaling the waiter for another round, his eyes never leaving mine. “So, what about you?” he asks casually, though there’s a sharpness beneath the question. “You talk like someone who knows how to avoid getting caught. What’s your secret?”I pause, caught between telling him something real and keeping it light. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.” Truthfully, I have a lot of secrets—some I’d rather forget, others that will haunt me well beyond the grave.His smirk deepens. “Touché.”The tension between us hums—unspoken but undeniable. The waiter returns with fresh drinks, setting them down with a polite nod before disappearing again. Damian picks up his glass, swirling the bourbon before taking a slow sip.The warmth of the whiskey reflects in his gaze, and there’s a flicker of desire there—subtle but unmistakable. It’s been a while since someone looked at me like that—and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing. I hate to admit it, but it feels… good . Maybe I am too pretty to be a nun.“You ever want something that isn’t right for you?” I ask, watching him closely.“Yes,” he says quietly, setting his glass down with deliberate precision.“Like what?”He pauses, considering his answer. “If I tell you that, this date is over.”“Then don’t tell me.” I’m not ready to tell him either.It’s probably the alcohol, but Father Sebastian’s words come back to me: “Sometimes the temptation God puts in front of us is God’s will.” And who’s to say it isn’t? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have doubts. This whole thing only started because I mentioned them to Tara. I thought going to a club, facing those desires head-on, would prove that I wasn’t missing anything. That I could walk away from this part of the world without regret.And then Damian had to show up.“You couldn’t just pass by without giving me a second glance, could you?” I say aloud, without thinking. “Maybe if I were blind.”I take a deep breath and drain half my wine, knowing this should—no, needs —to be the last glass. This should end here. But does it have to?Of course, it does. What would Azar say if she saw me like this? Dressed like I’m asking for trouble, leading him on when it’s clear he isn’t available. And for what? To prove to myself I’m heading down the wrong path? How ridiculous.The waiter drops the check, and I reach for it, but Damian’s hand intercepts mine. “This is a date, remember?”I pause, now regretting I’d used those words. “This day and age, it’s customary to split the bill.”“I prefer the traditional way.” He lays a few crisp bills on the table, more than enough to cover the tab with a generous tip. “Besides,” he adds, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, “I’m not even sure you have a job.”“I do,” I stammer, the lie clumsier than I’d intended.He finishes the last of his drink and rises smoothly from the booth. “You can tell me all about it while I walk you home.”He offers his hand, and for a moment, I hesitate. I know I shouldn’t take it. If I do, I’m only deepening this deception—letting it grow into something harder to untangle. But his hand is steady, expectant, and I feel the weight of my decision settle on me, and place my hand in his.Immediately, I feel his calloused grip wrap around my hand—a steady, unyielding hold. There’s a strange comfort in it, an unfamiliar sense of safety. His hands are rough, but not careless, like someone who’s used to holding things that could break. He helps me slip into my coat without a word, and then his hand finds mine again as he leads me out into the cool night air.Damian isn’t like the boys I knew when I was younger. Not that there were many. I didn’t date much—whatever relationships I had were fleeting, never serious. If I’m being honest, they were more like distractions, ways to convince myself I was part of something normal, even if only for a little while. However, the moment they became too serious or too real, I ended it. Those relationships never felt right, never felt like they could go anywhere meaningful. Better still, I didn’t want them to, and I’m not one to force myself to feel what I don’t. Not for anyone. But with Damian… it doesn’t feel like that. As much as I want to see him as a  distraction, I don’t. Even if he is leading me to doubt whether this path before me is truly my calling. We walk side by side in comfortable silence, his thumb occasionally brushing the edge of my palm. It’s a subtle gesture, almost absentminded, but it keeps me tethered to the moment. I wonder if he knows how grounding his presence is—how the weight of his quiet steadiness makes me feel less like I’m drifting.The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and the night hums with the distant sounds of life: laughter from a nearby bar, the low hum of passing cars. It’s the kind of night that feels heavy with unspoken things. And yet, being next to him, I feel lighter somehow, like I don’t have to carry everything on my own for once.“So,” Damian says eventually, his voice low, “what do you do?”I glance at him, almost forgetting our previous conversation and debate how much truth to offer. “I’m between things.”He huffs out a quiet laugh. “That’s a polite way of saying unemployed. ”“Freelancer,” I correct, matching his earlier answer. “Consulting in... metaphysical affairs.”He stops mid-step, just for a second, his eyes narrowing. “That’s the worst cover story I’ve ever heard.”I grin. “It’s not a cover story if it’s true.”Damian gives me that skeptical look, like he’s dissecting every word I’ve just said, weighing it for truth. His eyes, sharp and deliberate, study me like I’m some kind of puzzle that refuses to fit together. “Metaphysical affairs,” he repeats flatly, as though saying it aloud will make it make sense.“It’s a broad field,” I say, my grin lingering but softer now, like I’ve got a secret I’m not ready to share. “You’d be surprised how many people need advice about curses and psychic interference these days.”“And you give them advice?” There’s a flicker of amusement in his voice, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s humoring me.I shrug. “For a fee.”He shakes his head, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes, a rare hint of playfulness beneath his usual guarded exterior. “Of course. It’d be weird if you did it for free.”“I get the feeling you don’t do anything for free.”“Is anything really free?”It’s a good question, especially in this day and age. “You have a cynical view of humanity?”He shrugs. “I’ve seen the worst of it. It's hard not to.”“I can see why you’d feel that way, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t good in the world.”“Problem is, there is always a negative force trying to corrupt it,” he replies as if admitting he is a temptation personified. “That’s why it’s important to resist the darkness set before us.”A shadow flickers across Damian’s expression, subtle but unmistakable, like my words hit somewhere deeper than I intended. His grip on my hand tightens—not painfully, just enough for me to notice. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant, like we’ve wandered into dangerous territory without meaning to.“Is that the sorta advice you give?” he asks darkly.I shrug. “More or less.”“You should  probably find a new line of work then.” “Why’s that?”“Resisting the darkness isn’t always enough,” he says quietly, his voice edged with something that sounds almost like regret. “Even when you think you’re free of it... it creeps back in.”“Which is why you have to be ever vigilant. No, the correct spelling is.”He shrugs, his expression pained as each step brings me closer to home. “I get the feeling you give too much of yourself away.”I pause staring back at him, that isn’t something I’ve ever been accused of. Quite the opposite. “What makes you think that?”His thumb glides across the ridge of my knuckles and his eye catches mine. “Because you’re giving away good advice for free.”“It’s not about money,” I reply. “It's about helping people.”His eyes glance up at my apartment window and I can’t tell if he’s contemplating saying goodnight or looking for an invitation. “Guess that's where it ends then.”And there it is. I sigh, knowing I should take the out he’s given me, but the indulgent part of me isn’t ready to let go. “It doesn’t have to.”His gaze narrows as his intrigue sharpens like a hawk locked on its prey, hesitant to strike. “What if it should?”The tension between us hums like a low note—quiet, but impossible to ignore. His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in hesitation, daring me to decide where this goes next. For a moment, I just stand there, watching the way his eyes flicker between restraint and something deeper, darker. But I can tell he’s weighing the cost of staying.I tilt my head, holding his gaze, feeling the weight of the question sinking deeper into the space between us. “I’m not good at this part,” I confess, my eyes saying more than my lips can form. Yet their slight part speaks volumes to the desire that awaits them. Damian steps closer and inhales, likely taking in the scent of my perfume as it rolls off my hair.  “I’m not good at this part either,” he says, and I’m not sure if it means hello or goodbye.His jaw clenches as his lips press together before he exhales and I feel my resolve weaken. “Could have fooled me.”His thumb brushes along the curve of my bottom lip, a touch so light it feels like a question. I shiver, my body once again betraying my better nature for the carnal one I’ve vowed to leave behind. I resent how easily it answers for me, leaning just slightly into his touch.“Maybe you’ve tricked me?” he whispers, as if the possibility of that—the idea that I’ve somehow tricked him into this moment—is both maddening and irresistible to him.I let the silence linger between us. I know I should pull away, and end this. Istead, I let him decide whether this is the end. He doesn’t pull away, instead, his thumb strokes my chin before his finger traces my jaw, slow and deliberate.  As if taking in every line written on my face. There’s a weight to his touch, like it means more than either of us is ready to admit.“This isn’t a good idea,” he murmurs, though his hand doesn’t leave my face.“I know.” My voice is steady, but my pulse betrays me, drumming loudly in my ears. Whatever he's hiding I don’t care, not in this moment. His lips hover just above mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath, can nearly taste the bourbon waiting for me on his tongue, but he doesn’t move closer—doesn’t kiss me, not yet. It’s like he’s giving me a final chance to walk away, even though we both know I won’t.“Last chance,” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous, filled with the kind of warning that only makes me want him more.“It is...” I tilt my head just slightly, my lips brushing his as I breathe, “And I’m taking it.”And with that, the hesitation shatters between us like the fragilest of glass. My heart leaps as Damian finally closes the space, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that feels both inevitable and devastating.Mine can’t help but respond with an urgency, one I didn’t experience the night before. His hand falls to my waist, slipping beneath my coat while the other tangles in my hair.  My arms anchor me to him as they snake across his neck and shoulders. I let the kiss deepen, letting go of my apprehension and allow myself to be taken. His touch is purposeful—rough in places, gentle in others—like he’s balancing on the edge of control and surrender. He doesn’t want to push me further than my boundaries, yet his hand at my waist pulls me closer. The cool night air disappears against the heat of his body, and all that’s left is the feeling of him—steady and consuming.His other hand knots deeper into my hair, tilting my head just enough to claim my lips with a fervor, leaving no room for hesitation. As if every unspoken word, every glance and lingering moment between us, is finally unraveling in this moment--this kiss. And I let it. I let him in, let him take whatever pieces of me he wants, as if for the last time. And right now, it feels like the only thing that makes sense.I gasp as his lips trail down to my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. The way he moves, with such intent and focus, makes it clear that he’s not a man who takes anything lightly—least of all this. A low hum escapes my throat before I can stop it.“Do you want to come up?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a breath, caught up between impulse and desire.His grip tightens, drawing me flush against him like the distance itself is unbearable. His reply, a warm murmur against my ear, edged with restraint. “I shouldn’t.”“You’re right—” I whisper, but the words dissolve as our lips meet again, his tongue stealing the rest of my protest before it can form sound. “You make one hell of an argument.”The vibration of his laugh hums through me, and the spell between us deepens—but just as it threatens to tip over into something unstoppable, a disappointed voice pierces the night.“You two are aware that public fornication is illegal, right?” The sharp voice slices through the quiet night, drifting down from the second-floor window across the hall from mine. Mrs. Abernathy, my ancient, meddlesome neighbor, leans out like a sentry on watch, her eyes gleaming with moral outrage. She’s wearing the same threadbare cardigan and sour expression I’ve seen every day since I moved in, as if both have been stitched permanently into her existence.The question isn’t meant to be answered—only fired off like a warning shot in her endless crusade against youthful indiscretion. Her gaze sweeps over us, sharp and lingering, like she’s searching for a familiar face beneath the dim streetlights.My pulse quickens. Does she recognize me? I can feel the weight of her scrutiny settling over me like a cold shroud, and the thought alone sends a chill up my spine. If she knows it’s me—if she connects my face with the quiet aspirant nun she’s seen going in and out of this building—it could unravel everything.“It’s nearly midnight! Do you even know what time it is?” Her voice, steeped in self-righteous indignation, tightens the knot forming in my chest.Damian shifts, his hand slipping just far enough from mine to signal caution, but not retreat. “Apologies if we disturbed you,” he says, his voice measured, polite—but not exactly repentant. A subtle distance opens between us, and I catch myself pulling away too, as if instinctively trying to dissolve into the shadows.Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes remain fixed on us, darting between Damian’s unfamiliar face and mine. For a fleeting, agonizing moment, I swear her expression falters, like recognition is just out of reach. My stomach twists. If she remembers me—if she even suspects—everything I’ve fought to hold together could come undone. “Young people these days,” she mutters loudly, ensuring we hear her judgment. “No shame. No sense of decency. For heaven’s sake, in public! ”Her voice feels like a branding iron, pressing guilt into my skin. Damian stands quietly beside me, calm and unmoved, while my heart pounds in my throat. I force myself to breathe, hoping that the night, the shadows, and his presence will be enough to conceal me—for now.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Damian

Staring into the wrinkled cracks of the old woman’s face reminds me that what I’m doing isn’t just wrong—it’s unconscionable. My focus should be on the mission, not maneuvering my way into this girl’s—this nun’s—bed.

The old woman shrinks from her window like a ghoul, slamming it closed, so hard the pane cracks. I watch as the crisp sound of travels across the dusty window in three tendrals, each curling in a different jagged directions.

“Serves her right,” I say, turning my attention back to Raven.

She’s pulled up the hood of her coat, shielding her face from her nosy neighbor’s judgmental gaze. But her expression gives her away—there’s something distant in her eyes, as if her focus is somewhere far beyond the present moment, locked on something deeper than either of us understands.

“You alright?” I ask, my voice low, careful. Her gaze shifts from the window back to me, her violet eyes clouded with something that feels too much like shame.

“Yeah…” she falters, her voice unsteady. “Just realizing how foolish I was to think we wouldn’t get caught.”

Her words hit harder than they should. I keep my expression neutral, unwilling to let her see how much I understand that shame. “Yeah. Guess we’re not as invisible as we like to think.”

I’m still standing close enough to feel her breath, soft and warm against my face. It’s a quiet, unintentional intimacy that draws me in even as it reminds me how far I’ve let this go. How far I’ve compromised.

“I should go,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them, as though some long-buried sense of reason has finally resurfaced.

“That’s probably for the best,” Raven replies, her voice laced with disappointment she can’t quite hide. Yet there’s an acceptance in her tone too, a quiet understanding that this is necessary. “Will you… wait for my light to turn on?”

I pause, caught between her words and the meaning that lingers beneath them. Her voice wavers, caught between not wanting me to leave and knowing I have to. I want to tell her no, that I won’t just wait for a flicker of a light bulb, not when whatever this is between us burns so much brighter.

But I don’t. Because I know that if I stay here even a moment longer, I’ll lose whatever control I have left—and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back “Of course.”

She smiles, a fleeting expression of hope crossing her face, as if daring to believe that maybe—just maybe—there’s more for us in this life. But she knows better. We both do.

“Then I guess this is goodnight,” she manages, her voice soft, almost resigned.

I nod. “Looks that way.”

Pushing off the cold brick wall, she steps toward me. The brief space between us narrows as her hand brushes mine—a subconscious attempt to pull me back in. I nearly let it work, almost closing the distance entirely, but stop myself just short of her. One step closer and I know I won’t be able to leave.

“Thanks again for dinner,” she adds, her words weighted with an unspoken plea. She’s turning to me again, her gaze lingering as if she’s not quite ready to let go. That quiet vulnerability of hers—it’s irresistible. And it’s dangerous.

“It’s no big deal,” I say, my voice even, masking the war raging inside me. Part of me wants to say more, to plant a subtle seed of doubt in her mind, but I hold back. I can’t stomach the thought of hurting her—not yet, not like this. “Guy should always pay.”

She nods, and for a moment, I wonder if she caught the edge in my tone. But my words lack the venom to make a direct cut, so she brushes past it. Instead, her voice carries the weight of her own unspoken thoughts. “Do you ever wish you’d met someone sooner?”

The question stings in its simplicity. I nod, swallowing back everything I might say in response. This feels like the end—should be the end—but some unrelenting part of me refuses to let it go. “The world works in mysterious ways,” I reply, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside.

She pulls her keys from her coat, but the motion is clumsy. Something slips from her pocket, hitting the pavement with a sharp

clink.

I kneel to retrieve it, curiosity piqued, though the weight in my chest tells me this is more than coincidence.

The gold rosary glints under the dim streetlight as I pick it up, the red stones embedded in its chain catching the light. I roll it between my fingers, the smooth surface cool against my skin. It feels like a prayer—or maybe a warning.

“You’re Catholic?” I ask, holding it out to her.

Her hand darts forward to snatch it back, her fingers brushing mine. There’s a flash of something in her expression—not embarrassment, but something close. Agitation, maybe. Or guilt.

“Yes,” she says, slipping the rosary into her pocket like she’s hiding a fragile secret—because she is. “But it’s complicated.”

Of course it is. Everything about her is complicated. Her voice, her gaze, the way she looks at me as if torn between two worlds. Between the person she’s supposed to be and the person she’s afraid she might become.

I want to press her for more, but the weight of the rosary lingers on my fingertips like a reminder of what’s at stake. “Faith usually is.”

She hesitates, her lips parting as if to respond, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns away slightly, her shoulders drawing inward like she’s trying to shield herself. “You think I’m foolish, don’t you?” she asks quietly, her voice barely audible.

I step closer, lowering my voice. “No,” I say firmly, the word carrying more weight than I intend. “But I think you’re fighting a battle no one can win alone.”

Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp and searching, but she doesn’t pull away. The air between us shifts, thick with tension. I know I should leave—should let this end here before either of us sinks any deeper. But the part of me that craves her, that understands her in ways I wish I didn’t, refuses to let me move.

“You’re not alone, you know,” I add, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

I see her posture ease, wanting to believe me, but the part of her that’s guarded, that knows this is a lie, takes hold. “I know you mean that now, but people who get close to me get hurt.”

It’s a warning, one that’s intriguing. “You’d be surprised how resilient I can be.”

She stares at me, and again the distant glance she’d cast on the window takes hold, like someone—something—has taken hold. “Resilient, sure,” she says. “Until you’re the one left picking up the pieces.”

I take a step closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to make my presence impossible to ignore. “Maybe I’m not afraid of breaking.”

She almost laugh, but the humor comes up into a scoff. “No, you’re

terrified

of breaking.”

I can feel the conviction in her voice hit me like a cold promise, and I feel a shiver creep into my spine. “I never said I wasn’t.”

“You think facing it makes you formidable, but it only makes you a fool.”

That’s a fair assessment if there ever was one. “Believe me, I know I’m a fool. How could I not be?”

The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more than I intended. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity cutting through the space between us. I can see the wheels turning in her mind—wondering how someone can carry so much self-deprecation with such ease. But there’s something else there too, something that lingers just beneath the surface. She’s realizing, perhaps for the first time, how much of a stranger I really am to her.

“We both know either of is

emotionally available,

” I say, laying all my cards down, though I’m not sure why. Is my self-sabotage intended to create more distance between us, or am I trying to draw her in? I don’t know? “Yet neither of us wants to let this go.”

Her head shakes, the defiance flickering back into place. “Don’t,” she says, her voice trembling with something too raw to name. “Don’t make this into something it can’t be.”

“This already is something it can’t be,” I reply, my voice low but unyielding, the truth of it cutting through the fragile tension between us. Her lips press into a thin line, her jaw tightening as she processes my words.

She takes a step back, just enough to make the distance between us feel like a chasm. Her hood shadows her face, but I can still see the way her eyes flash—part anger, part fear, and something else she’s trying desperately to suppress. “You don’t understand,” she says finally, her voice strained.

“Then make me,” I counter, stepping toward her again, unable to let her retreat without a fight. “Explain it to me. Show me why this has to be impossible.”

Her hands curl into fists at her sides, trembling just enough for me to notice. “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you—” she starts, her words catching in her throat. She exhales sharply, like she’s forcing herself to say it. “All I can do is hurt you.”

“Maybe I’m willing to take that chance?” I counter like the fool she’s painted me.

She shakes her head, her hood slipping slightly to reveal the sharp lines of her face. “You think this is some kind of challenge, don’t you? Something you can fix or fight your way through.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “But you don’t get it. I’m not the kind of battle you win.”

Her words hang in the air, cold and heavy. I should let them land, let them end this. But instead, I take another step forward, until there’s barely a breath of space between us. “Maybe I’m not trying to win this time.”

Her gaze locks onto mine, wide and unblinking, and for a moment, she’s silent. It’s as if my words have stolen whatever protest she was about to make. Her breath comes faster, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to hold on to whatever resolve she has left. “Then what are you trying to do?” she whispers.

I don’t have an answer. Or maybe I do, but it’s one I’m not ready to admit. I reach out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and when my hand brushes her arm, the contact is electric. She doesn’t flinch, but her body stiffens like she’s bracing for something inevitable.

“I’m trying to understand,” I say finally, my voice softer now, almost pleading. “I’m trying to make sense of why I can’t seem to let this go… let you go.”

Her eyes close for a moment, as if shutting me out will make me disappear. But when she opens them again, the vulnerability in her gaze is impossible to miss. “You think I’m not trying?” she asks, her voice breaking just enough to shatter whatever defenses I have left. “I keep telling myself to walk away. To end this before it gets worse.”

“And yet here we are,” I say, my hand still resting lightly on her arm. “Neither of us letting go.”

She exhales shakily, her lips parting as if she’s about to argue. But instead of words, she takes another step back, her hand rising to push mine away gently. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” she says, the warning in her voice cutting deep. “If you did, you’d run as far from me as you could.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, the conviction in my voice startling even me.

“You should be,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her eyes hold mine for a moment longer, searching for something—maybe a reason to believe me, or maybe the strength to walk away. And then, just as quickly as the moment began, she turns, the movement sudden and sharp.

Her coat flares out behind her as she walks toward the stairs of her building, her hand clutching the rosary in her pocket like a lifeline. She doesn’t look back.

And I don’t stop her. Not this time. Because as much as I want to follow her, to push past the walls she’s built, I know that the next move has to be hers.

Still, as I stand there, watching her disappear into the shadows, I can’t help but wonder how much of me she’s already taken with her.

I keep my promise and wait for her light to turn on. As I see the glow illuminate the room, I can see her figure step into the view of the window, checking to see if I’ve kept my word. I nod, showing her I’ve seen my end through and that I know the ball is now in her court.

I head back to the boarding house, replaying the mess I’ve dragged myself into. Closer to this girl than I’ve ever been with anyone else, yet I know so little about her.

“She’s lying to you,”

my father’s voice cuts through my thoughts, cold and sharp, like a knife to the ribs.

“Keep telling myself that,” I mutter under my breath, trying to hold on to the bigger picture, the real stakes. “And yet... I can’t.” My lips curl into something between a grimace and a smirk. “I’m so far out of my depth.”

The thought twists in my mind: I’ve already crossed lines I shouldn’t have. Made contact when I shouldn’t. Gotten involved when I knew better. It’s not just an ethics violation anymore—it’s personal. And yet, something deeper keeps pulling me in. Refuses to let me step back.

It’s like we’re tethered by something I can’t name, a connection that makes no sense. How could we possibly know each other in this way?

Two lives that couldn’t be more disconnected. She grew up in one world, I in another. Two opposite corners of the map, two ideologies so at odds it borders on absurdity. She clings to her faith—Catholic, devout. Me? If I believe in anything, it’s in the futility of belief. A deist at best. And yet…

I’ve never met anyone who feels this in sync with me. Even when it’s hard, it’s easy. Even when it’s impossible, it’s worth it.

I round the corner to the boarding house, the cold night air needling through my jacket as I glance down the empty street. A distant streetlamp flickers, its dying glow casting long, shifting shadows across the pavement. I slip my hands into my pockets, trying to focus, to unravel the mess in my head.

And that’s when I feel it—feel

them

—a subtle shift in the air. The sensation is faint but unmistakable, like the prickle of eyes on the back of my neck.

I slow my pace, my instincts sharpening. My steps grow quieter, more measured, blending into the natural rhythm of the night.

A shadow moves—too slow, too deliberate.

Someone’s there.

I cut down an alley without hesitation, the brick walls hemming me in as I listen. The sound of faint footfalls echoes in the distance, barely audible. Whoever it is, they’re good. Not League-trained, but not an amateur either.

I slip around a dumpster, crouching low as I steady my breathing, letting the darkness swallow me. The figure rounds the corner a moment later, their movements cautious but not cautious enough. I catch the glint of something metallic—a weapon? No, just a belt buckle catching the light. They’re close now, less than twenty feet.

I tilt my head, watching, calculating. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, his posture stiff but purposeful. He doesn’t seem to know exactly where I am. Not yet.

Amateurs. They always think they’re invisible.

I let him pass me, waiting until his silhouette begins to fade into the alley’s depths. Then I rise silently, my steps as light as whispers, and tail him instead.

The ball’s in your court now. Let’s see if you know how to play.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t relish the moment the hunted becomes the hunter. Whoever this is—likely male—has been tailing me for some time. I suspect it started after my

‘brush with death’

earlier, courtesy of an overzealous mutt. Outclassed by a dog. I’m still not over it.

At least I can say with confidence: I wasn’t being paranoid. This one’s good—keen enough to keep their distance, but not skilled enough to maintain it, or close the gap, without setting off any alarms.

It’s safe to rule out the League of Assassins. Mother wouldn’t trust an amateur with a professional’s job. Though I have no doubt, she has eyes on me. She always does. Always will.

And it’s definitely not one of the so-called

Bat-family

. Even Drake, for all his shortcomings, wouldn’t leave a trail this sloppy.

Still, underestimating my target or failing to proceed with caution would be a mistake I cannot afford. I can’t shake the feeling that whoever this is, they’re playing a long game. Tailing someone like me isn’t exactly recreational. There’s intent behind it—a reason. The why is what I can’t pin down yet, and that makes me itch more than their clumsy footwork ever could.

I slow my pace as I pass a row of shuttered shops, their dimly lit awnings casting fragmented shadows across the street. The faint scent of cheap incense drifts from somewhere—a stark contrast to Gotham’s usual stench of exhaust and desperation. For a moment, I let myself sink into the rhythm of the city, quieting my mind. Not to relax. To listen.

There it is. A faint scrape, almost imperceptible, like a scuff of rubber against concrete. It’s subtle—too subtle for anyone else to notice—but it might as well be a gunshot to me.

I duck into an alley, the motion seamless, unremarkable. My shadow blends with the rest. Hidden, waiting. If they’re smart, they’ll stop. But something tells me they’re not as smart as they think.

The seconds stretch out, heavy and still. Then, the soft crunch of a step. Hesitation. Another. They’re closing in, but cautiously—too cautiously. My lips curl into a thin, humorless smile. Amateurs.

In one motion, I pivot from the shadows, silent as a blade slicing through the dark. The figure freezes mid-step, their silhouette backlit by a flickering streetlamp. Male. As I thought. Dark robes, but not League standard. He’s my height, but broader, likely older than me. But the way he holds himself—tight, unsure—it gives him away.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” I ask, my voice low and sharp, cutting through the tension like a scalpel.

The man doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he shifts slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides. A weapon? Or nerves? Doesn’t matter. I’m faster either way.

“Damian Wayne,” he says finally, his tone even but laced with the faintest edge of reverence—or fear. He knows my true identity. “You’ve been marked.”

Marked. The word hangs in the air, heavy and foreboding, a weight I don’t have time to unpack. My mind shifts gears instantly, the implications slotting into place. Marked by who? For what?

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I reply, stepping closer, my movements measured and intimidating. “Plenty of people have an interest in me. Most of them regret it.”

The man chuckles—low, hollow. It’s not a pleasant sound. “You’ll find out in due time, my son.”

My brow furrows at the endearment. “Don’t call me

that

.”

I catch the faintest shadow of a smirk, but he doesn’t elaborate. I don’t give him the chance. A quick strike to the solar plexus, and he folds like wet paper, crumpling to his knees. Grabbing his collar, I drag him deeper into the alley. If he thought he was going to walk away, he was sorely mistaken.

Now, it’s my turn for answers. “Who are you?”

“No one who matters,” he says mockingly. “You, however—you’re the key.”

I pause, the words hitting harder than I expected. A key? A key to what? Alarms ring in my head, but I shove them aside. “Talk,” I demand, my voice sharp. “Or I’ll break your arm.”

He laughs, the sound grating and full of conviction. “Go ahead. My devotion will not allow me to break so easily.”

He’s religious—a zealot. But where exactly does his allegiance lie?

I tighten my grip, yanking him closer so we’re eye to eye. His breath is shallow but steady, his expression maddeningly calm. “Let’s test that faith of yours.” My fingers twist his arm—not enough to break it yet, but enough to send a sharp jolt of pain radiating through his shoulder.

He winces but doesn’t cry out, his lips pulling back into something between a snarl and a grin. “Pain is fleeting,” he mutters. “Truth is eternal.”

“Spare me the sermon,” I snap, releasing his arm just enough for him to think the worst is over. Then I slam him against the wall. “Who marked me? Answer me, or I’ll make sure your pain isn’t fleeting.”

His eyes narrow—not with fear, but pity. “You think you’re in control, but you’re already playing into

His

plan.”

“

His

?” My mind races, cataloging possibilities. Who exactly is he talking about?

“You’ll see soon enough,” he says in a whisper, almost reverently. “The Master sees all. And He’s been watching you for a long time. Your blood will bring Him into this world.”

The words chill me, though I don’t let it show. He’s speaking in riddles, and I don’t have time to untangle them. My hand moves to his throat, fingers tightening. “I’m done asking nicely.”
His lips move—whispering something. A prayer? A chant? I catch fragments: blood, sacrifice, rebirth. The pieces begin to fit together, forming a picture I don’t want to see.
“The Church of Blood,” I mutter under my breath. His eyes light up—confirmation I didn’t want, but expected.

“You’re already part of the prophecy,” he hisses, his voice filled with triumph, “whether you want to be or not.”

I step back, my grip loosening. His words are madness, but there’s an undercurrent of something worse—truth.

“Wrong,” I say coldly. “I write my own destiny. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.”

His face cracks into laughter—wild, maddened. “Your destiny was never yours. Ra’s al Ghul saw to that.”

“How do you know that name?” I demand. It’s a foolish question, and I know it the moment it leaves my mouth.

Before he can respond, I thrust him back against the wall, my temper slipping. A rookie mistake. He thrashes out suddenly, a blade flashing as it slashes across my forearm. I hiss at the sting, instinctively blocking his next strike, but my footing falters. My heel catches on an old bike tire, and the zealot takes advantage.

A blow to my temple sends me sprawling to the damp pavement. I’m not unconscious, but my vision blurs and my thoughts scatter.

Through the haze, I see him standing over me, his figure looming like a shadow carved out of the night. His grin is wild, almost unhinged, a predator savoring its kill. “You were born of the oldest bloodline for a reason,” he intones, his voice a low, venomous whisper that crawls under my skin. Son of the Demon, you consider yourself the hunter. But you, dear boy, are the sacrificial lamb.”

My pulse pounds in my ears, but I force myself to focus. I will not let him see fear. His words gnaw at the edges of my mind, sharp and invasive, but I shove them aside. Answers. I need answers.

“You talk too much,” I growl, surging forward, my movements fueled by precision rather than rage. My hand brushes for a weapon—anything to leverage the situation. But he’s gone.

The alley is empty, the faint scuff of his retreating footsteps already swallowed by the night. My head swims, the ache in my temple a dull reminder of my mistake. A rookie mistake. My pride stings more than the cut on my arm.

I press a hand to the wound, the sticky warmth of blood seeping through my coat sleeve. It’s shallow—he wanted to mark me, not kill me. I grit my teeth, scanning the shadows for any sign of him.

Nothing.

The zealot’s words replay in my head, like a foul taste I can’t spit out. “Born of the oldest bloodline. The sacrificial lamb.”

A chill runs down my spine, though I refuse to acknowledge it. Whatever game the Church of Blood is playing, they’ve made one fatal miscalculation.

They think I’m prey.

I rise to my feet, unsteady but resolute. My fingers flex instinctively, the pain sharpening my focus. And when I find him—find them, I’ll make sure their prophecies die with them—

My thought cut short as feel my phone vibrate in my pocket; I pull it out to see Raven’s name glow across the screen. My thumb swipes to answer and I steady my voice as I say her name. “Raven—”

“I think…” she whimpers, cutting me off, fear etched deep in her voice. “Someone’s here.”

Something primal in me snaps, conjuring a protectiveness that feels as if it’s laid dormant. “Where are you?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Raven

In the quiet of my apartment, I settle into the silence. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me, but tonight it feels unsettling—almost eerie. Damian is no longer outside my window, and the distance between us only sharpens the ache inside me. I shouldn’t feel this way. Longing for a man should be beneath me. Yet here I am, caught between faith and the pull of humanity.

I remind myself why I’ve chosen this path. Life outside the church’s boundaries always leads me astray. I like to think of myself as thoughtful and cautious, but when I give in to worldly desires—when I let them consume me—I lose control.

I draw the curtains and place a kettle of water on the stove. It’s not that late, but adrenaline courses through me and mixes with the alcohol thining my blood, sharp and relentless. My body protests like an unfed cat, clawing for what it craves after getting a taste of its favorite treat. I scold myself—not just for the thoughts, but for letting him touch me like that. For surrendering to pleasures that are forbidden to me.

As the kettle heats, I run a bath, knowing this small comfort will soon be lost to me too. In two days, I’ll be half a day’s drive away, in the remote wilderness, with only my sisters and God to guide me. It will be the final step toward fully realizing my vows as a bride of Christ. With it, all my earthly possessions and luxuries will be relinquished.

My train of thought halts as I pass my window, and through the sheer curtain, stands a figure from the street.

“Damian?” I question aloud out of some air of wishful thinking. However, to my sobering dismay, it’s not him.

I stare at the shadow, frozen in the dewy glow of the street light, uncertain whether it’s a threat or a trick of the night. Cloaked in darkness, it seems harmless at first, until the faintest glint of deep red catches my eye. A chill runs through me, and I inch closer to the window, drawn to it but wary. My mind races—Are they a danger? A specter conjured by my own longing? As I pull the curtain back just enough to peer beyond its white organza veil, the sharp whistle of the kettle howls, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Startled, I turn my attention to the stove, my heart pounding in my chest. I hurry over, shutting off the burner with a flick of the dial. The blue flame shrinks into obscurity, leaving only the faint hiss of cooling metal. My breaths come quick and shallow, each one catching in my throat.

Something compels me to look back. The figure. My gaze darts to the window as I cross the room with slow, sharp steps, my pulse drumming in my ears. There’s something about it—something that feels more than eerie. Sinister. But when I part the curtain once more, the figure is gone.

"The door." The words leave my lips in a whisper, dread gripping me as I realize I can’t remember if I locked it. Panic floods me, and I scramble toward it, my stocking feet slapping against the floor. Just as I reach for the lock, the knob begins to turn.

"No!" I gasp, lunging the last few steps. Throwing my weight against the door, I grip the knob tightly, forcing it still. A shove from the other side sends me stumbling, but I press harder, slamming the door shut with my shoulder. My fingers fumble with the deadbolt, twisting it into place, then hooking the chain latch. Finally, I lock the knob.

The pounding starts—a violent, relentless assault that rattles the wood and sends shockwaves through my body.

"Stop!" I cry, my voice breaking. "Go away—whatever you are—just go away!"

The pounding stops abruptly, leaving an oppressive silence that feels heavier than the noise. I press my ear to the door, straining to hear anything—breathing, footsteps, anything at all. The air grows still, and for a moment, I think it might be over.

Then, the sound of slow, phantom shifting of the  floorboards echoes down the hallway. Whoever—or whatever—it is, they aren’t in a hurry to leave. Each step drags out like a taunt, as if daring me to look.

I clutch the edge of the doorframe, willing myself to stay calm. My breath trembles as I glance around for something—anything—I could use as a weapon. My eyes land on the dish strainer by the sink and I grab the largest kitchen knife I can get my hands on. It’s not much, but the handle feels solid in my grip.

The creaking stops just beyond the door, and my heart feels like it might burst. Then, a faint rustling sound reaches me—like paper sliding against the floor.

A shadow passes beneath the gap under the door, and something slips through—a folded piece of parchment, yellowed and worn. I freeze, staring at it as though it might come alive.

For a long moment, I can’t move. But curiosity claws at me, even as every instinct screams to leave it alone. Slowly, I clutch the paper, the knife still in my white knuckled hand.

The paper is heavy, its edges frayed. My fingers hesitate before unfolding it, revealing a sharp, angular handwriting, the words scrawled in dark red ink:

"You remind me of your mother, Raven."

My stomach twists, and I feel my knees give out from beneath me, the note slipping from my hands. It flutters to the floor, but my gaze is drawn to the door again.

The hallway is silent.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring, waiting for the footsteps to return or the pounding to start again. But neither comes.

The words echo in my mind as I back away, my pulse thundering in my ears. I check every lock, every latch—twice—before retreating to the bathroom, suddenly remembering the water I’d left running. Steam clings to the air, thick and suffocating, as scalding water spills dangerously close to the edge of the basin. I twist the valves until the stream fades to a hesitant drip, then nothing.

Silence presses down like a physical weight, heavy and unrelenting, broken only by the faint rhythm of water droplets. My heart refuses to calm, its relentless pounding an attempt to drown out the memory of the note's words.

My phone sits on the counter where I left it, its dark screen reflecting nothing but my pale, frightened face. For a long moment, I stare at it, weighing the decision. I shouldn’t. The distance between us was meant to protect me—to protect him. But the memory of his voice, steady and sharp like steel, cuts through my hesitation.

I grab the phone, my hands trembling as I swipe the screen to life and scroll through my contacts. When I see his name, my thumb hesitates, hovering over it.

Damian.

I press the call button before I can think twice, lifting the phone to my ear. It rings once, then again, each tone drawing the tension tighter in my chest.

“Raven?” His voice comes through the line, low and edged with surprise, but there’s something else—concern, maybe.

For a moment, I can’t find the words. My grip on the phone tightens as I stare at the locked door. “Damian,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of my fear. “I think... Someone’s here.”

A pause. His tone sharpens. “Where are you?”

“Hom--in my apartment…” I manage, though the words feel fragile, as if it might shatter under scrutiny. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Did they try to come inside?” His words cut through mine, direct and commanding, dragging me back to the present.

I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “Yes. I—I locked the door, but they left a note.” I instantly regret telling him that part, though I’m not sure why.

Another pause. When he speaks again, his voice is cold and measured. “I’m on my way. Don’t open the door for anyone, not even me, until I say it’s safe.”

The line goes dead, leaving me clutching the phone, his last words reverberating in my mind. Safe. It feels like a foreign concept now, something distant and unreachable.

I sit on the edge of the tub, phone still in hand, waiting for the sound of his arrival to break the silence.

I can’t help but let my mind drift to the note,

You remind me of your mother, Raven.

I’ve never even met anyone who knows who my mother is—was. I don’t even know her name. Still, the idea of someone showing up, claiming to know her, shakes me to my core. What else do they know? Do they know about me? My sealed juvenile record? It wouldn’t take much for someone determined to dig it up. I went by a different name then, but it’s not impossible to piece together.

The questions spiral in my mind, dragging me deeper into a void of uncertainty. I lose track of time—of everything around me. My thoughts circle the enigma of my mother and father. Who were they? Are they still alive? Why did they give me up? Does my father even know I exist?

The last question hangs like a weight in my chest, but I’m jolted from my thoughts by another loud thud at the door. I leap to my feet as a second knock—sharp and deliberate—echoes through the silence. My voice catches in my throat, refusing to call out. My gaze shifts to the gleam of a knife on the bathroom counter. Instinct drives me to grab it, but before I can, I hear his voice.

“Raven! It’s me, Damian—are you okay?”

Relief rushes through me, so sharp it’s almost painful. I exhale a shaky breath, whispering a quick prayer of thanks. “Yeah, hang on!” I call back, moving toward the door. But then I stop, hesitating. “Is it safe? You told me not to open the door unless you said so...”

“It’s safe,” he reassures me, his voice calm but firm. “There’s no one out here. I’m alone.”

I linger a moment longer, second-guessing myself. In reality, I don’t even know this man. He’s as much a stranger as anyone else who might knock on my door. And yet, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel safer when he’s around. That I don’t feel even safer now that he’s here.

I unbolt the locks but leave the chain latched, opening the door just enough to peer out. His face greets me, his expression a mask of stone that softens into something faintly reassuring.

“You’re right to be cautious,” he says evenly.

“I thought it’s what you’d want me to do.”

He nods, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “You thought right.”

With that, I undo the chain and swing the door open wide enough for him to step inside. As soon as he’s in, he locks the door behind him, the motion smooth and automatic. Then he turns to me, his presence solid and magnetic.

I can’t stop myself. Before I realize what I’m doing, I throw my arms around him, burying my face against his shoulder. The warmth of him, his steadiness, is overwhelming. “Thank God you’re here,” I say, my voice muffled against him.

His arms fold around me, strong and certain, closing me into the moment. His voice is a low murmur, soothing and sure. “Thank God you’re alright.”

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, and his green eyes burn with something raw and unyielding—a ferce protectiveness that feels primal and natural. My body responds instinctively, drawn to that intensity in a way I can’t explain.

It takes every ounce of my self-control to pull away, even as part of me aches to close the distance again, to let the connection deepen. Fear is one hell of an aphrodisiac, but the danger in that temptation could cost me everything I’ve sacrificed so much to protect.

I catch the faint flicker of disappointment in his expression as I step back, but he buries it quickly. Neither of us is in any position to act on whatever this is. Then, my gaze catches something else—a streak of crimson smeared across the door. A chill runs through me as I notice the warmth on my bare skin. Blood?

The glinting red glows brilliantly against the pale curve of my shoulder, and my stomach twists. It’s only when I follow the trail of droplets pooling at Damian’s feet that I see the source. Blood drips steadily from his hand, painting a grim line from the door to the floor where he stands.

“Are you alright?” I stammer, the words rushing out before I can think.

He glances down, as though only just realizing the wound is his. “Oh, shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“Here,” I say, stepping toward him instinctively, closing the space I’d just created.

“It’s nothing,” he replies quickly, brushing off my concern as he shifts to hide his injured arm.

“It’s not nothing,” I counter, catching sight of the dark stain spreading across his coat sleeve. The sheer amount of blood makes my pulse spike. “Let me see.”

He hesitates, his eyes narrowing slightly, but my insistence doesn’t falter. With a low grumble, he shrugs out of his coat, muttering something about me “worrying too much.” The moment he moves, his breath hitches ever so slightly, revealing the pain he’s trying to suppress.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” I say, my voice sharper now as I roll up his blood-stained sleeve. The grey fabric is nearly purple as it reveals the gash across his forearm--its worse than I expect: long, jagged, and still oozing. “I rest my case.”

“It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks,” he insists, but the strain in his voice undermines the words.

“Whatever you say, hero,” I reply dryly, unable to stop the faint smirk tugging at my lips. I glance up at him, letting my tone shift just enough to carry a teasing edge. “I can’t take my eyes off you for one second, can I?”

His green eyes meet mine, amusement flickering beneath the tension. But it’s not enough to mask the heat lingering there, unspoken but unmistakable. Despite the blood and danger, the pull between us is there again—impossible to ignore, as dangerous as the situation we’re in.

Damian’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, but it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his sharp, impenetrable focus. He looks down at the gash, then back at me.

“I’ll live,” he says firmly, though there’s something unspoken in his gaze—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper.

I shake my head, refusing to let him brush this off. “Not unless we get that cleaned and wrapped. Sit down.”

“Raven, it’s not—”

“No,” I snap, cutting him off. “Sit down before I make you.”

He stares at me for a beat, taking in the fire in my eyes. There’s something almost familiar in this exchange—a volatile mix of passion and fury that hangs between us.

“I’m afraid to know the extent of what you could make me do,” he says darkly, his voice unintentionally laced with the same tension I feel, tightening like a serpent coiling within me.

I should tell him to leave. He shouldn’t be here. But I won’t. Instead, I cross the room to a half-unpacked bag, pulling out my first aid kit.

Damian watches me from the corner of the kitchen as I gather clean towels and antiseptic. “I’m not a helpless child, you know.”

“No, you’re a wounded one,” I counter, setting everything down and motioning for him to sit. He does, grudgingly, laying his arm out on a clean towel. Blood still seeps from the wound, bubbling along its clean edges.

“You’re lucky you didn’t nick an artery,” I mutter as I start cleaning the wound. “That being said, this could really use stitches.”

“No,” he says with a cool shake of his head. “My insurance has a high deductible. And I’m not waiting six hours for some sleep deprived med reisdent to do a half-assed ER job.”

“I get it,” I drawl, pouring a stinging antiseptic directly onto the wound and apply pressur to it. “You’re too tough for the doctor.”

His breath tightens at the burn, but he doesn’t pull away. I can see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, as he defends his pride through gritted teeth.

“I get the feeling you’re enjoying this,” he says, his tone sharp but edged with something that almost resembles humor.

“What would make you think that?” I ask, glancing up at him, my voice as steady as my hands. But the corner of my mouth curves up just slightly, betraying me.

Damian doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes lock onto mine, unflinching, studying me in that unnervingly intense way of his, as though he’s trying to peel back the layers of my expression and uncover something hidden beneath. It’s unsettling and thrilling all at once.

“I’ve learned to recognize when someone enjoys a little suffering,” he finally says, his tone dry but laced with that subtle edge of challenge.

I raise an eyebrow, dabbing at the wound a little more firmly than necessary. He barely flinches. “Suffering might be putting it a bit dramatically, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head, lips quirking upward. “Am I wrong?”

I sigh, shaking my head but unable to suppress the faint smirk tugging at my lips. “Keep that arm still,” I say, ignoring his question.

For a moment, the room feels smaller, the air heavier. I can hear the patter of rain against the window pane, as the damp fall air churns into a mild storm, but in here, the silence between us is louder. Charged.

I press a fresh cloth to his wound, applying pressure. He doesn’t react to the pain, his expression locked in that impenetrable mask. But as I glance up, I catch the flicker of something else—a softness, almost imperceptible, lurking beneath the surface.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” I ask, my voice steady but edged with curiosity as I press the cloth more firmly to his wound, watching the slow seep of crimson into the fabric.

Damian’s jaw tightens, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll brush me off again, retreating into that stoic silence he wears like armor. Instead, his lips press into a thin line, and he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says, his tone clipped, almost dismissive. “Just a loose end that didn’t tie up as cleanly as I would’ve liked.”

I roll my eyes. “A loose end, huh? Sounds like a polite way of saying you got in over your head.”

His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and unyielding, but there’s a flicker of something else—amusement, maybe? “I don’t get in over my head.”

“Oh, right, how could I forget?” I arch an eyebrow, leaning back slightly without removing my hand from his arm. “You’re always one step ahead of the game.”

“Accurate,” he replies, his tone cool, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips.

I shake my head, exasperated. If there's one thing I have learned about this man it’s that he can be thoroughly exhausting--infuriating even. “You really are impossible.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his green eyes studying me with that unnerving intensity, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle only he can see. It’s disarming and grounding all at once, as though he notices more of me than I’m ready to reveal. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost self-reflective. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t entirely see this one coming.”

“A little hubris, how refreshing,” I deadpan.

He rolls his eyes at the jab. “I realized someone was following me. What I didn’t anticipate was the knife.”

“Someone attacked you?” My voice sharpens as I grip his arm a little tighter.

“Tried to rob me,” Damian clarifies, his tone flat, almost dismissive. “Guess it’s better than being held up at gunpoint.”

I stare at him, incredulous. His words are too casual for what he’s describing. “Yeah, because your wallet is totally worth dying over.”

“You ever wait in line at the DMV?” he quips, his expression finally cracking into a wry grin. “In that vein, the threat of death is practically a relief.”

“Some might beg to differ,” I mutter, unable to stop the laugh that escapes me despite myself.

The laugh catches both of us off guard, hanging in the charged air between us. For a moment, it almost feels normal—like two people sharing an absurd joke instead of patching up a knife wound in the middle of a storm.

“Careful,” Damian says, his tone dry but with a faint warmth beneath it. “I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

I smile, something about this exchange feels normal, like we we’ve done this before. “Let’s not get carried away, I tolerate you at best.”

“That’s more than most people,” he quips, leaning back slightly, though his eyes remain locked on mine, that ever-present intensity softening just a fraction.

I finish wrapping his arm, securing the bandage tightly. “There,” I say, my voice quieter now, the moment sobering. “It’s not perfect, but it should hold until you can get it properly looked at.”

He glances down at his arm, then back up at me. “You did fine,” he says, and for once, there’s no teasing edge, just a quiet sincerity that takes me by surprise. “Thank you.”

I nod and stand, suddenly restless under his gaze. Busying myself, I gather the bloodied rags and first aid supplies, my hands moving faster than my thoughts. “You’re lucky, you know,” I say over my shoulder, the words a distraction as much as a warning. “That could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he replies, his voice trailing behind me like a shadow.

I glance back at him, something about the weight of his words stirring an unwelcome sense of déjà vu. That lingering tone, the way he holds himself—it’s too familiar.

“Here,” he says, stepping forward. “Let me help.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s the least I can do,” he insists, reaching for the bloodied rags before I can stop him.

I hesitate, then nod, reluctantly relinquishing the mess. “Laundry’s in the bathroom,” I say, watching as he takes the armful of soiled cloths. Then I notice the state of his coat and shirt, still stained deep with blood. “You should probably wash those too,” I add, gesturing toward the ruined fabric.

“No, they’re—”

“Soaked,” I interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “If you don’t wash them now, they’ll be ruined for sure.”

He exhales, shaking his head with a faint smirk of submission. “Fine,” he says, a note of dry humor slipping into his voice. “I guess that means I’m staying here then?”

I freeze for a moment, the weight of what he’s saying settling over me. He’s right, of course. That

is

what it means. The air between us feels heavier again, charged with something unspoken.

“Looks that way.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Damian

Just when I thought this couldn’t get any more unethical, here I am, bleeding all over Raven’s safe haven and insinuating myself into her space like I belong here. Like I have any right to be.

Her words hang in the air, soft but certain. “Looks that way.”

I don’t miss the hesitation in her voice. It’s subtle, but it’s there—like she’s weighing the consequences of her own choice. I should tell her she’s making a mistake. I should pick myself up, find a way to clean up this mess, and get out before I drag her into any more chaos than she already is. But instead, I linger.

“I’ll head out after my clothes are dry,” I offer, trying to ease her hesitation.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” she counters, her gaze shooting to the window.

The storm outside is growing, the rain hammering against the windows with increasing ferocity. The sound feels distant compared to the quiet rhythm of her movements as she clears the counter, her back to me. For once, I don’t feel the compulsion to analyze her every move, her every word. It’s not necessary. I know exactly how she’s feeling—conflicted. That makes two of us.

I glance down at my arm, the neatly wrapped bandage a stark contrast to the rough edges of the night’s events. “You’re good at this,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice comes out lower than I expect, more sincere than I intend.

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder at me with a raised brow. “At what? Playing nursemaid to reckless vigilantes?”

“Something like that,” I say with a faint smirk, but the truth is heavier. She’s good at making things seem bearable, even when they’re not. That’s a rare skill. One I can’t let myself lean on.

She doesn’t respond, just shakes her head and returns to the task at hand. The distance between us feels deliberate, and yet I can’t bring myself to bridge it.

Instead, I follow her earlier suggestion and slip into the bathroom, my bloodied coat, and the rags clutched in my hands. The small space is quiet, the air carrying the faint scent of lavender—Raven’s choice, no doubt. It feels absurdly domestic, standing here like some normal guy with laundry to deal with instead of someone who just fought off a religious zealot.

“But you, dear boy, are the sacrificial lamb.”

The words play in my head as I unbutton my shirt and pull it off.

I rinse the blood from the sleeve in cold water and spray whatever stain remover she has on hand. Not that I have any faith this shirt can be saved. Not that I care. The water swirls in shades of crimson down the drain. The action is mechanical, almost meditative. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to stay. To let her presence fill the war-torn gaps in my armor, to have something normal, even if it’s fleeting. But I know better. Normal doesn’t fit me—it doesn fit her either. Whatever idea either of us has, it can’t be.

Still, the thought lingers, like a ghost refusing to be exorcised.

When I return to the kitchen with only my undershirt to cover me, her gaze lifts to meet mine, but not before lingering on my form for just a moment too long. There’s an edge to her expression now, like she’s braced herself against whatever storm she expects me to bring. Maybe she’s right to. But there’s something else, something she can’t entirely mask—a flicker of concern, or maybe curiosity. I can’t quite tell, but it lingers in her eyes, betraying her attempt at indifference.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, nodding toward the now cleaned table. My voice comes out softer than I intend, dusted with something almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I asked you to come here,” she interrupts, cutting me off before I can finish. Her tone is steady, decisive. “I don’t have a lot of friends and I certainly don’t have anyone I can count on. It’s sad, but you're the only person I thought I could call.”

The words sink between us, heavy as an anchor plunging into the abyss, far beyond where the light from the surface can reach.

“It’s sad,”

echoes in my mind, reverberating in that hollow, unspoken place. ‘Sadder than you realize,’ I want to say—but the weight of it keeps me silent. To want something so bad it hurts, to realize to have it would be the ruin of us both.

“You want some tea?” she asks, her voice softer now. “I put the kettle on before…” She trails off, the words hanging unfinished between us, a quiet reminder of why I’m even here.

“Sure,” I reply, accepting the offer, doing my best to make things feel normal. Or at least something resembling it.

She gives me a small half-smile before turning to steep two cups. “I drink this one when I’m stressed,” she says, her tone casual, though the undercurrent of tension remains.

“I don’t know why you would be?” I tease lightly, trying to break the weight in the room. “It’s not like anything exciting happened or anything.”

“Exciting?” she repeats, arching a brow as she sets a mug down in front of me. “That’s one way to describe it.”

I glance away, the humor slipping as I remember this isn’t her world—this chaos. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” she interrupts, her voice laced with understanding, though there’s a heaviness to it. She sighs, studying her tea for a moment before continuing. “But I get the feeling this is… sort of your usual.”

“In a way,” I admit, my voice low. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

She nods slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “That’s… interesting,” she says, though the weight behind the word suggests she’s trying to piece something together. Something about me.

“I noticed you drew a bath,” I say, bringing up the matter of the full tub. “Did you start that before your unannounced visitor?”

She sighs, her fingers drumming lightly on the table beside her mug. “Yeah…”

“It’d be a waste if you didn’t take advantage,” I say, my tone measured but carrying an unintentional edge.

“Take advantage of what?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, confusion flickering in her expression.

“The bath,” I clarify, defensiveness creeping in as I gesture toward her shoulder, where streaks of my blood stain her skin: smudged across her clothes, and even in places I hadn’t realized I’d touched her. “You look like you could use it.”

She glances down, inspecting the mess, then smirks faintly. “You’re all over me, aren’t you?”

The comment lands with unexpected weight, as if something inside her is driving straight towards me. “Sorry,” I mutter, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. Being covered in some strange man’s DNA seems like the sorta thing she’s avoided until now.

She shrugs, nonchalant. “I suppose it could be worse.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” I quip as she pushes her chair back and rises.

“On second thought, I think I

will

take that bath,” she says, her voice lighter now. She hesitates briefly before adding, “Uh… will you be okay out here?”

I nod, shrugging off her concern. “Yeah.”

“As you can see, I don’t have a TV,” she says, glancing at the sparse living space.

“I don’t watch TV,” I reply, waving it off. “I’m more of a reader.”

She perks up slightly at that. “That, I can help with.”

Crossing to a corner of the room, she opens a few boxes to reveal stacks of books tucked away like forgotten treasures. “I’m kind of a bibliophile,” she says, her voice carrying a dry note of humor.

“Works for me,” I say, stepping closer to examine the titles spilling out of the box.

“Feel free to take as much as you want,” she offers casually. “I can’t take it all with me, anyway.”

I pause, the comment catching me off guard. My gaze sweeps over the surrounding boxes, and I feign ignorance. “You going somewhere?”

Her posture stiffens, a brief flicker of hesitation betraying her glance. “Yeah… a wilderness retreat.”

“A wilderness retreat?” I repeat slowly, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds… intense.”

“Likely will be,” she admits, keeping her tone short.

“How long are you going for?”

She holds onto the answer, her silence more telling than anything she could’ve said. When she finally speaks, it feels like a reluctant confession. “Three months.”

“Three months?” I echo, letting the surprise show in my voice. “When are you leaving?”

“Two days,” she replies, the words tumbling out too quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

I pause, my gaze fixed on her. My first instinct is to be angry, but what right do I have? Whatever this is between us—it isn’t real. We’re not a normal couple. Hell, we’re not even a couple. We’re just two lonely people trying to fill a void, nothing more, nothing less. I can’t afford to forget that.

“You’ll be out there in the dead of winter?” I say at last, my voice betraying a note of concern I hadn’t meant to reveal.

Her expression is unreadable, a practiced mask of prefect indifference, but the tension beneath it is impossible to miss. She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push her. Not yet.

The silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. She busies herself with her tea, fingers curling around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. I watch her, noting the way her shoulders tense, bracing for an argument that isn’t coming.

“When are you coming back?” I ask finally, my voice low and steady.

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she’s going to brush me off. But then she sighs—a sound heavier than any words she could have managed. “I don’t know if I’m coming back,” she says, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her cup.

Again, I check my anger. If she even knew half of what she can never know… This is why getting close to her was such a bad idea.

I should leave. Rain or not, I should walk out that door and not look back. But I’m stuck here, waiting for my damn coat.

“I think I’ll take that bath now.”

“Alright,” I nod.

I watch her disappear behind the door, and my mind betrays me almost immediately. I can picture it: her slipping out of that dress, the black fabric pooling on the cold tile floor, then the stockings sliding down the length of her perfect legs, and finally her—what the hell am I doing?

“Seriously, I need to get out of here,” I mutter under my breath, cutting across the room to the window. The rain has only gotten worse, sheets of it hammering against the glass. The wind’s picked up too, howling through the narrow streets.

Could I make it back without my coat? Sure. Would it be wise? Not even remotely.

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. “Focus,” I tell myself, forcing my attention to the box of books she’d left out. If I can keep my mind from wandering, maybe I can make it through this night without losing what little self-control I have left.

“You can do this…” I tell myself… “I can do this.”

I sort through old books, mostly classics, which, if I’m being honest, only ignites my attraction to her.

“Damn it.” The words slip out before I can stop them, punctuating my annoyance as I glance at the bathroom door, my coat still in the wash, not even ready to dry. Ordering an Uber might be an option, but a quick check of the weather app reveals the temperature dropping fast. Rain turning to sleet. Fantastic.

I sigh, resigning myself to staying. If I’m stuck here, I need to keep myself in check. The time flashes on my phone—a silent accusation. It’s late, and after her bath, she’ll likely be heading to bed.

Bed.

The thought jolts me as my gaze lands on the narrow twin bed in the corner. Not that I expect her to invite me to share it—but the idea sparks, regardless. She’s allowed me past boundaries. I never thought she would. I’d like to think her bed won’t be one of them.

I remember her asking, desperate in the heat of the moment,

“Do you want to come up?”

My answer:

“I shouldn’t.”

But God, did I want to say yes?

“This is bad,” I mutter under my breath. Of all the reckless, impulsive things I’ve done, this ranks among the most reckless. Shameless, even.

And, as if summoned by my guilt, Grayson’s name flashes across my phone screen like some half-hearted angel perched on my shoulder. A silent reminder that I’ve undeniably screwed up. Not that I’ll admit that to him. But I’d be lying if I said he doesn’t have an uncanny ability to sniff out my mistakes.

I want to ignore the call, but that might spark concern. Best to keep it short and make it clear I’m not in a position to chat.

“What?”

“We really need to work on your phone etiquette, dude.”

“Did you seriously call to critique how I answer the phone?”

“No,” Grayson sighs, exasperation dripping through the line. “I called to see if you’ve made any progress. Plus, you haven’t checked in yet.”

Damn it. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Kent called earlier. I thought that counted.”

“It would—if he’d mentioned it.”

Interesting.

Noted: Kent seems to be keeping tabs on me. The reason will have to wait. “Anyway, I’ve found some things, but I can’t really talk right now.”

“You on a stakeout?”

“Something like that.” I glance around the room, ensuring nothing looks suspicious. “I’ll write up a report tomorrow, bring you and the League up to speed. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” he says, though there’s something lingering in his tone. “You behaving yourself?”

I pause, scanning my surroundings as though someone might actually be watching. “Why? Is someone saying I’m not?”

“No,” Grayson replies, but there’s an edge to his voice. I have a hunch someone else is feeding him information. “It’s just... you seem more distant with this one.”

“If only I

was

...” The words slip out before I can catch them.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say curtly, already regretting the slip. “I’m no more distant than usual. You’re just reading into things too much.”

Grayson doesn’t buy it. I can hear the skepticism in the way he breathes, like he’s weighing whether to press or let it go.

“Right,” he says finally, but the doubt is still there, threaded through the single word. “Just... don’t forget what we talked about. You can’t keep going rogue on these things, Damian.”

“I’m not going rogue,” I reply flatly. “I’m following up on a lead.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a long pause, the kind Grayson uses when he’s trying to read me. “And this lead wouldn’t happen to involve anything personal, would it?”

I grit my teeth. “All of my leads are personal. That’s why I get results.”

“Sure,” he says, voice laced with dry humor. “Just don’t forget you’re part of a team now. Teams mean accountability.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Father,” I deadpan.

Grayson snorts. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep calling.”

“Only because someone has to keep you in check. I’ll let you get back to... whatever it is you’re not telling me.”

“Goodnight, Grayson,” I say, cutting him off before he can push further.

“Night, little brother. Stay out of trouble—if that’s even possible.”

The call ends, leaving me in silence, though Grayson’s voice lingers in my head. I tuck the phone away, forcing my focus back to the present. Staying out of trouble? A little late for that.

I return to the box, pulling out a small, old book with a woven canvas cover in a muted brown tone. Its texture and the style of its print suggest it was crafted in the late 1800s or early 1900s. Despite its age, the book is in impeccable condition—a translation of

Euripides’ Medea

.

“Greek tragedy feels appropriate,” I mutter to myself, the irony not lost on me, as I carry it to the couch where I’m resigned to spend the night.

The couch, an antique without question, has been refinished and reupholstered at some point. Its cushions, surprisingly yielding, lack the stiff, unforgiving quality most furniture of its age seems to have. As I sink into it, the faint creak of its frame mingles with the sound of rain striking the windows. It’ll do. For tonight, it’ll have to.

I open the book and flip through its stiff, yellowed pages, trying to focus on the faded lines of

Medea

. But the thought gnaws at me—someone other than the Zealot has been keeping tabs on me. Worse, I haven’t noticed.

Only one person could pull that off.

I set the book aside, lifting my phone. A number buried deep in my memory comes to mind, one meant for emergencies. Whether this qualifies is irrelevant; she’ll decide that herself.

The line connects, and her cool, regal voice flows through, unfazed. “Damian,” she greets, calm and measured, “is everything alright?”

“You tell me, Mother,” I reply, keeping my tone flat.

There’s a brief pause, but it’s enough. She knows exactly why I’ve called. “Whatever do you mean?”

I exhale sharply, suppressing my frustration. She’ll never admit it outright. “Did you inform Father about my mission?”

“Why would I do that?” Her voice remains smooth, feigning ignorance.

I shrug, though she can’t see it. “Call it a hunch.”

“Then enlighten me—what is this hunch of yours?”

Talking to my mother is an exercise in restraint, a duel of words where every phrase is a blade. It’s exhausting, like fencing a mirror.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, already regretting this call. “You’ve never been one to leave things to chance, Mother. If someone’s keeping tabs on me, it’s either on your orders or his.”

“Interesting theory,” she muses, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. “And yet, you’ve failed to provide a shred of evidence.”

“I don’t need to. I know better?” I snap, my patience thinning. “You’ve always considered my moves your business. Why would this time be any different?”

“Perhaps I’ve learned to let go,” she replies smoothly, but I can hear the smirk in her tone.

I laugh dryly. “If I believed that, I’d be a fool. And you didn’t raise a fool, did you?”

“Indeed not,” she admits, a faint hint of pride slipping through. “But your paranoia, Damian, is unbecoming. If someone is watching you, perhaps it’s because you’ve made yourself worth watching?”

“And if that someone reports back to Father?”

Her silence stretches, and I can almost hear the calculations turning in her mind. When she speaks, her tone is her usual—cool, clipped and impossible to read. “You underestimate my ability to prioritize. Whatever you’re involved in, I assure you, the League has no knowledge of it. That would be... counterproductive.”

“Counterproductive…” I counter, “to whom?”

“To us,” she replies, a subtle emphasis that sends a chill through me. “You are my son, Damian. Do not forget where your true allegiance lies.”

The line goes quiet before I can respond, her parting words heavy, oddly sentimental for her. I sit back, my eye catches the title of the book beside me and I remember a line that resonates with me.

“Do you think I would have fawned on that man unless I had some end to gain or profit in it?”

“No I wouldn’t, Talia,” I reply, taking the book in my hands, second guessing my reading choice.

True allegiance? The words echo in my mind.

For someone who’s supposedly let go, she’s doing an excellent job reminding me of her grip.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I should be piecing together the events of the night. But the thought of my mother’s interference—and the possibility that someone has made contact with my father—is impossible to ignore.

And then there’s the other matter. The Church of Blood. The phrase lingers, as if spoken directly into my ear by a cold breath:

“Born of the oldest bloodline. The sacrificial lamb.”

Whoever that zealot was, he knows me. He knows my family. And he knows of my unique lineage. Which means they know about the Lazarus Pit. But how?

The question festers in my mind, unanswered, as the minutes tick by.

The sound of a door creaking open pulls me from my thoughts. A thin mist of steam wafts into the cool air of the apartment. Raven emerges, her long dark hair damp, fingers combing through the strands as if to tame them. Her pale skin glows faintly pink from the heat of the water, carrying the soft scent of lavender and vanilla.

I notice her bare face, stripped of makeup. She looks... different. Prettier. More honest. I’ve never cared for overly made-up girls; it always felt like they were hiding something—hiding themselves behind the shallow armor of vanity.

The memory strikes without warning. Our first kiss. I’d caught my reflection in a shop window afterward, her mark left unmistakably on my lips. I’d wiped it away as if erasing evidence of the mistake I’d made. It was as if the universe wanted me to feel the weight of my sin. A reminder that this attraction is wrong. That nothing good can come of this. That we are a lie.

“You okay?” Raven’s voice breaks through, her tone softened, smooth as the steam still clinging to her.

For a moment, I don’t answer. The words caught somewhere between my guilt and the truth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Raven

He doesn’t answer. His manner is cold and contained, like he’s deliberately holding me at arm’s length. I can’t blame him.

“I, um, switched your clothes over,” I offer, as if handing him an olive branch.

It’s strange. Whenever one of us pulls away, the other instinctively tries to pull us back to center, like we can’t stand the distance. And yet, even now, I feel like I’m losing something. But what? We’re not a

thing

. We’re not supposed to be.

“Thanks,” he says evenly, his voice detached as his focus drifts back to the pages. That’s when I notice the book in his hands.

“You found something?” I ask, gesturing toward it.

He glances down at the title as though he’d forgotten it was there. “I did.” His reply is short, clipped, but there’s a weight behind it. I know I should take the hint and leave him be. But something in me refuses to let go.

“Medea. Interesting choice.”

“Divorced parents,” he notes dryly, brushing it off like it’s obvious.

I frown. “I thought you said your parents never got married?”

“It wouldn’t have made much of a difference if they had.”

I hear the bite in his tone, though I get the sense the disdain is less directed at me and more at his parents’ tumultuous relationship. Perhaps that’s the cause of his hesitation? “I’m sorry,” I say softly, knowing I should probably set him up for the night and head to bed. “I, um, have some extra blankets and—”

“No, I’ll, um, head home when my clothes are done.”

I stare at him, his tone indifferent—distant. “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” I say before I can even second-guess myself. His expression falters, hearing the unintentional pleading in my voice. “I mean, the weather isn’t going to get any better, and I’d prefer not being alone…”

He doesn’t respond; his silence is louder than any answer. I’ve said too much. “Um… I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Don’t be,” he finally says, his vibrant green eyes flickering back to me for an instant. “I’ll stay.”

I feel a smile tug at my lips, and for a moment, a matching one breaks across his. “Um… I’ll get you some blankets,” I offer, opening another box and retrieving some of the extra linens I plan to donate after I move. “Here,” I say, handing him a folded pile of pillows and knitted throws. “I hope the couch is fine?”

The words leave my lips with hesitation—not so much for condemning him to the dreaded couch, but more so to suppress my own desire to offer him a place in my bed.

Damian stands and takes the blankets, uttering a thanks. His fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. The touch is unintentional, fleeting, but it lingers in the space between us. I can’t tell if he notices—or if he’s pretending not to.

“The couch will be fine,” he says evenly, his voice as measured as ever. It’s the kind of tone he uses to set a boundary, to stop anyone from asking more questions. I’ve heard it before, and yet, tonight it feels different.

“Good,” I reply, forcing myself to meet his eyes, even if only for a second. They’re sharper than they have any right to be, vivid green against the muted shadows of the room. For a moment, I wonder if he can see through me, past the quiet words and the polite distance I’m trying to keep.

I gesture toward the couch. “It’s not much, but it should be comfortable enough.”

He nods, but there’s a tension in his movements, a stiffness in the way he avoids looking at me too long. I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable with me, or with himself. Either way, I don’t press.

I step back, retreating toward my bed to give him space, though the room feels smaller now, like the air between us is pressing inward. “If you need anything… just let me know,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.

He doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder if I’ve said too much again. But then he nods, almost imperceptibly, and his eyes flicker to mine. “Thanks, Raven.”

It’s such a simple thing, my name on his lips, but somehow it feels heavier. Like there’s something unsaid in the way he says it.

I hesitate for a moment longer, then force myself to turn away. The sound of my footsteps feels louder than it should be as I walk toward my bedroom. I Take a few more steps away, my fingers toying with the end of my braid, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

The blankets should have been the end of it. A polite gesture, a kind word, and then distance. But it never is with him. There’s always something more, a quiet pull that I can’t seem to ignore. And even though he is across the room shuffling with the blankets and taking off his boots, I can’t help but crave to be closer to him. Craving to be back in that moment hours before with his lips against mine, his fingers tangled in my hair and his body aching to invade mine.

I glance at the bed, empty and uninviting. My heart pangs of regret for not saying more—or for saying too much. I can never tell which it is.

It’s not worth it,

I remind myself as I crawl between the sheets. It’s not worth letting go for someone I could lose as quickly as I found him… or did he find me?

The storm rattles just beyond the window, the rain a steady rhythm against the glass. I close my eyes and try to let it lull me to sleep. But even as I lay down, my thoughts drift across the room, to the presence that feels too close and too far all at once.

I tell myself it’s better this way. That the distance is necessary. That whatever this is between us will pass if I ignore it long enough. That tomorrow will be the last I ever see of him.

But deep down, I know I’m lying to myself.

Hours pass as I toss and turn in restless sleep, caught between my guilty conscience and the temptation biting at my most intimate thoughts. Sleep comes in fragments, memories both fresh and clashing, entangling with one another until they’re unrecognizable.

I shift again, tugging the blanket tighter around me as if it could shield me from the ache gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The room feels heavy, saturated with the quiet presence across the room. I try not to think of him lying there, stretched out on the couch. Alone. Awake, maybe? Or asleep—oblivious to the way my mind refuses to let him go.

I don’t know how long I lie there before I hear it: the soft creak of floorboards beneath careful footsteps. My breath catches, and for a moment, I think I’ve imagined it—a ghost conjured by my overactive mind. But then I hear it again, closer this time, and my pulse quickens.

I dare not open my eyes, pretending to be sound asleep, half-hoping this presence will retreat. Maybe even leave altogether, taking temptation with him. But another, almost ravenous, part of me craves for him to inch closer, to answer my silent longings and carve himself so deeply into my being, that I couldn’t forget him if I tried.

The bed shifts, and my heart beats so loud I feel it thudding in my ears. Still, I keep still, willing myself to remain motionless, feigning sleep as the weight beside me shifts further. I’m half-deterred by his boldness—that he would just invite himself into my bed. The nerve. Yet, I can’t deny the fear coursing through me. Fear, yes—but also something else, something far more dangerous. Admittedly, I find myself aroused by the thrill, the sheer audacity of it all.

The mattress dips further under his weight, and I catch the faint rustle of fabric. The chill of the room sneaks beneath the blanket, only to be replaced by the steady warmth of his body, close but not quite touching. His breath is measured, maddeningly calm, as though he believes I’m unaware. As though I haven’t already felt his presence like a shadow, tugging at the fragile strings of my resolve.

I force myself to remain still, every muscle taut, every breath measured. But the silence between us is deafening, broken only by the sound of the storm outside. The rain lashes against the window, relentless, like the echo of my racing thoughts.

Then I feel it—his arm slipping around me, the heat of his hand slow and comforting. A shiver courses through me before I can stop it, and the fragile whimper that escapes my lips betrays everything I’ve tried to hide.

“Raven,” he whispers, his voice low, roughened by something he tries to keep contained.

For a moment, the sound lingers in the air between us, delicate yet charged. Then his lips graze my ear—not quite a kiss, not quite a touch, just a promise suspended in hesitation. The pause stretches, like he’s waiting for something unspoken, some permission I haven’t consciously given but feel myself offering in the way I don’t pull away.

My exhale is shaky, torn between craving his closeness and knowing I should push him away. I should say something—anything—that breaks this spell… But I can’t.

“I know you’re awake,” he says at last, softer than I expect, the vulnerability in his tone catching me off guard.

I remain still, my breaths shallow, the weight of his words pressing against my resolve. I tell myself I’m pretending to sleep to protect us both, but the truth is far less noble—I’m afraid of what will happen if I speak.

His hand moves, brushing over the curve of my stomach, trailing upward with a deliberate slowness that makes my pulse stutter. When his touch lingers just beneath my breast, I feel his hesitation, but it vanishes when his hand finds the hollow of my throat. His thumb grazes my skin, and I swear I can feel the thrum of my heartbeat beneath his fingers.

“Damian…” His name falls from my lips, barely a whisper, but it’s enough to shatter the silence.

His gaze burns, though my eyes remain closed. His thumb strokes the column of my neck, each motion careful, reverent, yet possessive. My pulse beats wildly under his touch, and I feel him lean closer, his breath warm against my skin.

“I can’t help myself around you,” he murmurs, his voice raw, almost a confession. As if that makes this moment inevitable.

I don’t answer, my throat too tight with words I can’t form. The storm outside rages, but it feels distant compared to the tempest inside me. My breath hitches as he guides me onto my back, his movements both gentle and insistent. His fingertips trace the line of my sternum, leaving trails of fire in their wake before his lips follow, slow and fevered, unraveling what remains of my composure.

There’s a voice in my mind screaming—reminding me of my vows, of the life I’ve chosen, the path I’ve promised to walk. But it’s drowned out by something deeper, something primal that I’ve kept buried for too long.

The part of me that’s always been drawn to him. The part of me that’s so tired of resisting… Yet still…

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say finally, though the words are weak, devoid of any real conviction. They fall into the silence between us like pebbles into a dark well, swallowed whole.

“Yet I am.” His voice is low, teasing, and his breath skims across the sensitive curve of my neck, down to my collarbone. The warmth of it stirs a shiver I can’t suppress, and then I feel the press of his knee between my legs. My body betrays me, arching instinctively as his hand slides over the silk of my nightgown, gliding across the curve of my breast.

I don’t push him away. I don’t even flinch. My body responds on instinct, leaning into his touch, betraying everything I’ve tried so hard to suppress. His fingers glide over the delicate fabric, teasing the outline of a breast visibly peaked beneath the thin silk.

I keep my eyes closed, my breaths slow but shallow, willing myself to remain perfectly still. It’s a fragile charade, and I know he sees through it. The tension in the air is palpable, wrapping around us like the storm outside. The steady drumbeat of rain against the glass mirrors my racing pulse.

His hand moves—tentative, deliberate—brushing against my side beneath the blanket. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric, and with every inch he dares to traverse, I feel my resolve fraying further. When his fingers settle lightly at my waist, I draw in a shaky breath, betraying myself in the smallest of ways.

“Raven,” he whispers again, my name heavy on his tongue, as though he’s savoring it, testing its weight.

I shouldn’t answer. I know that. But the way he says my name—it unravels me, pulling at threads I’ve tried to keep tightly wound. I bite down on my lower lip, so hard I think I might bleed.

His fingers glide downward, a soft, searching touch along the bare skin of my thigh, urging me to make space for him. I’m shocked when I don’t hesitate; I can’t summon the words. I can’t even summon the will to open my eyes, willing this to be a dream—needing it to be.

I shudder, caught between maddening thrill and sheer terror, as his hand slips beneath the hem of my nightgown.

“We shouldn’t,” I gasp, shivering. But before I can force out another objection, his lips are on mine, swallowing my protests. There’s something different now—something off. His hunger is sharper, more insistent, more forceful than what I’ve known of him.

“Damian—stop… This is too much,” I manage, my voice breaking beneath the weight of his smothering presence.

He says nothing, only chuckles low at my resistance, his movements growing rougher as I try to fight him. Desperate for air, I turn my head to the side, toward the couch from where this monster seemed to have come.

I shudder as I feel his tongue trace the shell of my ear, and a deep, guttural sound of disgust escapes me. “Damian—please!” I plead. “I can’t—I made a vow…”

And then my eyes fly open.

The room is silent, save for the steady rhythm of the rain. He’s there, motionless on the couch, asleep. My heart halts, thudding against my ribs as I stare, frozen in terror.

If Damian is there… then who is…

It takes all the strength I have to turn my head, and when I do, my blood runs cold. I can barely comprehend what I see: a shadow, so dark it swallows the light, its form shifting and uncertain. My stomach twists as four hellish gold eyes pierce the darkness, staring back at me.

A demon.

That’s the only word that comes to mind as the creature lets out a guttural growl, its gaping jaws gleaming in a flash of lightning, revealing sharp, unnatural teeth.

I scream, recoiling violently as I tumble to the floor. My chest heaves, my mind racing, consumed by this horror—this violation. And then, a hand grips my shoulder.

I jump at the touch, another scream tearing from my throat, and spin around—only to find Damian kneeling beside me, his eyes sharp with concern.

“Hey—” Damian’s voice cuts through the haze, steady but edged with concern. “You’re having a bad dream.”

My heart feels like it might burst at the sight of him. Relief wars with panic as I scramble for words, my voice trembling. “It’s there!” It’s all I can manage, my whole body shaking violently, as if I might shatter.

Damian’s gaze shifts past me, into the void. “Raven, there’s nothing there. You had a nightmare.”

I whip my head back toward the place where that great horror had stood, only to find it empty. No trace of its presence remains.

I stammer, caught between disbelief and desperate hope, my voice faltering. “But it was…” The words trail off, shame flooding my cheeks, burning hot against the icy fear still coursing every nerve.

I want it to have been a dream. I need it to be a dream. But even now, with Damian here, the fear doesn’t leave. My emotions tangle in a suffocating knot of guilt and humiliation. I feel so violated, so exposed. And worse still—worse than the horror itself—is the realization that the touch I craved, the one I wanted to surrender to, hadn’t belonged to him.

Damian’s hand lingers on my shoulder, his thumb brushing against my skin in a small, grounding motion. “Hey, you’re okay,” he says, his voice softer now, though the edge of worry remains. “You’re safe. Whatever you saw—it’s not real.”

“It felt real,” I murmur, feeling my resolve finally crumble like weathered stone. The memory clings to me, thick and suffocating, like a stain that won’t wash out—like blood on white satin. My pulse pounds in my ears as I try to focus on his face, his steady green eyes searching mine for something he can fix.

I choke back a sob, too far gone to be put back together, my throat tight, suffocatingly so. I can’t speak; the words are dry and empty, yet the emotion fueling them bursts up from the deepest pit in my stomach.

And just like that, Damian leans in, embracing me in a hug. I freeze, still shell-shocked, but I’m reminded by his familiar warmth and gentle touch that he is not the lurking terror haunting my nightmares, but the man who’s done nothing but keep me safe.

My fingers curl around the back of his shirt, desperate for anything solid, anything real. “It touched me. I felt it…”

His breath pauses, the rigidness in his posture unmistakable against mine. I can feel his jaw stiffen, his presence strong but never imposing—a silent reassurance that he’s listening.

“Start from the beginning.”

I hesitate, my lips parting as the words hover on the edge of escape. But how do I describe something that defies explanation? How do I give shape to the thing that stole the air from my lungs and left me feeling like a stranger in my own skin? Worse, how do I tell him I thought I was being intimate with him?

“It wasn’t you,” I manage finally, the admission tasting bitter and raw. “It sounded like you—felt like you—but it wasn’t.” My voice falters, the memory of those fiery golden eyes searing into my mind like molten flame. “It had eyes—four of them. And its… its touch—” I break off, my hand rising instinctively to my shoulder as if I can scrub away the lingering sensation.

For a long moment, Damian says nothing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. His silence is unnerving, but there’s something else in his gaze now—something sharper.

“Four eyes,” he repeats, his tone measured, but I can hear the shift beneath it—the calculated gears of his mind already turning. “And it looked like me?”

I shake my head. “No… I didn’t look at it until—” My stomach twists, the words catching in my throat as I recall the moment its true form revealed itself. “Until you woke me up.”

Lightning flashes outside the window, illuminating his face for a brief, startling instant. I can see the tight set of his jaw, the way his hand clenches into a fist before he relaxes it again. However, before he can answer, a loud knock raps at the door.

I jump, the sound jolting me back to the memory from earlier. Fear instantly coils around my heart, as another rhythmic slamming echoes through the apartment.

Damian instantly notices the terror draining the color from my face. His gaze sharpens, his demeanor shifting from guarded to resolute. “I’ll handle it.”

He rises smoothly, his movements deliberate and methodical, as if every step is part of some unseen choreography. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes meet mine—darker now, unreadable yet steady. “Stay here,” he commands, his voice low, firm, leaving no room for argument.

I nod, though the effort feels hollow, my body trembling with the instinct to follow him, to cling to the solid presence that anchors me. My nails press into the skin of my thighs, grounding myself in the sting, as I watch him cross the room. Every step is silent, purposeful—a predator assessing its prey.

The pounding on the door grows louder, more insistent, each knock reverberating through the small apartment, shaking loose the fragile threads of my composure.

Damian pauses, his hand reaching for the knife I’d left on the counter earlier, the same one I’d clutched in desperation as if it were a talisman. His fingers curl around the hilt, his eyes flicking back to mine. There’s no fear in his expression, only a calm readiness, a predator’s patience. He shrugs it off like this is routine—caution, not fear. A readiness to fight if need be. To survive by any means necessary.

Another knock, louder, sharper. Damian tilts his head toward the sound, listening intently. His grip tightens around the knife, his body coiled like a spring.

I hold my breath, the air thick and suffocating with anticipation. My mind races, spinning through possibilities, each more sinister than the last.

“Who’s there?” he asks, his voice measured, low.

A guttural hiss follows from the other side of the door, freezing the blood in my veins for a split second before a familiar, rasping voice cuts through.

“It’s Mrs. Abernathy!” The voice howls miserably. “Your downstairs neighbor!”

I see Damian’s shoulders slacken ever so slightly, his hand lowering the knife. Relief flickers across his face, tempered with a sharp edge of annoyance. “Fucking old bat,” he mutters under his breath, half-amused, half-exasperated.

I exhale shakily, a relief I barely feel. But it evaporates as quickly as it came when Mrs. Abernathy’s voice rises again, sharper now, cutting through the door.

“Is that a man in there with you?”

“Shit—” I hiss, scrambling to my feet. My body feels weak, the trembling in my legs unsteady as I cross the room. I wave Damian toward the bathroom, my voice barely above a whisper. “Get in there. Now.”

He doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on the door, his expression hard. “What if it’s a trap?”

“It’s

not

a trap,” I snap back, though my voice wavers, unconvincing even to myself.

“Open this door!”

“It’s late, Mrs. Abernathy,” I call out, my voice straining to sound steady, though every word trembles like the air before a storm.

“I

know

it’s late!” she snaps, her tone thick with irritation. “You’re the one doing all the screaming!”

My face flushes hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I manage, my words stumbling over themselves. “I had a nightmare—”

“Open this door!”

Behind me, Damian speaks again, his voice low, firm. “Do not open the door.”

“She’s an old woman,” I whisper, glancing at him.

“She can’t be trusted,” he replies, his tone unyielding.

“Is there someone in there with you?” Mrs. Abernathy’s question cuts through the air, each word dripping with suspicion.

My heart pounds as I hesitate, trapped between her demands and Damian’s warning.

If I open the door, she’ll see him. She’ll

know

. A man’s presence in my apartment isn’t unusual for most women my age, but for someone like me—an aspirant nun—it’s a breach of every boundary I’m supposed to uphold. My hands tremble as I rest them against the doorframe, trying to steady myself, trying to steady my thoughts.

“Yes,” I say finally, my voice catching in my throat. “My cousin. He’s visiting from out of town.”

Damian’s expression darkens, but he says nothing, the tension in his jaw speaking louder than words.

“Your cousin?” Mrs. Abernathy repeats, her tone dripping with disbelief. “At this hour?”

“Yes.” I swallow hard, trying to make my voice sound convincing. “He’s leaving early in the morning. It’s a…short visit.”

There’s a pause, long enough to let my anxiety spike, before she replies. “Hmph. Well, it better be quiet in there. People are trying to sleep.”

I wait, holding my breath, until I hear her footsteps receding down the hall. Only then do I let out the air trapped in my lungs, sagging against the door.

Damian doesn’t move from his spot, his body still tense, still on edge. “You shouldn’t have told her that,” he says, his voice low. “If she puts two and two togeth—”

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” I snap, though the sharpness of my tone is more for myself than for him. My hands tremble at my sides, betraying the effort it took to keep them steady.

He watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. “For now,” he says quietly.

For now.

The words settle in the pit of my stomach, heavy and cold. This was only one intrusion, and already I feel the fragile illusion of control slipping through my fingers. I press my back against the door, closing my eyes. My thoughts are a storm, and at the center of it is the gnawing truth I can’t escape: I’m not meant to live like this.

Damian finally speaks again, his voice softer. “Are you all right?”

I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. For a moment, I want to tell him I’m fine. I want to pretend the trembling in my hands isn’t real, that the fear hasn’t lodged itself in my chest like a splinter. But the lie sticks in my throat.

“No,” I whisper. “Not really.”

He doesn’t press, just looks away, giving me the space I don’t deserve but desperately need. I make my way to the kitchen table, my legs unsteady beneath me. When I sink into the chair, it feels like I’m collapsing into myself, my hands raking through my hair as though the pressure might hold me together.

But it doesn’t.

My thoughts are a tangled web, each thread pulling me in a different direction. Everything I’ve experienced today feels unreal, like fragments of a nightmare that refuse to fade. I feel

untethered,

like I’m coming undone at the seams, and no amount of effort can keep me stitched together.

“I can’t let this happen again,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I realize I’ve spoken them aloud.

“Again?” Damian’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts. His tone is curious, probing, but not unkind. It’s the kind of question that demands an answer, even though I don’t want to give one.

My eyes snap to his, panic flaring in my chest.

How could I let that slip?

This is why I keep people at a distance. Why I build walls high enough to scrape the sky.

This is why I don’t let them in.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, my voice sharp, brittle. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “I’m not leaving you—not like this.”

“It’s not safe,” I insist, my voice cracking under the weight of the truth I’m trying so hard to bury.

“Raven.” His voice is calm but firm, a steady anchor against the storm raging inside me. “My safety is not my concern. It’s

you

I’m worried about.”

I stare at him, and for a moment, the dam I’ve built to contain my emotions begins to crack. Tears well in my eyes, hot and blinding, but I bite them back, refusing to let them fall. I’ve cried enough for one lifetime.

“I told you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please. I care about you too much to let you get hurt. I hurt people, Damian. I

always

hurt them.”

I expect him to falter, to flinch at my warning, to do what anyone with common sense would—step back, walk away, leave me to my solitude. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t even shift his stance. Instead, he steps closer, his hand reaching out to cup my face.

His touch is steady, grounding, the kind of gesture I’ve craved for longer than I care to admit. And yet, I know I should pull away, put more distance between us before I do something I’ll regret.

But I don’t.

His palm is warm against my skin, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t realize had escaped. For the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos in my mind quiets, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing, the unwavering strength in his gaze.

“Raven,” he says softly, his tone gentler now, “I’m not leaving.”

And in that moment, I hate him for his persistence, for his kindness, for the way he makes me want to believe that I’m worth saving.

Because deep down, I know I’m not.

I close my eyes, trying to block out his face, the way his gaze sees through every lie I tell myself. It doesn’t work. His words, his touch—they cling to me, unshakable.

“Damian,” I say, my voice a ghost of itself. “You don’t understand. You shouldn’t be here—”

“And I’ve heard you,” he interrupts, his voice steady, immovable. “But you’re wrong.”

My eyes snap open, and I pull back from his hand, shaking my head. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to tell me what’s best for you—not when I know what happens—” My voice catches, splintering under the weight of memories I can’t forget. “Not when I’ve seen it.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“You should be!” The words burst out of me, sharp and raw, echoing in the hollow stillness of the apartment. My chest heaves, my breath uneven, and for a moment, I see it—a flicker of something like doubt in his eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating certainty, that stubborn determination that makes him Damian.

“You think I don’t know what it means to hurt people?” he asks, his tone low, deliberate. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to carry that? To believe it defines you?”

I freeze, the fire in me dimming against the quiet intensity of his words.

“Raven, I’ve hurt people too,” he continues, stepping closer. There’s no hesitation in his voice, no waver. “I’ve done things I can’t take back. Things that will haunt me for the rest of my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m beyond saving. And it doesn’t mean you are either.”

His words strike deep, cracking through the fragile armor I’ve spent years building. My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, as I try to steady myself.

“It’s different,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “You don’t understand what it means to lose control. To become something... something monstrous.”

He crouches before me now, his eyes level with mine, unwavering. “Only I do.”

The room feels too small, the air too heavy. My instinct is to retreat, to close off, to push him away before he gets too close. But the way he looks at me—like he’s not afraid, like he

won’t

be afraid—it’s too much.

“Raven,” he says softly, but firm, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen truly horrible things. I’ve met people who’ve done unspeakable things, people who’ve crossed every line and then some. You’re not one of them. You’re not even close.”

His words wrap around me, simultaneously soothing and terrifying. Part of me wants to believe him, to take comfort in his certainty. But the other part—the part that knows what I am, what I’m capable of—fights against it with everything I have.

“You don’t know that,” I murmur, shaking my head, the tears stinging my eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I could still do.”

“I don’t need to know every detail to see you for who you are,” he counters, his voice soft but unyielding. “You think I’m blind to the darkness in you? I see it, Raven. I

feel

it. But it doesn’t scare me, because I know that’s not all you are. It’s not even most of who you are.”

His hand moves again, resting lightly over mine. The warmth of it steadies me, but it also frightens me. It’s a reminder of everything I stand to lose.

“I know whatever this is has an expiration date,” he says, his voice threaded with regret and practicality. “But in the time we have, let me…” His words falter, catching on the edges of vulnerability, as though saying more would betray his pride. “You don’t need to push me away. And you don’t need to be alone.”

Nor do I want to be alone.

The truth of his words hits harder than I expect, unraveling the tight knot of resistance I’ve held onto for so long. His words linger in the air, unsettling and yet impossibly grounding. I feel the pull of them, like the tide dragging me closer to something I can’t quite face.

The silence stretches, his gaze steady on me. And I hate how exposed I feel under it, like every defense I’ve ever built is crumbling. His hand finds my face, and I can’t help but melt into his touch. I want nothing more than to give in to it, to have him close—but at what cost? “I don’t want to be the one who ruins you, Damian…”

But then his hand slides to the nape of my neck, guiding my forehead to rest against his. “Hate to break this to you,” he says, his tone almost serious, “but I’m already ruined.” A faint smile curves his lips, and his unshakable expression holds me captive as his free hand guides me into a soft, slow kiss.

I let the rhythm of his lips take me, surrendering to the protective weight of his presence. For once, it feels like it’s okay to stop running.“Take me to bed,” I whisper, the words barely audible between the gentle brush of his lips against mine.

He pauses ever so slightly, his expression shifting to one of disbelief. “Like... to sleep, or to…” He trails off, suddenly too bashful to even finish the thought.

“To sleep,” I say with a soft laugh, unable to suppress the giggle that escapes me. His coyness is endearing in a way I hadn’t expected. “I hope that’s alright?”

He snakes his hands under my thighs, hoisting me effortlessly into his lap as he stands. “It’s perfect,” he replies, his voice steady, but there’s a softness in his gaze as he looks back at me—like being allowed to stay by my side is more than enough. And for the first time, I want to believe it really, truly is.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Damian

It’s an odd thing, waking up to peace—a sensation I can never quite trust. The soft hum of the city outside filters through the window, but it’s distant, muted, like it knows better than to intrude. The air in the room is thick with the faint scent of lavender, no doubt coming from the candles Raven insists on lighting. It’s disarming how much warmth can fill such a small space, how it manages to reach even me.

I’m not used to this.

The bed beneath me is an uneven mess of blankets and sheets, half of which are tangled around my legs in some absurd knot I’ll undoubtedly curse later. The other half seems to have migrated entirely to Raven’s side, not that I’m surprised. She sleeps like someone who’s fought a thousand battles and still doesn’t trust the peace she’s earned. Her hair is a dark spill across the pillow, and her face… her face is calm, serene in a way that almost makes me forget who she is. Who we are.

But I can’t forget. Not entirely.

I sit up carefully, my movements slow, not wanting to disturb her. There’s a line between us that’s barely there—fragile, unspoken—and I’ve been careful not to cross it, even when she let me stay last night. I know better than to think that a moment of closeness can rewrite the rest. She’s made it clear where she stands, and I… I’m not sure I’m ready to fight her on it. Not yet… Maybe never.

Sliding out of the bed, I find my footing on the cold wood floor, the rooms’s chill making my hair stand on end. There’s something grounding about it, a reminder of the world outside this bubble. My mind starts piecing together the day ahead—what needs to be done, who needs to be dealt with. But even as I try to focus, my gaze drifts back to her.

I’ve seen her at her worst. I’ve seen the walls she builds, the way she buries herself in her own shadows because it’s easier than letting anyone in. I’ve been the same. Hell, I’ve mastered it. But last night, she let me stay. She let me… try. And it felt… right. More right than anything I’ve allowed myself to have in years.

But right doesn’t mean easy. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean safe.

The faintest sound from behind me catches my attention. She stirs, her movements slow and almost reluctant. Her eyes flutter open, and for a brief moment, she looks at me like I’m not just another piece of the chaos that follows us both. It’s a fleeting thing, gone before it fully lands, but it’s enough to remind me why I’m still here.

"You’re up early," she murmurs, her voice a soft rasp that carries more weight than she probably intends.

"Old habits," I reply, keeping my tone light. "Couldn’t sleep."

She sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like armor, and the distance between us feels like it’s grown again. But she doesn’t push me away, not completely.

"Damian," she starts, her voice faltering just slightly, "about last night…"

I hold up a hand to stop her. "You don’t have to explain. I’m not here to corner you."

Her eyes meet mine, and for once, there’s no trace of the walls she usually puts up. Just her. Just Raven. And it’s… enough.

For now.

“I know that’s not…” she takes a deep breath and peers over to my side of the bed, now rumpled and empty, as if she can still feel the warmth I left behind. “That’s not what you’re trying to do.”

“But you feel like I am?” My arms cross instinctively, my brow lifting in challenge. I can’t keep the edge out of my voice, though I try, but her hesitation pricks at something raw beneath my calm façade.

She gives the blanket a slight tug, one she probably isn’t even aware of. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

The words leave my mouth sharper than intended, a lapse I instantly regret. Her shoulders stiffen as if bracing against a cold wind, drawing the blanket tighter around her frame. Still, she doesn’t look away. For all her hesitation, for all her contradictions, she meets me here—in this space where neither of us can truly let go. Yet neither of us can fully hold on—fully have each other.

“I just…” she begins, but her voice wavers. Her fingers clutch the fabric, as if gripping it will bring clarity. “I don’t want to hurt you, Damian. And I’m leaving tomorrow—”

“I’m aware.”

Her words stumble forward, quick and brittle. “After today, we’ll probably never see each other again.”

If I were any other man, perhaps that’d be true. But I’m not. Tracking down a wilderness retreat in the remote wilds is well within my capabilities, and no, it hasn’t escaped me that this might align uncomfortably with the thought process of a serial killer. “You don’t know that for sure.”

Her gaze hardens, but there’s something else behind it—something hopeful, vulnerable. “If I want to, I can make sure of it.”

“Is that a threat?” The words slip out before I can stop them, cutting through the careful narrative she’s trying to construct.

Her lips part, but no sound follows. The silence stretches between us, weighted with everything we’re too stubborn—or too afraid—to say.

I exhale, letting my arms fall to my sides. “I’m not trying to argue with you.”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion. “Yet you are,” she murmurs, but the accusation lacks its usual edge. It’s an echo of her typical deflection, a shadow of the walls she builds only to see if I’ll tear them down.

“You’re missing the point,” I reply, a bitter irony threading my voice. Hours ago, I’d been the one clinging to her boundaries.

“We’re supposed to be sleeping,” I reminded her, though the words lacked conviction as she pulled me into a kiss. “Not… this…”

I’d like to say I resisted at first, that I fought the inevitable, but I didn’t. My weakness got the better of me—or rather, she did. The way her body folded into mine, as though it were second nature, dissolved any hope of restraint.

Her smile broke against my lips as her leg brushed against my waist, deliberate or not, inviting more than either of us should allow. “You make it sound like this is more than it is,” she teased, her voice laced with a dangerous softness.

I paused, staring down at her, torn between reason and temptation. I should return to the couch, to the safe distance I’d promised myself. But then I saw her—truly saw her. Cheeks flushed, hair tangled, lips swollen from the force of my own. The thin strap of her nightgown had slipped, sliding so far down her shoulder that the fabric over her breast teetered on the edge of surrender, a whisper away from revealing what it was charged to protect.

My first instinct, base and human, roared to life. To tug the garment further down, to trace every curve and uncover all her mysteries, to give in fully. But a second, contradictory instinct—a quieter, nobler one—held me back. This was not a fleeting indulgence. We were not ordinary people, bound by nothing but desire. Even if I didn’t share her faith, I respected it. Enough to know that if I allowed myself to cross that line, I would be complicit in her undoing.

Instead, I hooked a finger beneath the flimsy strap and slid it back into place.

She watched my hand, bewildered, as if quietly reminded that she was not free to act on desire.

Her gaze shifted from my hand to my face, searching for something—approval, understanding, maybe even rejection. I couldn’t be sure. Her confusion mirrored my own, tangled up in the unspoken, in the thin line we kept teetering, but never completely crossing.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice almost a whisper, more to herself than to me. The words weren’t angry or dismissive. They carried something else, something more complicated—a mix of frustration and relief, maybe even gratitude.

I smirked faintly, though it felt hollow somehow. “So I’ve been told.”

“What is the point?” she asks, pulling me from the memory of the night before.

I shake my head, struggling to find something to hold onto—something that makes sense. “You shouldn’t be alone,” I say finally, the only thing that feels right.

She exhales sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’ve been alone all my life, Damian. It’s not the tragedy you think it is.”

“No,” I reply, my voice low, but firm. “But it’s not the victory you pretend it is either.”

Her eyes narrow, though the sharpness doesn’t reach her voice. “What are you trying to save me from? Myself?”

“If that’s what it takes.” I pause, softening my tone. “I’m not trying to save you. I’m trying to help you.”

“You can’t fix me,” she says, quieter this time. “I don’t need you to.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” The frustration in my voice is undeniable now, cutting through the delicate calm between us. “I’m just asking you not to run.”

Her laugh is soft, bitter. “And what happens if I stay? You think this changes anything? That it makes us...

something

?”

The word hangs between us, heavy and unspoken.

Something.

I step closer, careful, deliberate, until I’m standing at the edge of the bed. Her breathing quickens, almost imperceptibly, but her eyes never leave mine.

“This isn’t about what we are,” I say. “It’s about what you want.”

She flinches, just slightly, as though the question cuts too deep. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I counter, leaning down slightly so she can’t look past me—only at me.

For a moment, the mask she wears—the walls, the deflections—slips, and what’s left is the Raven I saw last night. The one who let me in, even if only for a moment. But then, as if catching herself, she shakes her head, and the mask falls back into place.

Her fingers tighten around the blanket, her shoulders tense. I can see the war she’s fighting within herself—the push and pull of everything she’s been taught versus everything she feels—everything she wants. It’s a battle I know all too well.

“I leave tomorrow,” she finally says, her voice hollow. “And when I do,

this

—” she gestures vaguely between us—“ends.”

I nod, the motion slow, deliberate. “If that’s what you want.”

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to lash out. But instead, she deflates, the fight draining out of her. “What I want doesn’t change what has to happen.”

There it is again—that careful separation between her desires and her choices. A neat, surgical line that protects her from herself. Or maybe from me. It doesn’t change the fact she’s wrong.

“You’re wrong,” I say quietly.

“Damian,” she sighs, her tone laced with exhaustion, as if she’s talking to a child. “You’re so interested in what I want, but what about you? What do

you

want?”

You.

The word is right there, poised on the edge of my tongue, but I can’t say that. Instead, I settle for the shadow of the truth.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t matter.” My voice is steady, controlled, but there’s an edge beneath it I can’t quite hide.

She takes a slow, deliberate breath, and as she exhales, the blanket slips from her shoulders. It’s not intentional, but it reveals the tension in her posture, the vulnerability she’s tried so hard to keep hidden. A reflexive barrier, stripped away. “That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s just not an answer you want.”

Her movements are sudden, sharp—she shoots to her feet, but even standing, she can’t meet my height. It doesn’t matter; the force of her presence fills the room. “You always do this—deflect, evade. You can’t just say what you feel.”

“If you knew how I felt,” I say, my voice dropping lower, almost a whisper, “then you’d push me away.”

I stare at her, wanting to deny her claim—proclaim that I don’t run from anything. But this—her, the fear of rejection… I’d be lying if I said that kind of vulnerability didn’t cut at my pride.

“I’m going to grab my clothes,” I mutter, brushing past her. I escape into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind me before she can follow—if she even dares to.

What am I doing?

I press my forehead against the door, the wood cool against my skin. Why am I trying to hold onto something I can’t have? Even if she weren’t a nun, our relationship… it isn’t ethical.

I push off the door, swinging open the dryer to retrieve my shirt and coat. The blood-stained sleeve catches my eye first, the dried pattern a reminder of my earlier injury. With a sigh, I begin unraveling the dressing, the once-white gauze now stained a dark rust.

The wound throbs as I let the water run, knowing I need to clean it and reapply fresh bandages. I should wait until I’m back at the boarding house, but the state of this bandage can’t wait.

Warm water stings as it touches my open flesh, a sharp reminder of how protective something as delicate as skin can be. I let out a ragged breath, grounding myself in the pain. It could be worse—a lot worse. Carefully, I wash the wound with the antibacterial soap I find on the counter, then rinse it again.

The faint scent of lavender rises as the water runs, subtle but intoxicating. Her scent. It clings to me even now, warming me, clouding my thoughts.

“You’re impossible,” her voice echoes in my mind again, and with it, the memory of her fingernails dusting across my neck, her body instinctively arching against mine. As if silently begging me to touch her in ways I shouldn’t.

“Impossible…” I had replied, letting my fingertips linger on her skin. “Or just prioritizing what’s right over what’s easy?”

Her breath hitched as her lips parted, but her words came anyway, soft and aching. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“That it is not,” I mutter aloud, my reflection disapproving as my words hit sharp in the empty room, meant for no one but the ghost of her memory. I press the towel to my wound, watching as small beads of crimson bloom across the pristine fabric. It feels almost symbolic—the stain spreading outward, irreversible, just like her presence in my life… and mine in hers.

I sigh, the sound heavy with resignation, and glance around the bathroom. It’s bare. The lavender soap, the towels folded with her care, the small, almost imperceptible touches that made this space hers—all but gone. What’s left is impersonal, stripped of her essence, ready to be packed away.

And that’s when it hits me.

Tomorrow, she’ll be gone.

The realization settles like a weight on my chest, tightening with every breath. There’s no undoing it. No bargaining or convincing her otherwise. Once she leaves, I can’t follow—not as Damian Wayne, not without consequences that could destroy what’s left of her resolve.

And as Robin?

As Robin, there’s nothing. There can

be

nothing. No stolen touches. No quiet conversations that stretch into the night, where the words unspoken mean more than those said aloud. No fragile thread of something deeper that I’ve spent too much time pretending I don’t want.

I grip the counter, my knuckles whitening, staring at the empty sink as though it holds an answer I’ve been too afraid to voice. She was always going to leave—this was never a question of

if

, only

when

. I told myself I was ready for it, that I could let her go when the time came. That it was the right thing.

But I’m not ready. Not even close.

It’s not just her absence that terrifies me—it’s what remains when she’s gone. The ghost of her, imprinted in the spaces she once filled. The memories of her voice, her touch, her defiance. The warmth I felt when I wasn’t supposed to.

I dab at my wound again, hissing as the towel brushes against tender skin, but the pain feels distant, drowned out by the ache in my chest. The wound will heal—it always does. But this? The part of me she’s carved her name into, without even realizing it?

That might not.

I shake my head, trying to shove the thought aside, but the bathroom’s stillness only amplifies it. I should focus on practicalities—on what comes next. On my mission, my duty, on finding a way to endure this loss without losing myself. But practicality feels hollow when weighed against the simple truth.

If she leaves, she takes the best part of me with her.

The thought rattles me, an unsettling tremor that reverberates through my chest, like staring into a void where my existence holds no weight. I shove the unsettling feeling aside, forcing myself to focus as I swing open the medicine cabinet. The faint scent of antiseptic hits me as I sift through its sparse contents, searching for something—anything—that will distract me from my spiraling thoughts.

A bottle of Tylenol and a few prescription containers sit alone in the cabinet. I pull one out, examining the label. “Lithium,” I whisper under my breath, reading the dosage—300 mg, three times a day. My fingers hover over the bottle for a moment longer than necessary, then I add, almost as if speaking to myself, “That’s a lot of salt.”

I know it’s not just any salt. Lithium’s chemical structure is far more complex than that. But it feels like an observation that fits—blunt, distant, like me. I snap a picture of the bottle, Raven's name and prescription number clear in the frame. The rational part of my mind dictates the action—this isn’t about curiosity, or some misguided attempt at emotional connection. I’m here to investigate. I remind myself of that, even as the weight of the thought presses down on me.

I stare at the bottle, the weight of its presence sinking in. This isn’t something she could just have. It’s clinical—

a solution to a problem,

something much deeper than I can see, hidden beneath layers she’s learned to mask well.

I return the bottle to its place, careful to leave it exactly as I found it. The last thing I need is for her to think I’ve been snooping. I throw on my shirt, fastening a few buttons in a hurry. The sleeve stays rolled up, though—still in need of a fresh dressing.

When I step out of the bathroom, I’m met with the soft sound of Raven setting a fresh kettle on the stove. Her back is to me, but the sight does little to calm the disquiet gnawing at the edges of my mind. Her mood is unpredictable, a mix of cold distance and fleeting warmth. I wonder to myself if this volatility is the result of something more—perhaps a disorder that twists her temperament, something she hides behind that mask of indifference.

She turns to me, offering a light smile, but her expression is measured, cool. Maybe it’s some calculated twist of rationality, or perhaps it’s just the way she’s always been—naturally moody. Better yet, is this what she meant? That her emotional state is so volitle that it could stand to afflict me in a way that’s a danger.

Her gaze shifts to my rolled-up sleeve, as if she’s just noticed the wound again. “Oh shit, you need a fresh one,” she says, moving the box where she’d stashed the first aid kit.

I remain silent, watching her. My mind retraces our steps, looking for signs—any hint of instability. There’s a litany of disorders  medication like that can treat, from bipolar disorder to a range of neuropsychological conditions. I’m not sure what disturbs me more: the vast possibilities of what it could mean or the thought that her mind might be like a ticking time bomb. But then, I remind myself, I don’t know that. It could be something as simple as mood instability—or as complicated as a dissociative fugue.

She gestures for me to sit and returns to the table, pulling the first aid kit open and beginning to dress my wound.

“I still can’t believe you fought a robber over a wallet,” she mutters, sanitizing her hands.

“I still can’t believe you think that wouldn’t happen,” I retort.

Raven smiles slightly, taking out the antiseptic. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She pauses, spraying the wound and letting it breathe for a moment. Her gaze darkens, her voice low. “Is this about what I said?”

I hesitate, not intending to make her think that, but the words I’m about to say might reveal more than I intend. “I was teasing, but… since you think that…”

“Never intentionally,” she says seriously, her touch soft but deliberate as she wipes away the antiseptic.

Her hands are gentle, her touch precise. She has a good heart, I remind myself. I’ve never seen anything to make me believe otherwise. After all, she’s dedicated her life to God—how could someone who’s rotten to the core do that? Could someone be so broken?

“I’m not trying to pry, and you don’t owe me an explanation,” I say, my voice quieter now. “But what exactly did you mean when you said people you care about get hurt?”

Raven flinches at the question, her fingers faltering as she applies the antibiotic ointment.

Raven’s fingers hesitate over the ointment again, her gaze flicking away from mine, though her hands remain steady. She’s hiding something—always has been.  And it more than the obvious nun thing. The question hangs between us, thickening the air like fog.

“It’s complicated,” she says quietly, her voice almost too soft to hear. “But that’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Her words linger, heavy with layers she’s not willing to unpack. She’s closed off, but I can’t tell whether it’s by choice or because she can’t bring herself to open up. The thought gnaws at me, her walls so carefully constructed, yet so fragile, like they might crumble if I push too hard.

I swallow, turning my attention to the low hum of the kettle. It’s something neutral to focus on—something that doesn’t carry the weight of our unspoken truths.

She doesn’t continue. The silence presses in, and I catch myself glancing at her again, studying the curve of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. She’s avoiding my gaze.

“Raven...” I begin, unsure of what I want to say. There’s something about her—the way she carries herself, like she’s ready to break if anyone gets too close. I want to reach out, but something holds me back. I don’t even know why I care this much. But I do.

She stands up suddenly, brushing off the silence like it’s nothing more than a momentary lapse. “You should let it air out. It’ll heal faster.”

I nod, watching her walk away. Her movements are almost too practiced, too careful. She’s shutting down again.

I want to ask more—push her, demand an answer—but I know it wouldn’t help. Not now. Not like this. So I bite my tongue, clenching my jaw against the frustration building inside me.

She’s the one person I can’t entirely read, and it’s driving me mad. There’s a part of me that wants to tear through the layers she’s wrapped herself in, find what’s underneath. But another part of me fears what I might uncover—what it might mean for her. For me.

The kettle’s whistle pulls me from my thoughts. Raven turns, her face softening just a little. She busies herself with pouring the hot water into a mug, her hands steady despite the brief moment of weakness I’d just witnessed. She gestures, offering me a cup. I nod in acceptance, unable to look away from the quiet rhythm of her actions—comforting yet deeply unsettling.

“Do you ever talk about it?” I ask before I can stop myself, my voice low, uncertain.

She freezes, then shakes her head, almost too quickly. “Not really.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment, but it’s enough. “It’s not something I can talk about. Not now. But I think about it... every day.”

“How do you deal with it?” I ask, as she places the mug before me and takes a seat.

“Pray on it. Hope God will forgive me.”

“So, it’s that bad?” I mutter absently, thinking aloud.

She stares at me, and I see it in her expression—it is, or at least she believes it is. And even more, I can’t help but wonder what

it is.

But her sudden discomfort stirs something raw inside me, seeing how deeply my words ignite her guilt.

“I didn’t mean it like—” I start, trying to bridge the gap.

She glances away, shaking her head, lost. I say nothing, because what is there to say? Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s a part of her past—something she refuses to let go of, even if it’s eating her alive from the inside.

“Raven... I’m—”

“Don’t,” she orders, pausing for effect. “If you must know, it is that bad. What you think that means is up to you.”

I nod, realizing that one’s perception of

“that bad”

varies with moral code. For her, as an aspirant nun, it could be as simple as not being a virgin—or as terrible as inflicting harm on someone. Even though, in my book, neither of those things are worth burning in Hell for.

I glance down at the steam rising from the dark liquid surface of the tea, catching my foggy reflection in it. I question what I’m doing, what I’m subconsciously doing. Dancing around this question, searching for answers, trying to understand her—but why? Is it for the mission? For my own personal gain? Or perhaps something deeper... her mother, maybe?

“I’m not trying to judge,” I say, offering an olive branch. “Just trying to understand.”

“I don’t know if you can,” she sighs.

“You could try me.”

She looks at me then, dead in the eye, a shadow lurking in hers. “You ever regret something so deeply it haunts you, but at the same time, you understand you had no choice?”

I meet her gaze, the weight of her question pressing down on me. It’s like a shadow, that kind of regret—the kind that follows you, never letting go. I wonder if I’m supposed to offer comfort, or if I should just leave it alone.

“I’ve had my share of choices that… weren’t really choices,” I say, my voice steady but distant. “But regret? I don’t know if I understand that. I try not to waste time on things I can’t change.”

There’s a part of me that wants to push her, demand more, but something in the air between us keeps me in check. Instead, I sit back, folding my arms, letting the silence linger—a space heavy with unspoken understanding.

“So today’s your last day here?” I ask, letting the question hang in the space between us.

“It looks that way,” she says, her tone heavy. I get the feeling she’s running away—but from what? The past? This reality? Civilization? Me?

“She’d be smart to run away from you,”

I can practically hear Drake’s voice mock in my head, but I shove it aside.

I nod. “How do you want to spend it?”

She shrugs. “Are you asking me if I want to spend it with you?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Are you going to keep giving me the third degree?”

“I’m not—” I begin, but the look in her eyes cuts me off. That unrelenting stare tells me otherwise. “That’s not what I was trying to do. But no, we could have a safe word and everything, in case I stray too far out of your comfort zone.”

She smirks, her expression softening. “Yeah, because if I just randomly say

teasteep,

you’re going to switch to a lighter conversation?”

“If that’s what it takes. I’m adaptable,” I say with a faint smile.

She looks away, weighing her options. “I have some errands to run, but I’m free later… for dinner.”

“It’s a plan.”

She nods, but there’s hesitation in the motion, like she’s already second-guessing herself. “I’ll call you later, then.”

I get the sense it’s her way of leaving herself an out, and I don’t fight it. I nod silently, letting her know I’ll respect her choice either way. I’ll be here regardless—posted outside across the street, keeping an eye on things, or sitting across from her, fighting every carnal urge I have. Maybe getting blown off wouldn’t be the worst thing. At least it’d save me from myself.

It’s after she mentions needing to get ready that I realize it’s time for me to leave. The moment feels inevitable, maybe even final—the last time I’ll see her like this, raw and unguarded. I don’t want to break away from it, but I know I have to.

“So, I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease settling in my chest.

She nods, biting her lip. I can see the conflict in her eyes—torn between what she wants and what she thinks she should want. And somehow, I’m at the center of that crossroads.

I know I shouldn’t do what I’m about to, but this might be the only chance I get. I can’t leave her with the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Before I can second-guess myself, I step closer and pull her into me. She doesn’t resist, though her posture tells me she knows full well she should. I let the moment settle, savoring the warmth of her body against mine, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she truly wants to.

But she doesn’t.

And before I can lean in to kiss her goodbye, she’s the one who closes the space between us.

Her lips are soft against mine, hesitant at first, as if testing the boundaries of the moment. I feel the tension in her shoulders, the weight of the choice she’s made pressing down on both of us. I should stop, give her a way out, but then her hand slides to my chest, and I’m rooted in place, unwilling to move, unwilling to let her pull away first.

The kiss deepens, just slightly—enough for me to lose track of time, of the mission, of everything except the feel of her against me. Her breath hitches, and I almost let myself believe this moment could last. Almost.

But she’s the first to step back, her hand lingering on my chest before falling away. Her eyes avoid mine now, guarded, a thin veil of regret threatening to fall into place. And I realize this might very well be goodbye.

“I need to get ready,” she says softly, as if reminding herself as much as me.

I nod, swallowing back every argument I want to make, every urge to tell her to stay—or to let me stay. This was more than I deserved already. “I’ll see you tonight,” I say, and the words come out steadier than I feel.

She doesn’t respond, just gives me a small nod before stepping away, the warmth of her body disappearing as quickly as it came. And before I know it, I’m in the hall, her apartment door closing quietly behind her. I’m left standing there, staring at the peeling paint of her door like it holds the answers I’ll never get.

Exhaling sharply, I turn on my heel and make my way toward the stairs. The hallway feels longer than it should, and the distant hum of the city filters through the thin walls. My footsteps echo lightly on the worn wooden floor, the weight of what just happened trailing behind me like a shadow.

I pause when I see Mrs. Albernaky in the hall, picking up her morning paper as I round the corner. She stares at me, her cloudy eyes narrowing as recognition dawns, and I can tell by the way her sagging expression twists into a grimace that she’s placed me. Whether she’s right or not doesn’t matter—I don’t stick around long enough to find out.

I head down the stairs and push open the front door, stepping into the cold morning air. The sun barely breaks through the clouds on the horizon, casting the street in hues of dusty gray and dim light. It smells like snow is coming—the sharp scent of ozone cutting through the faint waft of fresh rain lingering on the wet pavement. It’s unmistakable, I can feel the chill settling into my bones. It’s an early snowfall but not unheard of even as the last days of October fizzle out.

For a moment, I pause at the edge of the stoop, glancing back over my shoulder at the building I just left. The urge to turn around and knock on her door again—it’s almost overwhelming. But I force myself to push it down.

There’s no room for hesitation, no room for indulgence. Not when I know I’m already too close to the edge. Tonight will be what it is—her choice, her terms. Until then, I have to keep myself together. I have to keep myself grounded in reality.

Pulling my hood up against the cool, damp breeze, I descend the steps and make my way down the sidewalk, just another face in the shifting tide of the city. But my thoughts remain fixed on her—on the kiss we just shared, and the silent promises we both heard but didn’t dare speak aloud.

I wait to cross the street as the early morning traffic crawls by and head toward the café across from her apartment building. Considering the events of the night before, I’d be lying if I said I slept well. “So much for fucking sleepy-time tea,” I mutter as I reach the café’s old, stiff door and pull it open.

I step inside, only to find myself face-to-face with a young nun. She’s further along in her journey than Raven but not much older.

She pauses, looking at me. Her face is framed in stark white, the rest of her habit a deep red. She stares like she knows me—like she’s seen everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to bury. Her face is calm, serene, but there’s something in her eyes—too sharp, too knowing—that makes my skin prickle.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft yet carrying a weight that feels far too heavy for the simple gesture. As she steps past me, she pauses, her gaze still fixed on me.

She inclines her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “How kind of you,” she murmurs, her tone light, almost melodic, but there’s a weight beneath it, faint and unspoken.

As she moves past me, she pauses just inside the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder. “Kindness always finds its way back,” she adds softly, her words drifting into the air like an afterthought—or maybe a suggestion. “Sometimes in ways we don’t anticipate.”

Before I can respond, she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke curling away with the wind.

I linger on the stoop a beat too long, wondering how she could vanish so quickly. Her words stir something unsteady in me. It wasn’t a warning—not exactly. Just a passing comment. So why did it hit me like one? It leaves me with a nagging thought I can’t bury, like something unsaid that

should’ve

stayed that way. And yet, what was said shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

Finally, I head inside. If I stay out here any longer, someone will start to notice my odd behavior.

The café is warm, a sharp contrast to the damp fall air—a reminder that winter isn’t far behind. It’s a quaint place, or at least that’s what most people would say. The kind of spot where college students leech free WiFi, pretend to study, and complain about their first-world problems while sipping overpriced coffee. The same overpriced coffee I’m about to pay for.

I take my place in line behind a woman in her late forties to early fifties. She strikes me as

educated

—but not

smart

. And yes, there’s a difference. A degree doesn’t equal life experience, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you better than the people who don’t have one. Case in point:

“I said no whipped cream on my latte,” she snaps at the barely-college-aged barista. “Remake it.”

Would it kill herto drink it as is? Or at least say please? Even I’m not that much of an asshole. Maybe I used to be… but I’ve found some humility.

“But… you said yes when I asked you,” the young timid blonde replies, hesitant but polite.

“No, I didn’t,” the woman insists, her tone sharp and shrill, scraping against my nerves like nails on glass. “Now remake it.”

“Actually, you did,” I say, stepping in. Someone has to stand up for the poor girl, and I’m in a mood.

The woman wheels around to face me, scowl locked and loaded—and of course, she’s wearing turquoise eyeliner. Suddenly, something Brown said comes to mind:

“Dude, if I can give you one piece of advice, it’s this—avoid women who wear turquoise eyeliner. I shit you not.”

I guess I’m about to find out.

“Excuse me?” she hisses, voice climbing into a childlike pitch.

Pro tip: avoid grown women who speak in a child-like tone. I cannot stress this enough. Not all of them, mind you, but too many are short a few cards in the deck and long on complaints. Either way, you’re in for a bad time. Proceed with caution.

“Oh, did you not hear me?” I say casually, leaning into the smugness just enough to make it sting. “I confirmed—you told her yes to the whipped cream. Maybe if you spent less time staring into your phone and more time looking at the person taking your order, you’d know what you asked for.”

She doesn’t respond at first. Just stares, her face contorting into the kind of theatrical indignation that probably earns nods at city council meetings and wins petty debates in book clubs. She clutches her canvas tote—a recycled one, naturally—printed with a slogan so smug I half-expect it to sprout legs and start chanting.

“You know,” she says finally, her voice pitched just high enough to draw a few lingering glances. Her outrage feels

performative

, and insincere like an aged actress working through her second take on a Halmark movie. “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that. I am a

valued customer

here. Your butting in is uncalled for.”

She says it like

“valued customer”

is a mic drop, as if the barista should bow in reverence and I should crawl off in shame. Instead, I arch a brow, unbothered.

The uneven flush spreading across her cheeks gives her away. Her grip on her phone tightens—probably weighing her options. Yelp review? A blurry recording with a caption that reads something like:

“Toxic Masculinity Ruins Latte: A Story of Harassment and Courage.”

But something in my expression must tell her she’d lose that battle.

In the end, she storms off, heels clicking a sharp, staccato beat against the tile. A sound I imagine is pride crumbling, step by step.

I hear some chuckles from the crowd and a thirty-something man who reeks of cigarettes mutter, “Thank God the witch is gone.”

I step up to the counter, where the barista greets me with a relieved smile. “Um, thanks for that,” she laughs, holding up a sugary iced latte with

Carol

scrawled across it. “You want this?”

“No, I don’t trust people who drink iced coffee in thirty-degree weather,” I reply, shaking my head.

“Shit, kid, you’re in the wrong state,” the guy in the Carhartt chimes in, laughing. He steps forward, gesturing toward the drink. “You want it?”

“Is it free?”

The barista nods and hands it over.

“Sweet. Thanks, dude.”

I only nod in response. “Enjoy that cup of diabetes.”

The barista snickers, watching the guy walk off before turning back to me. “What can I get you?”

“Black coffee.”

She smiles and starts prepping it. “Seriously though, thanks. Carol comes in almost every day and always finds something to complain about.”

“Sounds like a real peach.”

“Yeah, if peaches tasted like mothballs and pumpkin spice.”

Thank God they don’t.

“Here,” I say, handing her a twenty.

She waves her hands quickly. “Oh, no. It’s on the house. You did me a solid.”

“By the sounds of it, you don’t get paid enough to deal with Carol. Take it.”

Her hesitation lasts a second, then she giggles, sliding the bill into her pocket. “Guess I’ll take the pity tip. Thanks.”

I tap my knuckles on the counter, pausing. “One more thing.”

Her smile dims just slightly, curiosity flickering in her bright blue eyes. “Yeah?”

“The nun who was here earlier—what’s her name?”

She frowns faintly. “Sister Raven? She hasn’t been in yet today.”

“No, not her. The other one—mid-to-late twenties, maybe early thirties?”

“Um…” She falters, brows knitting in thought before shrugging. “For the most part, Sister Raven’s the only one who comes in regularly. Sometimes she’s with a blonde.”

“Tara?”

“Yeah, that’s her.” She confirms, tilting her head. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was hired to do some work for the monastery,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Just trying to get the names straight.”

She nods, too trusting to question me further. “Yeah, she comes in every other Monday around ten. Orders a lavender chamomile tea and sits in the corner reading. I didn’t even realize she was a nun until she came in dressed in that… y’know, how nuns dress?”

“A habit.”

“I guess you could call it a habit,” she says blithely, completely missing the point.

I don’t bother correcting her. “Appreciate it.” I lift the fresh coffee she hands me, giving her a brief nod before turning to leave. “But you’re sure there wasn’t another nun here this morning?”

“Yeah, they’re kinda hard to miss.”

Good point. “Well, good luck dealing with Carol.”

“Thanks. Good luck dealing with those creepy nuns.”

I step out of the café, the door swinging shut behind me just as I catch sight of Raven emerging from her apartment building across the street. The morning light casts long shadows over the uneven sidewalk, broken only by the occasional gleam of frost on parked cars. I pull my hood up and sink into the shadow of a nearby alley, keeping to the periphery. Not that I’m doing anything wrong—this isn’t exactly uncharted territory for me—but instinct overrules reason. Old habits die hard, and right now, I’m caught somewhere between second nature and intent.

“Every other Monday around 10,” replays in my head. It’s 8:45 now. The timing, the frequency—this has to be a standing appointment. But for what?

I need to follow her.

She’s not dressed in her habit. Instead, her black hair is woven into a loose braid, strands escaping to brush against her pale cheeks as the wind kicks up. Her coat—a long, charcoal gray piece that fits her as if it were tailored for her—hugs her slim frame, giving her the air of someone quietly put together. Casual, but not careless. It’s the kind of look that doesn’t demand attention yet manages to hold it anyway.

She walks with a measured pace, her head slightly down, as if she’s somewhere else entirely. Not distracted, just... distant. Purposeful. She’s not heading toward the church or anywhere I’ve seen her go before. That piques my interest.

I follow at a safe distance, weaving through the sparse crowd of morning commuters and locals. A man on a bicycle zips past, and I use the momentary distraction to close the gap. She crosses an intersection without hesitation, her boots clicking against the pavement. I’m careful not to rush. No sudden moves.

When she turns down a quieter street, I pause, letting the gap widen just enough to avoid suspicion. Something about her demeanor is... off. Not just detached, but tense. Like she’s bracing for something.

It doesn’t take long before she stops in front of a nondescript brick building. The kind that doesn’t draw attention, with no signage beyond a small brass plaque by the door that reads

Regional Health Services

. I catch the faintest glimpse of her expression before she steps inside—lips pressed thin, her shoulders tight with unease.

Suddenly, the lithium comes to mind. A standing appointment she keeps, though why she needs it remains a mystery. I tuck myself behind a lamppost and wait, my breath curling in the crisp brush of winter air. Whatever brought her here, I’m going to find out.

I hang back, keeping my distance as I consider my next move. She’s inside now, shielded by brick walls and bureaucracy, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave empty-handed. This isn’t my first time bypassing protocols—or locks—and it won’t be the last. Whatever brought her here, it’s something she hasn’t shared—a secret she can’t afford to divulge.

I glance around the corner, studying the front entrance of the building. Too exposed. A steady stream of patients and staff comes and goes, faces preoccupied with appointments and routines. No one will notice me, but I’ll notice them, and that’s enough to slow me down.

My gaze shifts to the side of the building. A single door, plain and unmarked, sits partially hidden behind a delivery truck parked too neatly to be a coincidence. Quieter. Fewer eyes. Less risk. My instincts stir—side doors always lead to shortcuts.

Hood low, I cross the street, a shadow slipping between cracks in the sparse traffic. A passerby mutters something as I brush past, but I don’t catch it—or care. I reach the side entrance, pausing briefly to check my surroundings. Clear. I pull out a compact lockpick, designed to fit seamlessly in my wallet—perfect for moments like this. Within seconds, the lock yields, and I’m inside, greeted by the sterile tang of disinfectant and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Ahead, the faint murmur of voices filters through a partially open door. A glance inside reveals the receptionist chatting with a nurse, her back to the desk where the main terminal sits. Convenient. But risky.

A sign on the wall points to a records room down the hall. I follow the arrows, passing an exam room where a doctor adjusts his gloves. He doesn’t look up, and I’m careful to stay in his periphery. A sharp right, and I’m at my destination.

The door to the records room is locked. Of course. I slip the pick from my pocket again and listen for the faint metallic clicks. One. Two. The bolt gives, and I ease the door open, slipping inside without a sound.

The room smells faintly of paper and disinfectant. Filing cabinets line the walls, but the computer on a small desk catches my attention first. I move to the cabinet, scanning labels for today’s date. There—an alphabetical list of patients scheduled for appointments.
I flip through quickly, stopping under R. Raven Roth. A thin file confirms her 9:00 AM slot and the reason for her visit: Antipsychotic injection therapy (aripiprazole). My jaw tightens. A medication for delusions, hallucinations, or mood disorders. I skim further—“frequent visual disturbances,” the clinical notes say.
Footsteps outside freeze me. I close the file and return it, shifting to the computer. Still logged in. Basic encryption. Barely a challenge. In seconds, I’m scrolling through sparse records: no blood work, no imaging, just recurring appointments for injections. Off-label use. I don’t like it.

The footsteps stop. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I kill the screen and step into the shadows behind a supply cabinet. The door opens, spilling light.

“Thought I locked this,” someone mutters. A nurse enters, grabs a clipboard, and leaves. The click of the lock seals my exit—for now.

I move quickly, pulling a USB from my coat and slotting it into the terminal. Seconds pass as the files transfer. The system pings softly, confirming the download. I pocket the drive and glance at the door.

Now, to make it out before anyone realizes I was here.

The records room door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale softly, forcing my heartbeat to slow. The hallway stretches out in both directions, silent save for the faint hum of ventilation overhead. My exit is simple—retrace my steps to the side door, vanish into the street, and sort through the details later.

But, of course, nothing is ever simple.

I round the corner too quickly and nearly collide with someone—a woman in a tailored blazer clutching a stack of folders so precarious they threaten to spill. Her scent—faintly floral, mingled with stale coffee—hits me a moment before recognition dawns. Carol. The woman from the café, now glaring at me with the same sharp eyes that had burned with humiliation earlier.

“What the—” she snaps, her grip tightening on the folders. “You again?”

Her voice carries just enough irritation to make me bristle, but I keep my expression neutral, my hood still low. This isn’t ideal. She’s fresh off her earlier embarrassment, and judging by the slight flush still creeping up her neck, she hasn’t let it go.

“Sorry,” I mutter, sidestepping her. My pace quickens, but she moves to block me, her bureaucratic instincts apparently sharper than her social ones.

“Wait a minute. What are you doing back here? This area is restricted to staff.” Her tone shifts, suspicious and sharp, like she’s just caught a student sneaking out of detention.

I glance at the folders in her hands—marked with the clinic’s insignia and color-coded tabs—and then at the badge clipped to her lapel.

Administrative Coordinator.

Wonderful. The type who’s probably memorized every policy and thrives on enforcing them.

“Lost,” I say curtly, feigning disinterest. “Door was open.”

“Lost?” Her eyes narrow, the weight of her earlier humiliation fueling her need to assert control. “And I suppose you just wandered in here by accident? Without signing in? Without an ID?”

Her voice rises slightly, and I catch the faint shuffle of movement from further down the hall. This is drawing attention, and I can’t afford that. I force a casual shrug, stepping back as if conceding.

“Relax. I’m leaving.”

“Not so fast.” She shifts her weight, planting herself firmly in my path. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just wander around here like it’s your personal playground. You’ll need to—”

A crash from somewhere down the hall interrupts her tirade, the metallic clang of a tray hitting the floor. She glances over her shoulder, momentarily distracted, and I seize the opportunity. I pivot smoothly, slipping past her before she can react, my movements quick but unhurried.

“Hey!” she calls after me, but I’m already halfway down the corridor, weaving through the sparse foot traffic. Behind me, I hear her footsteps, hurried and uneven. She’s following me, of course. Bureaucrats always chase loose ends.

I reach the side door just as her voice echoes again, sharper now. “Security! Someone—”

The door shuts behind me with a soft click, muffling her voice and the chaos inside. The brisk morning air bites against my skin, and I don’t stop moving until I’ve slipped back into the flow of street traffic. By the time I glance over my shoulder, there’s no sign of her—or anyone else. For now, I’ve evaded capture, but I can still feel the weight of her glare burning into the back of my mind.

Carol. Persistent. And far too observant for comfort. If there’s one mistake I’ve made that could rival the recklessness of getting involved with the subject of an investigation, it’s leaving an impression on someone with enough awareness—and irritation—to identify me. Worse, it’s a negative one.

With any luck, I can avoid her moving forward. No one can prove I’ve done anything wrong, no laws were technically broken, and I didn’t give the barista my name. Cameras could be a complication, but the hood should make positive identification difficult. Without anything

“stolen”

or property damage to report, the police won’t waste their time. They’ll move on to cases more fruitful.

Carol, however, won’t. She doesn’t seem like the type to let things go, especially when her ego is bruised. I wouldn’t be surprised if she spends the next two months hounding the local police, demanding my arrest for imagined harassment or stalking. She strikes me as the sort who takes every slight personally and somehow spins it into a story where she’s the victim.

When I finally get back to the boarding house, the drizzle has set in, cool and biting. My boots track faint, wet prints across the worn pine as I step through the door, grateful for the thought of a hot shower and a brief power nap.

Mrs. Hass is there to greet me, bustling over with wide eyes, practically brimming with curiosity. “Daniel! How’d your date go?”

For a second, exhaustion gets the better of me, and I almost forget the name I’m using on this mission.

Daniel Grayson.

The name still doesn’t sit right with me, like wearing clothes that don’t fit.

“It was fine,” I reply, keeping my tone deliberately neutral, though the corner of her mouth twitches in disapproval at my lack of detail.

“I didn’t’t hear you come in last night,” she adds grinning. The last thing I’m in the mood for is discussing my personal life in intimate details with a nosey 60 year old woman. Not that I’m ever up for discussing such matters. But nevertheless I shut it down politely.

“Yeah, the weather was rough. So I just crashed at a friend’s.”

She smiles and nods, clearly letting her imagination run wild with the scenario she’s conjured up in her head.

“Anyway, I’ve got a lot of work to get to,” I say, motioning toward the stairs. But she stops me, her tone softening with a request.

“Um, Daniel, I’m really sorry to bother you, but could you please help me with something?” she asks. I pause, doing all I can to keep my annoyance at bay.

“What is it?”

She gives a sheepish smile, clearly banking on my sense of duty. “I’m sorting through Al’s things in the cellar, and I’ve got a few boxes that need to be brought up. Most of his books are going to the library—they’re coming to pick them up tomorrow.”

I sigh inwardly, rolling my eyes just enough to keep it discreet. She knows I can’t refuse. “Where’s the basement?”

She leads me to the back hallway of the first floor, stopping at a door that looks like it’s seen over a hundred years of wear. Scratched and worn, it’s padlocked—unexpected but, considering the nature of this place, probably a practical measure to keep things secure.

She unlocks the door, the heavy shift of the mechanism echoing faintly. The hinges whine like they haven’t been oiled in decades, likely not since her husband was alive.

I glance down the narrow staircase, the steps so ancient and uneven they’d never pass modern building codes. She motions for me to go ahead, but I wave her back. Letting an older woman descend first on stairs like these isn’t my style.

I step ahead cautiously, one hand on the rail, the other bracing against the cold stone wall. The air is thick with the scent of must, degrading paper, and damp earth. As the light flickers on behind me, I see the basement is half-concrete, the rest of the floor bare dirt.

On the far wall, what looks like horse stalls constructed from warped, peeling white-painted planks, stand eerily in the shadows. To the side, rows of utility shelves are cluttered with mismatched tools and bins. Opposite the stairs is a locked room, its door solid and uninviting.

And finally, nestled against the back wall, there’s an old well. The stones around it are smooth, worn down by time. It feels out of place—silent, dark, and unnervingly deep. On second thought, it’s the perfect finishing touch to a quintessentially creepy basement.

“So, where are the boxes?”

“Over here,” she huffs, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs. Her short, chubby frame, arthritic and clearly not suited for trips like this, wobbles past me toward a row of stacked boxes. “Al was quite the reader. He loved history,” she says, motioning to the tightly packed volumes. “He was a historian, you know.”

I didn’t, but I’m not here to make small talk. “You don’t say,” I mumble, brushing the dust off one of the boxes.

“Yes,” she says with a hint of pride. “He worked in the town’s records department.”

I pause, the weight of her words sinking in. She never mentioned that. Could be useful.

“Really?” I say, feigning casual interest.

“Oh yes, my Al knew everything about this town,” she adds beaming. “He even wrote a book about it--two in fact.”

“Two,” I sigh with some faux curiosity, though this information could prove fruitful. “Anything of particular interest?”

“Well, the first book is mostly about the town’s founding and all the historical events leading up to its publication. Luckily, nothing significant has happened here since then.” She pauses considering the second book. “This one, though, focuses primarily on Obadiah Blood.”

The name hits me like a cold wind, unsettling and sharp. It carries the weight of something forgotten—something that should stay that way. “Who?”

“Obadiah Blood,” she repeats, her voice dropping slightly as if invoking the name alone might summon something. “He’s kind of an urban legend around here.”

“How so?” I press, trying to keep my voice steady, but something in her demeanor has changed.

“They say he was... well, not right in the head. Obsessed with old rituals, strange writings, that kind of thing. Some folks believe he founded a secret society—though most just think he was a madman. A madman who believed he could conjure the Devil.”

“And did your husband believe that?” I ask, feigning disinterest.

Her laugh is thin. “I don’t know what he believed, but there are stories. People say the forest isn’t the same after dark. Screams, disembodied shadows, whispers that don’t belong to anyone. It all ties back to him, and what he did out in those woods.”

I pause, considering her words, and the memory of my encounter in those very woods the day before flickers to life. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of your husband’s books lying around, would you?”

After hauling up several boxes and nearly eating it on the narrow cellar steps, Mrs. Hass retrieves two cherished copies from the dark oak bookshelf in the den. It’s a cozy space, warmed by the soft glow of a gas fireplace. Low flames flicker behind the glass, blue ribbons curling lazily against faux logs. Pictures of the couple sit neatly on the mantle—tourist shots in front of the Alamo, Niagara Falls, and other historical landmarks. There’s no sign of children, a detail I note briefly but don’t press. It’s the kind of question that might sting more than intended. Not that I care to ask; I’m already pushing it by borrowing her late husband’s prized books.

“Ah, here they are,” she chirps, holding out the copies with a proud smile.

The first book displays a grainy photograph of what looks like the old town center, likely taken in the early 1900s. The title reads

The History and Times of a Town Called Dunwych.

The second is simpler, bound in red canvas with gold lettering.

What Lies in the Woods: The Legend of Obadiah Blood.

That title hits me harder than I expect. My fingers tighten slightly as I take the books. “May I?” I ask cautiously, trying to respect these relics of her husband’s words and labors.

She nods. “You can read them for as long as you like. Lord knows Al would be thrilled to see someone your age taking an interest in his work.”

I offer a faint smile, her comment brushing too close to something she doesn’t understand. “Would it be alright to take these upstairs? I’ll bring them back as soon as I’m done.”

Again, she nods, her smile cautious but genuine. “Take all the time you need.”

She thanks me for helping with the boxes, but her voice already seems distant as I make my way to the stairs. My fingers burn with curiosity as I grip the books, their weight somehow heavier than it should be.

It’s hard to describe the feeling I get when I find a lead like this—like stumbling across a hidden doorway in a house you thought you knew every corner of. My pulse quickens, though I force myself to tread quietly, careful not to disturb the quiet hum of the house.

Upstairs, I close the door behind me and settle at the small desk by the window. The first book lies unopened to the side; it can wait. My hands are drawn to the red-bound volume as if it’s alive, calling to me to its secrets.

The gold lettering gleams faintly in the low light. “What does lie in the woods?” I murmur, thumbing the edge of the cover.

Some part of me wonders if I’m about to uncover something better left buried. But curiosity wins; it always does.

Introduction:

“Y’know what lies in those woods, boy?” Grandpa asked, before spitting a stream of dark tobacco onto the wilted grass.

It was the fall of 1954: polio still plagued the children, the Supreme Court had just ruled segregation unconstitutional, and George “Machine Gun” Kelly had died of a heart attack at the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, after serving 17 years in Alcatraz. The world felt smaller then, but Dunwych was even smaller and Time moved slower. Things like television, TV dinners, hell even running water found our town only after the novelty wore off and the world had moved on to the next innovation.

At eight years old, Blood Forest held more secrets than the Seven Wonders of the World to us in the tiny town of Dunwych.

Arthur O. Blood had just passed away, leaving behind acres of land to the town and the local university—a gesture so unprecedented that it left everyone scratching their heads. Especially considering what was said to have gone on there.

“I hear there’s magic,” I said, my dirt-streaked face barely visible as I squatted beside the dried-up well. That year, our family’s well dried up, and the news that the town would be providing water—another side effect of Blood’s death—was just another oddity in the chain of events.

It still strikes me as strange. One man’s death could spark the birth of a renaissance for a small town that no one from Adam had ever heard of. Dunwych was a damn near dead town, but the death of Blood saved it.

“Magic?” Grandpa laughed, pushing out his packed lip like a frog puffing up his throat, making himself look bigger. “More like the Devil.”

There were always stories, the kind my older brothers and their friends whispered around campfires to impress their girlfriends—spinning tall tales as an excuse to get close, their voices low and eyes darting around as if the shadows cast in the firelight were listening. But to say they weren’t rooted in something darker would be a lie. There were always details, the kind that made the hair on your neck stand up, a hint of truth tangled in the fabric of fiction.

“Ma says the Devil ain’t real.”

I can remember my grandfather’s face now. He was a retired Marine Sergeant who’d served in World War II, stationed in Munich, Germany. “That’s easy to say when you’ve never seen the true work of the Devil.”

“So you think the Devil’s real?”

“I know he is,” he said forthright, staring into the barren branches as if death itself were coming for him. “It’s the rest of the world that’s forgotten. And that old bastard,” he added, pointing toward the forest as if challenging it to a fight, “he might as well have been the devil himself. I hope Hell finds him well.”

Arthur O. Blood was the great-grandson of Obadiah Blood, the man who founded Dunwych in 1729, just thirty years after the Salem Witch Trials. The scars of that era still lingered in the soil of New England, where fear and superstition had seeped deep. Back then, witchcraft was a crime you committed simply by existing outside the accepted norms. And Obadiah? He wasn’t just outside the norm—he was above it.

“Hell on earth,” Grandpa spat into the line of skeletal oaks and rattling maples. The pines seemed unscathed, however, unconcerned with the bitter old man’s curses. “That’s all his blood ever brought here. Hell and death. We can only avoid one.”

That night, the wind howled through the valley, rattling the bones of Dunwych like a hungry thing. The power flickered once, twice, then held, casting long, flickering shadows against the peeling wallpaper of Grandpa’s house. I lay awake, listening—to the wind, to the trees, to the whispering hush that curled around the eaves like breath against glass.

I thought of what he’d said. About Blood Forest. About Obadiah. About the Devil.

And when the call came, when Ma’s sharp cry cut through the night like a blade, I knew before I even saw his body. Grandpa was dead.

The adults bustled through the house, their voices hushed, their faces pale. They said it was his heart. They said it was his time. But I knew better. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind. And when I finally slept, I dreamed of the forest. Of shadows slinking through the trees, of hands clawing through the dirt, of something deep beneath the roots, watching.

Waiting.

Because the land remembers. And in Dunwych, nothing stays buried forever.

They said Grampa did sudden—his war-torn heart finally giving out. The coroner’s report claimed heart failure, though back then, the coroner also doubled as the town’s vet, since the doctor spent most nights passed out drunk. Grandpa was only 50. In Dunwych, that wasn’t young, not really. This was a town of poor means and poor people, a place that seemed to eat its own. But even as a wide-eyed kid who believed in magic, I couldn’t shake the thought that the woods had something to do with it.

In Dunwych, they say if you whisper into the forest, it comes for you—it needs to feed. Grandpa always said Obadiah’s bloodline was cursed. “The land remembers it,” he’d claimed. “The forest beared witness to it.” Maybe that’s why I still think he didn’t die of a heart attack. I think he died of fear. I think what lies within those woods came for him that night.

They said Obadiah had come to this place in 1729, a man of vision—or so he called it—a vision that would change the land forever. But what they didn’t tell you about visionaries was that they often saw things in the darkest corners of the world—things better left unseen. Things humanity was never meant to know. Obadiah didn’t just settle this land—he carved it from something darker. The whispers say he made a deal, with forces unknow to man and the forest remembers. And better still, Dunwych remembers.

I pull my eyes from the page and glance toward the window, where the barring branches of the trees sway in the morning drizzle. Their dying leaves cling desperately, only to be stripped away as winter's chill threatens to arrive early, carrying another cycle of decay in its wake. For a moment, I consider chalking this up to yet another case of human paranoia—a series of inexplicable events that science, with enough effort, could neatly package and label.

But I know better. This is something else—something larger, more insidious. The kind of truth that lives not in the light of understanding but in the shadows cast by its absence.

I set the book down, its weight somehow heavier than it was before, and reach for Arella’s journal. The leather binding is cracked, worn by hands far older than mine. The faint scent of mildew mingles with something else—something metallic, something I now recognize as blood. My fingers find the frayed leather spine, the familiarity of it grounding me as I flip through the worn pages. One passage resurfaces in my mind, unbidden but insistent. The words, like whispers carried on the wind, tug at the edges of my thoughts.

It’s not just the forest that remembers. It’s me. I do.

The funny thing about memories is how the body keeps them, long after the mind forgets. They settle into muscle and bone, woven into the sinew of who we are. Sweet pleasures, wretched pain, deepest sorrow—all of it. We never truly forget.

I might not know what lies in those woods, but I intend to find out.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Arella’s Journal

I can still hear the chants, even now. They echo in my mind, relentless and suffocating, etched into my very soul. That night, I ran with Raven cradled in my arms, her warmth the only thing keeping me tethered to reality as I fled the Church of Blood.

For weeks, I had planned my escape. Every step, every corner of that labyrinthine prison was burned into my memory. But knowing the path didn’t make the journey any less terrifying. My heart was in my throat with every breath, every echo of my feet against cold stone.

I couldn’t be caught—if I had been, I would have been flogged until my flesh was broken and raw. Worse, they would have taken my baby from me. And that alone was a fate I could not endure. Not knowing where she was, what they were doing to her… I would rather have died.

I nearly faltered when I saw her—Anna, Brother Blood’s wife. She stepped out of the shadows so suddenly that, for a moment, I thought I had been caught. My fingers tightened around the shard of glass hidden beneath my robes, but the look in her eyes stopped me.

“Arella,” she said, her voice sharp but hushed, her gaze darting over her shoulder. She wasn’t here to stop me. I saw that in her face.

I didn’t know what to say, so I told her the truth. “I can’t let them take her, Anna. I won’t.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought she would turn away. But instead, she handed me a bundle—linens, a blanket, a small bag of food and water. Her voice was steady, but I could hear the tremor beneath it.

“The eastern gate,” she whispered. “The guards change shifts in ten minutes. It’s your only chance. I’ll show you the way.”

I had no words. What do you say to someone who risks everything to give you a sliver of hope? Someone married to your enemy? I just nodded, gripping the provisions tightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, her expression unreadable. “Just get her out of here. Get her somewhere safe.”

She took my hand and led me through the winding halls of that cursed place. I feared betrayal with every step, but she never turned on me. And soon, we reached the gate.

It was unguarded, just as she had promised. The cool night air hit my face as I slipped through, the scent of damp earth and pine replacing the stench of incense and decay. The forest stretched out before me, dark and endless.

“Come on,” Anna murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll get you to the trail. These woods are known for their tricks.”

I didn’t stop running. Not until the cold stone walls of the Church were far behind us, swallowed by the trees. Every step felt like it could be my last. The shadows felt alive, the branches clawing at me as I pushed forward. I could hear my own ragged breathing, the rustle of the wind in the leaves, and Raven’s soft, sleepy whimpers.

When we finally stopped, I collapsed to my knees beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient tree. My legs trembled, my arms ached from holding her so tightly. She stirred in her sling, her tiny fist brushing against my cheek.

“We made it,” I whispered, holding my baby against my chest. My heart thundered in my ears, but I didn’t feel safe. Not yet. Not completely.

Nor would I ever. Not with Blood still living.

I don’t know how long we sat there, catching our breath, watching the shadows shift. But as I write this now, I know one thing: that night, I wasn’t just running from the Church. I was running from something bigger. Something darker. Something I had refused to believe in.

A voice—deep, guttural, and ancient—slithered against my ear, seeping into my bones.

"YOU CAN’T HIDE HER FROM ME FOREVER, FOOLISH WIFE."

My blood ran cold.

I had heard that voice before. The night Raven was conceived.

"I’LL FIND HER, AND WHEN I DO, EARTH WILL MEET HER DAMNATION."

I turned sharply toward the whisper, shivering. “Who said that?”

Anna’s gaze was fixed on the empty darkness beyond the trees. Her face was pale, her voice barely above a breath.

“He’s here,” she murmured. “He knows what we’ve done.”

“Who?”

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on my wrist.

“Her father.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Raven

I sit beneath the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, their hum a low, incessant drone that sets my teeth on edge. The air reeks of antiseptic—too clean, too clinical. It clings to everything, like the desperation that settles over places like this. The walls are plastered with posters I’ve memorized out of sheer boredom: diagrams of veins and arteries, advice on needle exchanges, and bold red warnings about the dangers of unprotected sex. They speak to an audience they’ve already lost, offering guidance to people too far gone to care.

Part of me—the pragmatic, cynical part—thinks this is all wasted effort. It’s not that the information isn’t useful; it’s that no one here believes it applies to them until it’s too late.

When most people picture Massachusetts, they think of Boston, Cape Cod, maybe the hallowed halls of Ivy League schools scattered across the state. They don’t think about the western half—about the quiet, hollowed-out towns with empty factories and clinics like this one. And they definitely don’t think about how Massachusetts has one of the highest opioid death rates in the country.

Not that I’m here because of that. But as I glance around the waiting room, taking in the hollow-eyed stares, the twitching legs, the restless pacing of the young and scarred, I can’t help but think how easily this could have been me.

“Raven Roth?”

The nurse’s voice cuts through the stagnant air, sharp and clinical. I stand, catching the faint look of relief on her face when she sees it’s me she has to deal with—someone still composed, still functional. For now.

“This way.”

The nurse leads me down a sterile hallway, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum floor. Her face is carefully neutral, the mask of someone who’s seen too much and learned not to look too hard. She gestures toward an exam room, stepping aside to let me enter. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a constant, grating hum.

“Take a seat,” she says, her tone clipped. She pulls a stool over and opens a laptop, typing with the mechanical precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times before. “You’re here for your biweekly injection?”

I nod. “That’s what the chart says, doesn’t it?”

She glances up, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Just confirming. We’re required to ask.”

I lean back in the chair, folding my arms. “Well, you’ve confirmed.”

Unfazed, she continues typing. “Any new medications since your last visit?”

“No.”

“You’re still on the lithium?”

“Yes.”

She pauses, looking at me over the rim of her glasses. “Any issues—nausea, vomiting, dizziness?”

“None.”

“Vision problems? Hallucinations?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Just the occasional chat with the ghost of Ichabod Crane.”

Her fingers still on the keyboard. She blinks, her expression caught between concern and annoyance.

“I’m kidding,” I say flatly. “No hallucinations. Just nightmares.”

She nods slowly, her fingers resuming their steady tapping. “Any chance you’re pregnant?”

I snort. “Only if immaculate conception’s taken place without me knowing.”

The nurse doesn’t laugh. Of course she doesn’t. “Are you on any form of birth control?”

“No.”

She glances up again, her eyes narrowing slightly. “When was the last time you were sexually active?”

“Never,” I say, deadpan. “I’m a nun.”

Her gaze flicks to my face, clearly skeptical. “A nun,” she repeats, voice dry.

“Habit and all,” I reply, gesturing vaguely at myself. I’m not exactly dressed for the part, but sarcasm is my first—and only—line of defense.

She makes a note on her clipboard, her expression unreadable. “Alright. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

I wait, perched on the edge of the exam table, thankful to still be fully clothed. The paper crinkles beneath me with every shift, amplifying the silence. My mind circles back to her question, the one that felt so routine coming from her, but hit me like a barbed hook.

When was the last time you were sexually active?

I chew on the inside of my cheek, letting the sting anchor me. It wasn’t the question itself that lingered—it was how close I’d come to having to lie. Or worse, to answer honestly.

Last night flashes across my mind, a blur of tension and half-measures, teetering on a precipice I didn’t entirely trust myself to avoid. And if it weren’t for Damian’s... restraint, or self-control, or whatever you wanted to call that iron wall he throws up when emotions threaten to win out—if it weren’t for that, I’m not sure how far I would’ve let things go.

Damian.

I exhale sharply through my nose, frustrated at how easily his name knots itself into my thoughts. Every part of him. I can still feel the whisper of his lips on my neck and the ghost of his fingertips on my wrists; the hesitation in his grip like he was afraid to hold on too tightly. Afraid of me, or maybe even afraid of himself—I haven’t figured that part out yet. I just know I can’t trust myself around him. That primordial pull of attraction is just too strong.

The door creaks open, yanking me out of my spiraling thoughts. A man in a white coat steps in, his presence brisk and impersonal. “Ms. Roth,” he says, glancing at the chart in his hand. “How are we feeling today?”

“Fantastic,” I deadpan. “Just here for the ambiance.”

He doesn’t laugh. They never do.

"Um, not to be rude, but where is Dr. Bonnie?" I ask, noticing this isn’t my usual doctor.

He shrugs and flips through my file, adjusting his glasses. "Dr. Bonnie is currently on sabbatical."

"She didn’t mention she was—"

He cuts me off. "It was kind of short notice," he huffs, quickly changing the subject, likely eager to get back to his overbooked day. "The nurse noted you’ve been experiencing nightmares. Anything more specific you’d like to share?"

I hesitate. The instinct to brush him off is strong, but the weight of last night’s dreams—the shadows, the screaming—feels heavier than usual. “They’re not... normal nightmares,” I finally admit, keeping my voice flat. “They’re vivid. Loud. And... specific.”

“Specific how?”

I meet his gaze, daring him to flinch. “Blood. Fire. A lot of screaming. Sometimes faces I recognize, sometimes... not.” I leave out the details about my father. About the way his voice seems to snake through every dream, wrapping itself around my throat until I wake up gasping. That part is for me.

He makes a note, nodding thoughtfully. “Recurring themes like that can be a sign of unresolved trauma.”

“No kidding.”

“Have you considered speaking to someone? A therapist, perhaps?”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, I’ve spoken to someone. He just wasn’t exactly licensed.”

The doctor pauses, clearly unsure how to respond. Good. I like it when they don’t know what to say.

“Alright,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “Let’s proceed with the injection. We’ll revisit the nightmares if they persist.”

He sets about preparing the syringe, and I roll up my sleeve, bracing for the familiar sting. As the needle pierces my skin, my mind drifts—away from the cold sterility of the room, away from the too-bright lights—back to last night, back to Damian.

It was my suggestion that he come to my bed, my hand that guided his to my waist. I wanted to feel his embrace, to be tucked close against him. It was me who let out a welcomed sigh as his arm coiled around me, pulling me flush against him. I was the one who turned, rolling over to face him. I needed to see him—to know it was really him, Damian, who was beside me.

We were so close then, so raw. His scent was heady, warm, a faint mix of pepper and something uniquely his. “I can’t trust myself around you,” was all I could manage to say.

His hand found the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer, until there was nothing between us but the thin barrier of clothing and breath. And I remember wishing—aching—that there was nothing between us at all.

“Neither can I,” he admitted, his voice a low murmur as his fingers trailed up my back, sending shivers through me.

I shivered against him as his fingertips traced my spine, each movement igniting something I wasn’t sure I could contain. I knew we shouldn’t be this close. I knew I shouldn’t want him this badly. But logic had no place here—not when his presence was so intoxicating.

My hand found his face, fingers brushing against the sharp lines of his jaw. I needed the reassurance again, the proof that this was real. That he was real. My thumb traced the curve of his lips, and for a moment, all the doubt, all the hesitation, melted away—like both of us were trying to unravel the unspoken bond between us, trying to find the root cause through the tension that had taken a lifetime to build.

His lips were soft, and I realized how familiar they were becoming to me when he didn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss. His hand slid from my back to tangle in my hair, holding me close like he was afraid I might pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

​​A small sound escaped me—something between a sigh and a whimper—as his other hand brushed the curve of my hip. His touch burned, setting my skin alight even through the barrier of fabric. Every part of me felt alive, every nerve ending thrumming in time with the steady beat of his heart against mine.

Is this what I’ve been missing?

As the heat of his breath burned my neck and found him on top of me. I shuddered, feeling his body naturally tighten against mine. It was only then he drew back realizing he was losing himself. And if there is one thing I can say about Damian, it’s that he needs to remain in control.

“Raven,” he murmured against my lips, his voice low and almost reverent. Hearing my name like that, spoken with such raw intensity, sent a shiver coursing through me.

“Don’t,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, searching mine with a kind of desperation that mirrored my own. He wanted this—wanted me—just as much, if not more. But I could see the war inside him, the sacrifice he was already weighing. For whose sake—his or mine—I couldn’t say.

“Don’t what?” he asked, his voice soft, as though bracing himself for rejection.

“Don’t stop,” I confessed, the words spilling out before I could second-guess them. “Not tonight.”

His gaze faltered, torn between restraint and desire. I could see the conflict—the noble part of him that expected me to pull back, to remind him of reason and duty, and the darker part, the carnal part that reveled in my surrender. That part of him didn’t flinch; it rejoiced.

And for a fleeting moment, I thought, This is it—the point of no return.

“We’re supposed to be sleeping,” he said finally, his tone a weak defense against the pull between us.

He really is impossible.

But last night, I had come so close to losing myself. If it weren’t for Damian being so...

impossible,

impassible, infuriatingly insufferable, I might have crossed a line I could never return from. I would have betrayed more than just myself. I would have betrayed my vows. And my God.

“All right,” the doctor says, removing the needle from my arm and pressing a piece of gauze over the injection site. “You know what to watch for over the next 48 hours?”

I nod. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I noticed,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he disposes of the gloves, needle, and syringe in the biohazard container. “Is there anything else you’d like to go over?”

“Actually, yes,” I say, trying to mask the edge of urgency in my voice. “Dr. Bonnie mentioned she’d look into helping me keep up with my dosage while I’m away.”

He tilts his head slightly. “How long are you planning to be gone?”

“Until the end of January.”

He crosses his arms, clearly thinking. “I can provide you with a list of clinics near where you’ll be staying and make sure you have the proper medical documentation—”

“That won’t work,” I interrupt carefully. “I’m not going to be anywhere near a clinic. I’ll be in the Allagash.”

His brow furrows. “Where’s that?”

“The northernmost part of Maine,” I explain, unsurprised by his confusion. I hadn’t known about it either until I was told it would be part of my ‘ministerial formation’ before taking my final vows. “It’s the middle of nowhere.”

He nods, his expression growing more serious as he scans my file. “I see here Dr. Bonnie reached out to the monastery and spoke with the nurse practitioner who oversees medical care.” He pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Yes, Sister Sonya,” I confirm, hoping that the mention of her name adds weight to my case.

“She denied the request.”

A chill spreads through me. “That must be a mistake. I spoke with her myself. She knows I need this medication.”

“That may be true,” he says, his tone measured but unyielding. “But as long as the request is officially denied, there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?” My voice cracks despite my best effort to stay composed.

He hesitates, his gaze softening slightly. “We can explore alternative medications—maybe an oral option that can be taken daily?”

I shake my head before he even finishes. “I’ve tried those. They dull everything—my thoughts, my senses. They make me feel like a zombie. And the dose I’d need would be too high to tolerate.”

His sigh is almost apologetic. “I understand your concerns, but without approval, we’re at a standstill.”

He keeps talking, offering yet another empty solution, none of which I’m remotely keen on. My focus drifts, drawn to the bottle sitting on the tray. Nearly full, its glossy surface glints mockingly under the harsh fluorescent light. The doctor’s words fade, a hollow murmur swallowed by the growing void in my mind. Three months without this medication—it’s not just unbearable; it’s unthinkable. My thoughts churn, frantic, searching for a way out. Any way. By any means necessary.

A commotion erupts in the hallway. A woman’s shrill voice echoes off the sterile walls, sharp and piercing. The doctor turns, his attention pulled away, his gaze locked on the doorway.

It’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. But what’s the alternative? Three months in the wilderness, slowly driven mad by haunting shadows, disembodied voices, caught between the veil of reality and my fractured mind? All while being miles from any medical facility capable of handling me in such a psychotic state? That’s not just my hell—it’s everyone's. This is the best option. The only option.

I lean forward, heart pounding, and slip the bottle from the tray. The cold glass settles into my palm like it belongs there, like it’s always belonged to me. But it’ll be obvious if it’s missing. The empty spot will draw his eyes the moment he turns back. I can’t let that happen.

The woman’s voice outside rises, a shrill crescendo of outrage, each word sharper and more frenzied than the last. It buys me a moment, but not enough. As she rants about a man following her to work, I stand, clutching my bag and feign slinging it  over my shoulder a little too wide, sending the tray toppling to the floor with a deafening crash. The bottle disappears into the depths of my bag, hidden among its contents.

“It’s fine,” he says curtly, his irritation clear as he moves to assess the mess. He crouches down, collecting the instruments and discouraging me from touching what was once sterile. His focus shifts entirely, his sharp eyes no longer on me, no longer on the tray.

I mutter another apology, stuffing a stray pen and a loose packet of gauze into my bag for good measure. My hands tremble faintly, but I force myself to keep moving, to act normal. Guilt simmers just beneath the surface, but I push it down. Survival doesn’t leave room for self-recrimination.

“Let’s call it a day,” the doctor says finally, straightening up and brushing off his hands. “If you change your mind about the alternatives, give the clinic a call before you leave town.”

“Of course,” I reply, a flustered smile plastered on my face like a mask. “Thank you for your help.”

I leave the room, my steps steady despite the pulse thrumming in my ears. Outside, the woman I recognize as Carol is still arguing, her voice sharp and unwavering. She gestures wildly, describing the man she claims followed her—dark hair, dark coat.

Damian? The thought flickers through my mind like a shadow, fleeting and half-formed. If it was him, I know he’s already gone. He’s a ghost, moving through dimensions, slipping past boundaries like they don’t exist. Maybe that’s his secret. Maybe he really is a ghost—Or something hauntingly like it.

I slip past her unnoticed, the weight of the bottle in my bag heavier than it should be, pressing against my conscience like a stone. Yet somewhere ahead, Damian is vanishing into the mist, and I can’t help but wonder if he felt the same pull of desperation when he made his move. Survival, after all, is its own justification.

The damp wind of coming winter envelops me in its grasp, cold and almost cleansing, carrying the blistering scent of snow on its breath. I need to take a page out of Damian’s book and disappear. I can still hear Carol’s baseless claims echoing down the hall as the door swings shut behind me, entombing her sour temper in the sterile walls of the clinic where hope comes to die.

Still, I know her accusations aren’t entirely unfounded. He

did

follow a woman to the clinic, after all. It just wasn’t her.

It was me.

No, I’m being paranoid. Damian didn’t follow me. But what if he did?

I can’t shake the thought. He’s as much a mystery as he is a man.

The timing couldn’t be more uncanny. In the heat of my doubt, he appears—like a knight from a fairytale, armed with an unyielding sense of chivalry. He lures me in with the illusion of safety—a true gentleman, a dying breed in this world. But he is something more than a gentleman. A demon in disguise?

I let the cold wind bite at my cheeks as I walk, the bottle shifting in my bag with every step. Its weight is more than just physical now; it’s a reminder of my survival instinct clawing its way to the surface, like an animal backed into a corner. If I’m right, I fear I understand Damian better than I ever wanted to—how every choice, every move, is calculated to stay one step ahead of the void. But how exactly do I fit into his equation?

No, I’m just being paranoid. I mean, I’m schizophrenic, for fuck’s sake. The description was vague at best: dark hair, dark coat. Nothing about his eyes—those vivid green eyes, the color of envy—or his faint olive complexion. And nothing about his towering height. She mentioned something about him wearing a hood; could the hair color even be accurate? Think about how many men fit that basic description. Dark hair, dark coat. Not even a distinct shade to make it stand out.

I step onto the bus, settling into my seat as the vehicle begins its climb toward the monastery. I have a gift to drop off—and a bone to pick with Sister Sonya.

The hills roll by like tombs as the hours inch closer to darkness. In summer, their lush greenery unfurls like ocean waves, brimming with life and warmth—a sweet reminder of the miracle of existence. Every player has its role: every plant, every animal, down to the smallest insect. It all just fits.

Even now, as the cycle of life nears its end for the year, I can still appreciate the purpose it serves. Death creates life, and life creates death.

As I step into the grand foyer of the monastery, I make my way to the east wing, where one of the last Catholic orphanages in the state still operates. It saddens me how many children end up here. Infants are usually adopted before they even reach us, but some aren’t as fortunate. Many arrive through no fault of their own, burdened by the weight of their health or circumstances beyond their control.

Mary spots me from across the room. Her smock is splattered with acrylic paint as she weaves through clusters of children, finally pressing herself against me in an affectionate embrace. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t adore this child. Her bright blue eyes, always alight with life and possibility, are a welcome reminder of futures still waiting to unfold.

That was me once.

She gestures with her hands—she was born deaf, and early neglect at the hands of her impoverished, drug-addicted mother left her mute. When she arrived here a few years ago, she couldn’t speak a word, let alone use sign language. Teaching her to communicate with the world has been a personal mission of mine. No child should be left so deep in the dark.

“You came to say goodbye,” her hands move, crafting the words with ease.

“Of course I did,” I reply, forming the signs alongside my spoken words. “I brought you this.”

I reach into my bag, momentarily distracted by the weight of something else inside—the sin concealed within its faux leather folds. I shove the thought aside, drawing out a neatly wrapped box instead.

“Here you go.”

Her face lights up with excitement, her rosy cheeks glowing with a childlike wonder I pray never fades. She tears into the wrapping paper, and her eyes widen as she takes in the felt-tip acrylic pen set inside.

She thanks me with a hug so fierce it nearly knocks me over. I settle into her embrace, letting it anchor me, if only for a moment. In her arms, I can almost forget the complications of my life—the horror of last night, my doubts, my sins.

Damian

…

Mary pulls back and touches her hand to her chin, then waves it outward—a silent “Thank you.”

I place my hand to my chest and move it back and forth. “You’re welcome.”

If Joey could see me now, he’d be proud. And with any luck, his spirit isn’t far, watching over this sweet girl and helping guide her when I can’t.

From the corner of the room, Tara observes with a knowing smirk, her habit conspicuously absent. “Such a sweet sight,” she remarks. “It’s a shame that by tomorrow, she’ll have no one to talk to.”

The guilt stabs at me. I’m the only nun here fluent in sign language, and none of the children have mastered it yet. It’s another silent reason to stay. But if I take my final vow, I’ll be in a better position to help her—and others like her.

I rise, adjusting my bag, and tell Mary to go enjoy her new markers. “I’ll come see you before I leave,” I sign.

“You promise?”

“Of course.”

I watch her skip off to her easel, her small world brightened by art. For years, it was her only outlet—a way to give voice to the thoughts and feelings locked inside her. She’s risen from the ashes of that cruel isolation beautifully, but I can only hope she chooses a better path than I did.

Tara joins me, her gaze lingering on Mary, whose spirit burns brightly, like a violet in bloom. “You’re going to miss her?”

“More than you know.”

We head toward the old cemetery, Tara sneaking a cigarette as we talk in private. The ritual reminds me of high school—sneaking off with Rose, my best friend, to cut class and smoke in the bathroom. Rose favored Marlboro Reds; she always made a play of packing them against her wrist when she got a fresh pack. I let her convince me to try once, but I hated the suffocating burn in my lungs. So I settled for secondhand smoke and smelling like an ashtray for no better reason than to feel invisible. Back then, I didn’t care about being misjudged and wore a reputation I hadn’t exactly earned like armor. The mysterious, foreboding aesthic suited me—a mask I wore comfortably.

Through the haze of nostalgia, Tara pulls me back to the present. “So, how was your date with Damian?” she teases, exhaling smoke with a grin.

Heat blooms across my cheeks, betraying my composure.

“That good?”

I look away, unsure of what to say. “He’s… a gentleman.”

Tara smirks. “You seeing him again tonight?” She takes another drag, her grin sharpening. “Maybe let him give you a

going-away

gift you can’t refuse.”

I shake my head. “That’s… the problem.”

She flicks the ash from her cigarette. “You scared?”

Scared doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I know you don’t think it’s a big deal, but if I let him get close—

that

close—then I’m violating the vow I made.”

“The vow you can break anytime, for any reason,” she reminds, missing the finer details, of course. Tara always had a way of bending the rules to suit her.

“You know that’s not how it works,” I snap. “If I break my vow, then—”

“Then you work through it with God,” she says firmly, cutting me off. “Just like you do in any other relationship.”

I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong. But something in me wants so badly for her to be right. Wants her to justify the fire stirring in my stomach, the heat pooling lower. Even now, I can feel my breath hitch and my skin burn at the thought of waking beside him again—still asleep, his body pressed to mine, his arms wrapped tightly around me, his hand absentmindedly cupping my breast, as his thumb brushes my nipple through the thin fabric of my nightgown. Utterly lost in the rhythm of his heart beat.

“Listen, I know this life—this path we’ve chosen—is supposed to be hard,” Tara says, her tone measured but firm. “But you have your whole life to be alone. You should at least figure out if it’s the kind of loneliness you can live with.”

It’s not the worst point she’s ever made. Most young nuns simply forgo this aspect of their humanity. It’s easier to let go of something you’ve never truly had to begin with. But I am not most young nuns. I am what’s referred to as a

penitent

or

reformed nun

, a woman who turned to spiritual devotion not out of innocence or untouched purity, but as an act of repentance for a life once steeped in sin.

I’ve tasted the pleasures of the world, indulged in the fleeting ecstasies of the flesh. I know exactly what I’m giving up. The lies, the illusions, the destructive indulgences—I can live without those. But true human connection? Real intimacy, in the way it binds two souls together in a way words can’t capture? That’s harder to dismiss. It’s something I glimpsed once, something I wasn’t careful with, only to lose it before I ever understood how much I wanted it. And now I could stand to lose it again, but at what cost?

“What if I let go of everything I’ve valued and find out you’re right—that I can’t live without this part of life—but I lose him anyway?” I ask, my voice low, almost breaking.

Tara doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she flicks her cigarette butt into a nearby puddle with a dramatic precision, watching the embers die with a soft hiss. Then she looks at me, her expression equal parts stern and sympathetic.

“That’s a chance you’re just going to have to take,” Tara says finally, her tone softening but no less resolute. “And you know what? That fear—the fear of wanting it and losing it anyway—it’s why so many of these women give it up altogether. They’re so scared of the pain, they’d rather never know it at all.”

She sighs, rubbing her arms as though the weight of her words has settled on her shoulders. Before I can respond, the sharp clip of heels echoes down the stone pathway behind us. Both of us turn to see the Reverend Mother approaching, her hands folded neatly before her, her posture as rigid as the rules she enforces.

“Sister Tara,” she calls out, her voice cool but steeped in discipline. “Mother Superior has requested to see you. She’s waiting in the east wing.”

Tara blinks, caught off guard. “Mother Superior?”

Maybe Tara’s loose interpretation of the rules has finally caught up with her.

“Yes,” the Reverend Mother replies, sparing me a brief, pointed glance before refocusing on Tara. “She mentioned needing counsel. I trust you’ll see to it immediately.”

Tara straightens, brushing her hands down her skirt as if smoothing invisible creases. “Of course, Reverend Mother.” She flicks me a quick glance—somewhere between a warning and encouragement—before turning on her heel and heading toward the east wing.

I watch her go, but the Reverend Mother’s attention doesn’t follow. Instead, her gaze settles on me, steady and unyielding, and I know what’s coming.

“Walk with me, Sister Raven,” she says, already turning toward the convent’s main building.

I fall into step behind her, the hem of my skirt brushing against the damp earth. She says nothing as we pass through the courtyard and into the shaded cemetery at the edge of the convent grounds. The air grows cooler here, the weight of silence pressing between us like a held breath. Finally, she speaks.

“Sister Sonya brought your request to my attention,” she begins, her tone even, though it carries the unmistakable edge of reproach. “Regarding the medication.”

I swallow, keeping my gaze on the worn path beneath our feet. “Yes, Reverend Mother. I thought it prudent to—”

“To seek out alternative treatment without consulting me?” she interrupts, her voice cutting like a blade. “I thought I made it clear that any such decisions are to be brought to my attention before action is taken.”

“I wasn’t taking action,” I say quickly, though my voice wavers. “It’s something I’ve been on for years, even before entering into—”

She raises a hand, cutting me off as if muting the sound from my throat. Her gaze sharpens, burning into mine. “Medications of that nature interfere with your relationship with God,” she states. “They strip you of the gifts He has given you and numb you to the burdens you are meant to carry. If you are to be a true bride of God, you must learn to shoulder your trials through will, not a pill.”

Her words sting more than I’d like to admit, but I can’t let it show. “With all due respect, Reverend Mother,” I begin carefully, “I don’t think you understand the depth of my condition—”

“Or perhaps it is you who does not understand the depth of your condition, Sister Raven,” she counters sharply.

I lower my gaze to my hands, but my mind pulls me elsewhere—to the image of pale fingers stained in blood. The memory churns in my chest, but I force myself to remain silent.

“The vow you are about to make is sacred,” she continues, her voice heavy with conviction. “It must be made of sound mind and free will. Not under the influence of mind-altering medication.”

Her reasoning strikes a nerve, though I remain still, my face betraying nothing. What she doesn’t see—or refuses to—is that this isn’t about weakness or avoidance. It’s about survival.

The silence stretches between us as I struggle to find the right words. But none come. Not yet.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting. She’s right, of course—or at least she thinks she is. “Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say, my voice subdued.

Tara’s words echo faintly in my mind:

You should know if it’s a sort of loneliness you can live with.

The Reverend Mother waits, her gaze steady and unwavering, demanding my answer without another word. But how can I explain? She doesn’t know the full truth of my request—of what lies beneath it. And perhaps, neither do I.

The weight of the unspoken presses heavily on my chest. How can I explain the creeping dread that’s begun to settle in my bones? The dark shapes at the edges of my dreams, the whispers that feel too much like my own thoughts? It isn’t simply the absence of connection that terrifies me; it’s the possibility that I might lose myself entirely.

I lift my gaze, meeting hers for a fleeting moment before letting it drop again. “I only wanted to ensure that I was prepared,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “For the commitment. For the life.”

The Reverend Mother exhales sharply through her nose, a sound that borders on impatience. “Preparedness comes from faith, Sister Raven, not from crutches.”

Her words bite, but I keep my composure, nodding obediently even as doubt coils tighter around my resolve. She waits for a response, but when I don’t offer one, she straightens and adjusts her habit.

“You would do well to reflect on this before moving forward,” she says, her tone final. “Place your trust in the Lord and the path He has chosen for you.”

I nod again, murmuring, “Yes, Reverend Mother,” though the words feel hollow, as if spoken by someone else entirely.

She turns, her steps measured and deliberate, retreating into the stillness of the cemetery. I remain rooted to the spot, the hem of my skirt grazing the damp earth as a chill breeze stirs the air, sending a shiver through me.

Tara’s voice rises unbidden in my mind:

That fear—the fear of wanting it and losing it anyway—it’s why so many give it up altogether.

But what if I give it up and lose myself anyway?

I press my palms together, forcing my breath to slow. Inhale. Exhale. It’s not a question I can answer now—not here, under the weight of centuries of silence and stone. But it’s a question that will demand an answer soon enough.

She told me to pray for guidance, to seek clarity in this crumbling corner of the cemetery. If I want to live this life, I’ll have to do it with my mind alight, burning against the dark. Trusting that God’s will—if it truly exists—will see me through to the other side of this cruxivil.

My steps are aimless as I wander down the old path, past cracked stones and forgotten epitaphs. The air feels heavier here, steeped in the weight of so many lost stories. As I approach an ancient willow, its gnarled branches reach out like the arms of a weary sentinel guarding a single grave.

I duck beneath its bare, drooping limbs, the leather-thin boughs brushing my shoulders as I kneel before the weathered tombstone. The name carved into its face has long faded into obscurity, eroded by time and neglect.

There’s a quiet poetry to it—this forgotten soul, unmarked and nearly erased by time. It feels fitting, somehow, to linger here, to let the questions linger with me.

Is this God’s way of showing me that this life is not meant for me? Or that I am not strong enough for it?

Is this a test?

I crouch, brushing aside the tangled weeds that cling stubbornly to the stone’s face. The faint outline of a name begins to emerge beneath my fingers.

Obadiah Blood.

The letters are worn, barely legible, yet unmistakable. A sudden chill wind cuts across my face, sharp as death’s kiss.

I remember the stories from my childhood, the whispered warnings and ghostly tales meant to frighten impressionable minds. But never once had I known where his grave lay—until now.

“He sacrificed his own daughter to the Devil,” an older boy had once said, his voice dripping with malice as he tried to terrify the younger, softer children. “That’s why they call it Blood Forest, for all the people that died there.”

I trace the shallow grooves of the name with my fingertips, the stone cold and time ridden beneath my touch. The words of that boy echo faintly in my mind, his cruelty softened by time, yet still leaving a lingering unease. I’d laughed then, pretending not to be afraid, but the images he painted had taken root.

The Blood Forest—dark and tangled, its trees curling up like twisted hands. The stories spoke of a chilling history forged in blood and black magic, of shadows that moved where no light could cast them. And at the heart of it all, Obadiah Blood, a name people spoke of as a curse. If they even spoke his name at all.

“He traded his daughter to the Devil for power,”

the boy said.

“But that wasn’t enough. To maintain that power, he had to feed it.”

I rise slowly, brushing the dirt from my hands. The air feels heavier here, as if the grave itself is holding its breath. I tell myself it’s only the weight of old stories, but the chill that crawls along my spine is harder to dismiss.

Turning away, I glance back one last time, the grave half-hidden beneath the willow’s weary branches. A single thought lingers, unbidden and unwanted.

If the stories were only meant to scare us, then why does it feel like he’s still watching?

I head back toward the monastery, the haunting feeling of being watched following me to the cemetery gate. When I finally get back inside, I bid Mary one final goodbye.

“I wish you weren’t leaving,”

she signs, and I feel my heart drop.

But deep down, I wonder whether I should wake up tomorrow and get on that bus.

“It’s God’s will,” I say aloud, though it feels more like a reminder to myself. “I’ll come back and visit. I promise.”

She sighs, and I can’t help but feel guilty for leaving her here. But what am I supposed to do? I have no means. I can barely afford to sustain myself. Any

“wealth”

I have will be donated to the church once I’ve taken my final vow. I can’t care for this girl. I can barely care for myself.

Tara meets me on the front steps, a shit-eating grin on her face.

“What’d Mother Superior want?” I ask, curious.

Sometimes I wonder how she gets away with so much, while I barely entertain the thought and I’m interrogated as if I were a blasphemous heathen.

“It’s ’cause you look like that kind of girl,” Tara reasoned one afternoon after too many glasses of wine. “I look like everyone’s kid sister.”

I remember the insult that swelled into my pride. But I knew Tara wasn’t wrong. I was the sort of girl who attracted trouble. My dating history, though short, was a series of assholes who weren’t worth the time or the heartache. It’s partly why I’ve chosen this life. You can’t suffer a broken heart if there’s no one to break it.

Only now, there is someone, and his ability to break my heart might be more than I can bear.

“She just needed me to fill out some unfinished paperwork,” Tara says. “Had to cross some T’s and dot some I’s.”

I nod, though my mind is already elsewhere, weighed down by the lingering chill of the cemetery. Tara, of course, notices. She always notices.

“Something’s eating at you,” she says, falling into step beside me. Her tone is light, teasing, but the sharpness in her eyes betrays her knack for cutting through my walls. “Let me guess—tall, dark, and brooding,” She smirks, nudging me with her elbow. “Damian?”

I stop short, my heart giving an involuntary, traitorous thud.

“Just let it go, Tara.”

“You’re telling me to let it go?” She laughs, low and knowing, the sound grating against my nerves. “You’re the one staring off into the distance, looking all tragic—for one reason and one reason alone. Damian.”

I roll my eyes. She’s not wrong, but she’s not entirely right either. There’s more than Damian swirling in my head—my sanity for one. I can practically feel the world shifting beneath my feet, sharp and unsteady, cutting into all that I am and all I’ve become. By tomorrow, it’ll be entirely different.

Tara leans closer, dropping her voice like she’s sharing some dark secret. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love.”

I glare at her, hoping the heat creeping into my face doesn’t betray me. “Tara—”

“Oh, don’t ‘Tara’ me.” She spins on her heel, walking backward with infuriating grace. “If you’re so determined to throw yourself into this convent life, shouldn’t you at least sort out your feelings first? Confession might do you some good.”

“The last thing I need is confession,” I say, my voice flat. But the memory of Father Blood creeps in anyway—the white pallor of his face, his red eyes dissecting me with something that feels far heavier than piety.

Tara arches a brow, her grin pure mischief. “I don’t mean the kind of confession you do on bended knee in some dusty old confessional. I mean the kind you do up close and personal—with the guy you can’t stop thinking about. Though, hey, if you want to be on your knees for him, I won’t stop you.” She winks, the glint in her eyes daring me to react.

I shove her shoulder, but she just laughs, her voice ringing out like she’s completely unbothered. The sound echoes as we keep walking, the bus stop looming ahead.

“You are so tightly wound,” she says between giggles, shaking her head as if I’m the one who’s ridiculous. “But seriously, Rae, you should call him. It can’t hurt.”

I stop dead in my tracks, turning to her with more force than I intend. “Can’t hurt?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, sharper than I’d like. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be around him? To not think about him every second?” I feel my voice falter but push on, the confession spilling out like a dam breaking. “I invited him to spend the night, Tara. If it weren’t for him respecting my boundaries…” I swallow hard, the weight of the unspoken words pressing down. “I would have broken my vows for him.”

Her laughter dies, replaced by an expression I rarely see from her—quiet, knowing. “I knew you couldn’t stop thinking about him,” she teases. “Maybe those vows are meant to be broken.”

“What are you saying?”

Tara doesn’t miss a beat, stepping closer with that signature smirk of hers. “I’m saying,” she drawls, drawing out the words as if savoring their weight, “maybe the life you think you’re meant for isn’t the one you actually want.”

I stare at her, stunned into silence for a beat too long. She uses it to her advantage, leaning in like she’s delivering some great, forbidden truth.

“You’ve been fighting so hard to run away from everything—your past, your feelings, your desires—but what if this whole convent thing is just another escape? And let’s be honest, Rae,” her voice drops, conspiratorial, “the fact that you’d risk breaking your vows for him? That’s saying something.”

Heat rises to my face, embarrassment warring with anger. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?” she counters, tilting her head, unruffled. “I’m not saying you don’t want peace or redemption or whatever it is you’re chasing. But don’t you think it’s worth asking yourself if that life includes him?”

Her words hit harder than I’d like, the weight of them sinking into the pit of my stomach. “I don’t have the luxury of making choices like that, Tara.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” she fires back without hesitation. “The only person who makes the rules in your life is you.” She pauses, letting the words hang in the air, softer now, yet heavy with meaning. “And if he’s the reason you’re hesitating, maybe he’s not just a reason. Maybe he’s

the reason

.”

I clutch onto her words, trying to shake them loose, but they’ve already settled too deep. It’s not just about what she’s saying—it’s the truth buried in it, the one I’m not ready to face. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Here.” Tara swings her bag off her shoulder and digs inside. “I swiped this on my way out. I was planning to get shitfaced tonight before we’re stranded in the wilderness for three months, but I think you need it more than I do.”

She pulls out a bottle of wine. Not just any wine—an expensive,

obscenely

expensive vintage. The kind you don’t just drink; the kind you toast to life-changing decisions with.

I blink at it, shaking my head. “I can’t accept that—it would be a—”

“Bad idea?” Tara finishes, grinning as she waves the bottle in front of me. “That’s the plan. One night, Rae. You’ve got one night to decide which path you’re walking. Or, in your case,” her grin widens, “laying on.”

I take the bottle from her, feeling the cool glass against my palm as if it’s some kind of anchor. I turn it over, the dark liquid inside swirling as my mind races. Tara’s words are still echoing in my head—loud, unrelenting. The truth of them is a weight I’m not sure I’m ready to carry.

I can’t stop thinking about him. Damian. His face, his eyes, that raw, unsettling pull between us. It’s not just attraction anymore. It’s something deeper, something I don’t know how to control. Desire.

“Rae,” Tara says, her voice softening just enough to break through the haze. “I’m not telling you to throw everything away. Just… don’t make your choices because you think you have to. Do it because

you want to

. No one else gets to decide that but you.”

Her eyes meet mine, sincere, but knowing, like she can see the turmoil swirling beneath my skin. I look away, biting the inside of my cheek, willing the heat in my face to subside.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “I thought I did. I thought this life—this vow—was my path. But now…” I trail off, unsure how to put it into words without it sounding like a betrayal.

If I’d never met Damian would I feel some sense of uncertainty, of course, but to this degree, most certainly not. I don’t know if that’s a sign from God, or simply the Devil trying to guide me away from my path. Trying to corrupt me in a way a woman of God should not be corrupted.

Tara steps closer, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Rae. Hell, you’re

supposed

to. Life isn’t some straight line. It’s more like…” she pauses, considering, “a mess of twists and turns. You just have to choose what feels right, even if it feels wrong at first.”

I exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up. “And what if it all falls apart? What if I choose him and he leaves anyway.”

Tara grins, her usual cocky self returning. “That’s life, Rae. God gave us free will for a reason. And not every reason lines up. It’s a chance you’re just gonna have to take.”

I meet her eyes, seeing the sincerity there, but something else too—a challenge. A dare.

And I feel it. The pull, the choice. It’s no longer about duty or obligation. It’s about something I can’t define, but can’t ignore.

“I don’t even know if I

want

to keep fighting it anymore,” I murmur, more to myself than her.

Tara nods, looking satisfied. “Then don’t. You’ve got one night, Rae. One night to figure out what you really want. Don’t spend it second-guessing yourself, or him—even God.”

She grins again, an almost wicked gleam in her eyes. “And if you want to see Damian again, don’t make him wait. You might regret it later if you do.”

The bus pulls up with a hiss of air, and I step onto it without a word, Tara right behind me. The door closes with a soft thud, the conversation of college kids muffled as we find empty seats near the back. I place the wine in my bag beside my earlier bad decision and set the bag down between us. I can almost hear Tara’s grin even as she leans back against the window, her eyes half-lidded as she stares out into the dying afternoon.

I pull my hood over my head, trying to block out the world for a moment, to give myself space to breathe. The bus lurches forward, moving steadily down the winding, narrow road, the hum of the engine almost comforting in its monotony. The lights flicker overhead, casting faint shadows across Tara’s face. Her silence is a change, almost disorienting after the constant banter we’ve shared.

I feel the weight of her gaze every now and then, but I don’t meet it. Instead, my thoughts return to Damian. His presence, his voice, that strange, familiar feeling between us that I can’t deny anymore. I wonder if I could really walk away from it all. Could I truly forget him? Or will I always be haunted by that pull? The way his lips feel against my skin, at the mercy of his will.

Tara sighs, breaking the silence just as the bus swerves around a corner. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, her words quiet but firm. Her hand reaches out, tapping the top of the wine bottle in my bag, like it’s some kind of secret she’s passing along. "You’ve got this, Rae."

I don't answer right away, my gaze fixed out the window. A light snow starts to fall, blurring the lines together, the world slipping by in a quiet rush of motion. I let myself fall back into the seat, letting go of pretensions, and remember how I feel with him. It was like discovering another language my body only spoke with him. One spoken by the true nature of two bound souls, so ingrained that my entire body hums just to think of him.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself feel the uncertainty without pushing it away. I let myself feel what it would be like to never see him again. The thought is haunting, desperate, filling my heart with a void.

The bus finally comes to our stop, and we both make our exit into the light swirl of snow. I feel its welcoming chill and make my decision.

“I’m gonna call him.”

Tara turns and smiles at me, her eyes lighting up with a strange joy. “Good. Maybe by tomorrow, you’ll be less uptight.”

I roll my eyes at her, resenting her smugness, but finding some relief in it. “We’ll see about that. I’m just calling him, that’s all.”

Tara raises an eyebrow, her smile widening. "Whatever you say, Rae. But if you choose not to... don’t get on the bus tomorrow. I won’t blame you, and neither will God."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I spent the last few hours immersed in the story, finding this small-town legend more compelling than I’d expected. The deeper I went, the more it felt like tugging at a loose thread, unraveling a tapestry long forgotten—its details faded, its truths buried beneath layers of myth and time. Obidiah’s tale was steeped in shadows, the kind that thrive where fact and folklore bleed together.

The records, as expected, were incomplete—names and dates lost to history’s indifference. But most accounts agreed he was born in 1685 in Salem, a boy at the height of the witch trials. His mother wasn’t just a witness to the hysteria; she was one of its victims, dragged to the gallows alongside 18 others, condemned by nothing more than the frenzied superstitions of the devout. A formative experience, to say the least. A childhood steeped in fear and fire, where accusations cut sharper than any blade.

It shaped him. How could it not? That crucible of paranoia and dread likely planted the seeds of the man who would one day carve his name into the bones of Dunwych.

From what I’ve gathered, he left Salem as a young man, something of a pariah. The accusations against his mother stemmed from bearing the boy out of wedlock—a scandal in itself. She claimed his father was a passing stranger, the result of violence. Or so she said. Whether it was the truth or a convenient excuse for sin and seduction, no one can say with certainty, not 339 years later.

But as accusations piled up, the stories twisted into something far more salacious. Whispers turned into grotesque tales of her consorting with the Devil himself—copulating and giving birth to a demon. I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at that one. But I could relate.

Obidiah himself was imprisoned as a child, though never tried; at just seven or eight, even the most deluded zealots had their limits. Eventually, he was released when sanity—however briefly—came back into fashion.

I have to admit, that’s one hell of a villain origin story.

My phone rings, slicing through the quiet and jolting me from my concentration. I jump, and the momentary vulnerability leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I glance at the screen and feel the familiar burn of disappointment when I see Grayson’s name glowing. Can’t lie—I consider ignoring it. But I know that’ll just invite further concern.

“What?” I drone, swiping the screen with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for dismissing an alert you don’t care about.

“Seriously?” Grayson grumbles. He sounds more resigned than offended, like this is just another chapter in the long book of me being difficult. “ Your phone etiquette is awful.”

“You should hear my voicemail.”

“Oh, I have,” he says, deadpan. “And it explains why Bruce is always just a little more pissed when you don’t pick up.”

I smirk despite myself. “So what’s so pressing that you need to disturb me in the middle of my investigation?”

There’s a pause—a grumbled inhale of annoyance. I can almost hear the mental coin flip: am I being daft on purpose, or have I actually forgotten? “You said yesterday you’d have a report for me,” he finally says, his tone veering toward exasperated, “and I’ve yet to see it.”

Shit. “Yeah, it’s not done yet. I’m in the middle of writing it now.”

“You said you were writing it yesterday.”

“I was,” I take a brief moment to let my eyes dart to the book like a high school kid making excuses as to why he hasn’t done the homework. “But something came up. I found a lead.”

There’s a beat of skepticism. “What’s this lead?”

Good thing I’m only half-lying. “The woman who owns the boarding house I’m staying at—her late husband was a historian for the town.”

“Dunwych can afford a historian?” Grayson’s incredulity drips through the line.

I roll my eyes at the not-so-clever insinuation. “He worked in the records department.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway,” I continue, brushing past his thinly veiled amusement, “he wrote two books. One on the history of Dunwych, the other on its founder, Obadiah Blood.”

There’s a pause as Grayson chews on the name. “Obadiah Blood? Sounds a little too on-the-nose, doesn’t it? So obvious I can’t believe anyone missed it.”

“That’s because no one looked that hard,” I reply, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “It’s not that the information is hidden or irrelevant. It’s that no one—including Father—has bothered to take it seriously. Until now.”

“So, what’s the big revelation here?”

“No,” I snap back, letting the irritation creep into my voice, “from what I’ve read, this guy isn’t just guilty of having an unfortunate name. He was involved in some seriously dark shit.”

“How dark?”

“Rumored to be the son of the Devil himself, dark.”

Grayson snorts. “Speculation. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Like I don’t already know that. “Sure, but the local folklore around him is worth looking into. He acquired a massive amount of land, and no one’s quite sure how. Used it to found the town, but hardly anyone lived here at first. It was only in the last few years of his life that he started selling off parcels to local farmers.”

“And this is important because…?”

And to think people once called him the

Boy Detective

. “Because,” I reply, trying not to sound patronizing, “the legend goes on about how he held rituals in what is now the town forest.”

“Let me guess—haunted forest?”

“How perceptive of you,” I drone, my tone dry. “One of those rituals supposedly involved his daughter, Maryanna, whom he allegedly sacrificed to the Devil.”

Grayson exhales audibly. “In exchange for what?”

What else? “Eternal life.”

“How original.”

He’s not wrong, but clichés exist for a reason. “According to the records, he was murdered by his son in 1748. In—get this—a blood ritual.”

“So much for eternal life,” he mutters. “Sounds like a load of bullshit.”

“I’m not saying it’s true, but I’d be naive not to look into it.” I lean back, resting my head against the wall. “The land was passed down from son to son until 1954, when Arthur O. Blood—the last of the line—died and donated the property to the town, the local university, and the monastery.”

“The same monastery where Raven Roth is currently serving her discernment?”

“Yes.”

Grayson hums, his interest finally piqued. “What’s the order called?”

“Holy Shadows.”

He mutters an okay, his tone more serious now. “It’s something. Whether or not it’s connected…” He trails off, leaving the implication hanging.

“We’ll just have to see,” I finish for him.

Grayson launches into a measured rant about how he still expects the report—mainly because he needs something to show the League, which is his subtle way of saying my father’s second-guessing me.

“Just tell them what we discussed,” I reply, brushing off the request with the same nonchalance I reserve for bureaucratic nonsense. “I don’t need to be babysat.”

Grayson exhales sharply, but I push on before he can interrupt. “I need to look into this further—see if the connection is more than just coincidence.”

I can already picture my father’s reaction. Quietly irate that he missed something so obvious, his displeasure simmering just beneath the surface. Then half-annoyed when it inevitably turns out to be nothing. He’ll lecture me either way.

“I need to be sure,” I add, my tone sharper now, brooking no argument.

Grayson’s quiet for a beat, likely debating whether it’s worth pushing back. “All he’s gonna see is excuses, Damian,” he warns, his tone clipped but not unkind. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Just don’t take too long. The League isn’t known for its patience.”

As if I needed the reminder. “Yeah, well, maybe they should’ve investigated the matter themselves. If they had, then I wouldn’t be—”

I cut myself off just short of revealing too much, stopping the words before they cross the threshold of treason.

“You wouldn’t be what?”

“Having this conversation,” I say quickly, hoping to mask the frustration and flicker of embarrassment rising in my throat.

I can hear the skepticism in his silence, weighted like he knows I meant something more.

“Speaking of, how’d making contact go?”

And there it is. “Fine. She’s leaving tomorrow,” I offer casually, as if that will ease his mind.

“Where to?”

“Wilderness retreat,” I say. “I think it’s through the monastery.” I’m assuming it’s through the monastery. But I can’t exactly ask her that, and I definitely can’t let Grayson know she’s pretending not to be a nun around me. Worse, I’m pretending not to know.

“Do you know the location?”

“I can find out,” I drawl. “I’ll even include it in that report you’re so eager for.”

“No one’s questioning you, D.”

I huff, annoyed. He only calls me “D” when he’s trying to get my guard down, but not even Grayson can save me from the fallout I’d face if anyone found out I’ve not only been fraternizing with the subject of my investigation—but with a nun.

“Listen, this little Ted Talk was great, but I have a lot of work to do on top of this pain-in-the-ass report you’ve tasked me with,” I say, letting my irritation bleed through.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grayson replies, unimpressed. “Just make sure it’s on my desk soon. Bruce is breathing down my neck, and if you think he’s hard on you—”

“Save the sob story, Grayson,” I cut in. “I’ll get it done.”

“Fine. Just... don’t let this get out of hand, Damian.” His voice dips, more serious now, like he’s trying to remind me of something unspoken.

“I’m aware,” I reply coolly, ending the call before he can add anything else.

The screen goes dark, and I toss the phone onto the desk with a muttered curse. If Grayson’s already this tense, the League must be leaning on him hard. Typical. They expect results but leave me to wade through the muck without a shred of trust.

And now, I have a nun to follow and a report to fabricate. Wonderful.

I stare into the book, stuck at an impasse. I’m not one to pawn my work off on someone else, but I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. The problem is, the only two people capable of handling it are the last two I’d ever ask. Drake would rat me out to my father just to spite me, and Gordon would probably do it out of some moral high ground nonsense.

But there might be one person I can count on to pull it together—and keep his mouth shut.

“Pennyworth, I have a task for you,” I say as his familiar, regal accent greets me on the other end of the line.

“A task, you say?” His tone is crisp, curious, and tinged with just enough boredom to remind me he’s indulging me.

“Yes, but there’s a catch,” I reply, careful not to reveal too much just yet. If he refuses, I need to keep this vague; if he agrees, I can’t tip him off to how deep I’m in.

“Tell whom?” he asks, amusement slipping into his voice.

“Exactly.” Relief floods my chest. If Alfred’s playing coy, he’s willing to listen.

“Father and Grayson are expecting a report, but I’m tied up with a lead in my investigation. Grayson’s stalling, but you know how

He

is.”

“Do I ever,” he says, his wry agreement underscored with the weight of decades spent dealing with my father. “What does this report entail?”

“Just what I’ve found so far. But my subject is leaving tomorrow, and I need to figure out exactly where she's going,” I say not entirely unaware this is something a stalker would say, but I have an excuse to tail her--her life might even depend on it. “And as you can imagine, I can’t be in two places at once.”

“A valid point,” he reasons. “One which your father might sympathize with—if you told him yourself.”

“I can’t do that, Pennyworth.”

“May I ask why?”

“You know why.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the kind Alfred uses when he’s about to say something infuriatingly wise.

“He’s the reason I have to write this report. His way of keeping tabs on me.”

“Ah, yes. The great Damian Wayne,” he says, his voice dripping with measured sarcasm, “who can wrestle the League of Assassins, track leads across continents, but cannot bear the thought of admitting a temporary setback to his father.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “This isn’t a setback.” It might be a setback.

“Of course not, sir. It’s merely... strategic delegation.”

That works. “Exactly,” I snap, though his tone tells me I’ve just walked into a trap.

“And yet you felt the need to involve me rather than inform the other parties directly. Curious choice if you ask me?”

I take a deep breath, willing myself not to rise to his bait. Alfred has the uncanny ability to infuriate me while making me question every decision I’ve ever made. It’s a talent that would make even my grandfather envious.

“Look,” I say, forcing my tone back to neutral, “can you do it or not?”

“Of course I can,” he replies, as if the question itself were insulting. “But if I might offer a suggestion—”

“You might not.”

“Very well.” I can hear the faint rustle of papers on his end, the signal that he’s already working on it despite his commentary. “I assume you’ll be pursuing this lead yourself?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And when, pray tell, do you plan on sleeping, sir?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Charming, Master Damian,” Alfred replies dryly. “Though I do hope your current course of action doesn’t make that a sooner reality than necessary.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, already growing impatient. “I’m sending you my notes now and including two book titles I just started researching. Just make sure that report gets to Grayson. And, Pennyworth—”

“Yes, Master Damian?”

“Thanks.”

His tone softens, ever so slightly. “You’re welcome, sir. Do try not to make a habit of it.”

The line clicks off before I can respond. Typical.

I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, staring at the scattered papers and notes on my desk. Alfred’s right, of course—he usually is—but I don’t have time to second-guess myself now.

There’s too much riding on this, and I can’t afford to fail.

I pick the book back up and skim the details. Obidiah had entered the monastery at 12 and left at the age of 20. After that there is no record of him for a decade. I place the book down and ponder, remembering the pale beige folder Arella’s doctor used to keep, and I reconsider his observations.

“Prognosis:

The patient exhibits signs of delusion, likely manifesting as perceptual distortions or misinterpretations of reality. These include hallucinations, paranoia, and a fixation on certain beliefs that cannot be easily rationalized. The delusions appear to be tied to emotional or psychological triggers, potentially stemming from unresolved trauma or external pressures.

The episodes are intermittent but concerning, given their potential to escalate under stress. Without intervention, these delusions could contribute to further cognitive dissonance, emotional instability, or impaired decision-making. The patient displays moments of lucidity and self-awareness, which may indicate that the condition is still manageable with proper care.”

The recommendations included regular therapy sessions to address underlying psychological factors. As well as a detailed examination to rule out physiological causes, such as sleep deprivation or external chemical influences. A strict medication schedule and a controlled environment (institutionalization) to minimize external stressors that may exacerbate symptoms.

“Prognosis Outlook:

With timely and consistent intervention, there’s potential for stabilization. However, if the delusions are linked to deeper existential or metaphysical influences (which might be the case, considering her history), traditional treatments may prove insufficient, requiring specialized care tailored to her unique mental and spiritual state.”

I close the file and recall the details of Raven’s own medical history—eerily similar. I pull the thumb drive from my wallet and plug it into my laptop. Upon opening it, delicate warnings flashe across the screen, a story of madness, disorder:

A girl interrupted.

I scroll further down the folder until I find a subdirectory labeled

SPECIAL PROTOCOLS

. My chest tightens. The term reeks of euphemism, the kind of sanitized language bureaucrats use to mask atrocities. I click on it, revealing more files—documents, logs, and a single, heavily encrypted video labeled

S.P.-Roth-A12: Observation Day 4

.

The video boots up slowly, the screen flickering to life with a grainy timestamp in the corner. The room is stark, clinical, with walls the color of old bone. A single steel gurney dominates the center, straps dangling ominously from its sides. Two figures in white coats move about, their faces obscured by surgical masks. Then they wheel her in.

Raven.

She’s younger now, around 16 or 17, her face still clinging to the soft contours of youth. Her eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but the fire within them hasn’t dimmed. Not yet. Her wrists and ankles are bound in leather cuffs, the straps biting into her skin as she struggles weakly against them. A third figure—a man with glasses perched low on his nose—leans into the frame, speaking in a monotone voice.

“Subject 333 has exhibited increased resistance to standard sedatives. Adjusting dosage for compliance.”

A sharp hiss sounds as one of the white coats injects something into her arm. Raven flinches but doesn’t look away, her glare fixed on the man’s face. He meets her gaze briefly, then turns away, unbothered.

They lift her onto the gurney, securing her wrists, ankles, and head before finally placing a rubber bit in her mouth—likely to keep her from biting through her tongue. She doesn’t resist this time; whatever they gave her is working quickly. Her eyes flutter shut, but her lips move faintly, trying to form words that the bit traps behind her teeth.

The man gestures offscreen, where someone begins adjusting the dials on a console. Electrodes are placed against Raven’s temples, their movements mechanical, devoid of empathy and hesitation. As though what they’re doing is routine. As though it’s not inhuman. The screen glitches, zooming in on her face as the machine hums to life, an ominous crackle of energy filling the room.

“Subject 333. Protocol A12. Session Four,” the man announces, his tone clinical, detached—like he’s reading off a grocery list. “Begin at 20 volts. Increase incrementally.”

The first jolt comes suddenly. Her body arches violently against the restraints, her face contorting in pain. She doesn’t scream, though—her teeth clench hard against the rubber bit, her jaw tightening as if sheer willpower alone could contain the agony.

“Responses consistent with prior sessions,” the man notes, scribbling something on a clipboard. “Increase to 40 volts.”

The second shock is worse. Her eyes fly open, and this time, a muffled cry escapes her throat. The sound reverberates in the room, primal and raw. My stomach twists, but I can’t look away. Her pain is palpable, a living thing that seeps through the screen.

“Subject appears to resist vocal submission,” the man says, a vague annoyance seeping into his words. He steps closer, his face partially visible now—sharp cheekbones, cold eyes behind his glasses. “Perhaps you think this is a test of endurance, Ms. Roth. It’s not. Compliance is not optional.”

Her head lolls to the side, her breath coming in shallow gasps. But even now, her stare remains vivid with defiance, a look that says:

You don’t own me.

The man’s expression hardens. “Increase to 60 volts.”

I can’t watch anymore. I slam the laptop shut, my hands trembling. I’ve seen a lot of horrible things, but this… this hit me harder than I expected. Maybe it’s because I know this girl more intimately than I should. Or maybe it’s because I never imagined this was the kind of pain she endured—and still somehow survived.

Before I can even register everything, my phone rings again. It doesn’t occur to me to check the name glaring across the screen; I just grab it and answer, not bothering to measure my tone, assuming it’s Grayson, Kent, or my father.

“Seriously, how am I supposed to get any work done if you keep calling me?”

“Um... Damian?”

Her voice hits me like a blow, and I feel my frustration sink into the pit of my stomach, replaced by a rush of embarrassment.

“Uhh…” she trails, clearly unsure what to say. I scramble to recover.

“Shit. I’m so sorry—I thought you were—”

“Judging by your choice of words—your boss?”

A sheepish look crosses my face, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah.” I can feel the color draining from my skin, three shades lighter than usual. I’m already kicking myself for snapping like an idiot. “He’s been... sort of interrupting me all day.”

She pauses, like she’s caught on the word. “Well, if you’re that busy, then ne—”

“No!” I blurt, the word leaving my mouth before I can stop it. The last thing I want is for her to think she’s an inconvenience. Though, if I’m being honest, she is... just not the kind I have the will—or inclination—to ignore. “Honestly, I need a break. What’s up?”

I can hear her draw in a slow breath, like she’s weighing her words carefully. “I, um, just thought... since I’m leaving tomorrow, maybe you’d want to hang out. One last time.”

Yes. A hundred times yes. “That definitely sounds better than what I’m currently doing.”

“So... is that a yes?”

“Of course it is.”

“Great.” I can almost see her soft smile through the phone, her full lips curving just slightly. “I feel bad, but would you mind picking up dinner? My kitchen’s already packed up.”

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”

She names a spot that does decent chinese food, and we settle on a time after I jot down her order so I can call it in and pick it up on my way.

“I’ll pay you back,” she offers.

“Can’t,” I say smoothly, the words slipping out as if Grayson’s soul has temporarily possessed me. “It’s a date.”

“A date…” she repeats, her voice holding a quiet warmth. “I can live with that.”

She gives me the address of the restaurant I'm tasked with stopping at and a short list of her order. Standard, but emphasizing two orders of egg rolls.

“Got it,” I say. “I’ll order the food and take a shower. See you in like an hour?”

“Sounds good, text me when you’re on your way.”

We exchange the obligatory pleasantries before ending the call. A

date

—is that what this is? I shouldn’t have called it that. I shouldn’t be ordering her takeout. Instead, I’m here, staring at a half-written report I conned Pennyworth into finishing.

The lingering apprehension gnaws at me, but I push it aside and force myself upright after hours of being slouched in this chair. My body protests as I straighten, my spine slow to unkink from the feral curve it’s settled into. The sight of my reflection catches me off guard. Disheveled. Unshaven.

Pathetic.

The realization hits instantly: I need a shower.

The hot water beats against my face, and I let it, standing still long enough to feel my skin soften and my pores open. I rake a handful of shampoo through my hair, focusing on the motion, not her.

Not Raven.

Instead, I force myself to sift through the case—its details, its angles, its loose ends.

Rinsing the lather away, I let the water trail down my neck, willing my thoughts to settle into a different rhythm. This should be simple. Cases are my lifeblood. I dissect them with precision, unraveling their threads like puzzles begging to be solved. Perhaps that’s my problem… Raven is a puzzle I can’t seem to put down. One that refuses to be solved—and worse, one I don’t want to let go of.

I turn off the water and step out of the shower, drying off just enough to pull on a clean pair of sweatpants. I weigh my options, debating whether I have time for a quick shave, and immediately question why it even matters.

Swiping a hand across the fogged mirror, I reveal a streak of clarity in the condensation—a distorted, half-formed reflection caught in limbo. The faint shadow of stubble dusts my jawline, giving me a rugged edge, one that makes me look less approachable. A full beard, though, would age me by at least five years. If I’m honest, the only reason I ever favor a clean-shaven look is vanity. It’s tied, in no small part, to my time as Robin.

"The Boy Wonder shouldn’t have a beard,"

Oliver Queen had remarked during a mission a few years back.

I was seventeen then, and the prospect of growing a full beard was a relatively new annoyance. By that point, I’d been shaving for a few years, but my face had reached the stage where even a few days without a razor made the coarse hair unmistakably visible. On that particular  mission, it had been nearly a week between shaves, and I’d looked far less like the so-called

"Boy Wonder"

people expected.

"You’re just jealous that he’s a kid and can grow a better beard than you,"

Harper quipped on my behalf, accustomed to Queen’s abrasive commentary.

Looking at myself now, I can’t help but smirk. Rugged or not, the thought of taking personal grooming advice from Oliver Queen still seems laughable.

Running my fingertips across the rough plane of my cheek, I consider taking the time. But my hand falters as I reach for the razor. Shaving would suggest expectation—like I’m preparing for something, like I’m

open

to whatever is unfolding between Raven and me. Maybe leaving the shadow is the boundary I need, a line I’m not quite ready to cross.

I compromise, tidying the edges—cleaning up my neck and sharpening the lines around my jaw. For a moment, I debate shaving it all off, but the clock on the wall makes the decision for me. I don’t exactly have time, though the idea of making myself late holds a certain appeal. Less time to overthink. Less time to screw things up.

I rinse my face, settling on the less approachable look. Who knows? Maybe Raven hates stubble and will find the razor-sharp edge of mine utterly off-putting.

“This is the most consideration I’ve ever put into my appearance,” I mutter under my breath, patting my face dry.

Aside from basic hygiene and dressing with purpose, I’ve never given much thought to it. Keeping things understated has always been easier—less vulnerable, less revealing. Until now.

I get dressed, pulling on my last clean pair of jeans—a reminder that I need to make time for laundry. Though, thanks to my new “friend,” I’ve got one less shirt to deal with.

The thought lingers, however: with Raven leaving tomorrow, I’ve yet to decide how long I’ll be staying. I haven’t even considered my next move. Do I follow her? Do I stay here? It depends on where the strongest lead takes me—or so I tell myself. Truthfully, the idea of her being gone feels... wrong. As if she’s the thread holding this entire mess together. Without her, does it all unravel? Do I unravel?

I throw on my coat, lock my door, and head downstairs. My boots hit the wooden steps in a steady rhythm, but before I can slip out unnoticed, Mrs. Hass spots me.

“Oh, Daniel!” she calls, her voice dripping with sweetness as she bustles over from the den.

I

hate

that name. “Mrs. Hass,” I reply as politely as possible, though I’m already bracing for what’s coming next. Probably something about lugging more boxes up from the basement. You’d think, with at least four other tenants under her roof, she’d spread the workload around. But, no—somehow, I’ve become her go-to.

Then again, I’m probably the only one who doesn’t bother saying no—and, strangely enough, the only one around here who’s even

remotely

approachable. The woman in the room next to me? I’m almost certain she’s a prostitute. She sleeps all day and disappears all night. The morning I arrived, I passed her in the hall. The stench of stale cigarettes and cheap booze clung to her like a second skin. Her stockings torn beneath her dress that barely qualified as clothing, while her hair looked like it had been through a wind tunnel.

The man across the hall isn’t much better—a barely functional alcoholic who panhandles just enough to keep his addictions alive. Then there’s the guy at the end of the hall. I haven’t seen him yet, but until I do, I’ll assume he’s cut from the same cloth—or worse.

Mrs. Hass doesn’t have much to work with. Unfortunately, I’m the best option in a lineup like this.

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” she says with a hopeful smile.

I exhale, guilt flickering for a moment. Every night, without fail, she makes a full dinner as if she’s holding out hope that the misfits she’s rented rooms to will set aside their fractured, separate existences and sit down together. Like some strange, patchwork family.

I get it. I really do. But the odds of that happening are about as slim as Grayson passing up an opportunity to lecture me.

She’s like a plucky, shorter Alfred—only with none of the refinement. Or the quiet dignity. Or the ability to make tea that doesn’t taste like it came out of a gas station vending machine.

“I’m really sorry, I made dinner plans with a friend,” I say, offering a polite apology, already anticipating the guilt of knowing she’ll spend another night alone.

“Same lucky lady?”

I nod.

“Wow, third night in a row?” she muses, pushing past her disappointment with a smile that’s just a little too bright.

“Yeah. She’s leaving tomorrow, so this is probably it,” I reply, not entirely sure why I’m giving her an explanation.

“Oh,” she huffs, dramatically clutching the air like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. “That’s such a shame—it seems like you really like her.”

I do…

I think.

“Yeah, but it’s just not meant to be,” I shrug, trying to sound casual. I mean it. I have to mean it.

“Nonsense,” she snaps with a confidence that borders on irritating. “If it’s meant to be, she’ll stay.”

Great. Another hopeless romantic with zero concept of reality offering me advice. “I just meant… asking her to stay wouldn’t be fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, I suppose,” she says, her tone making it sound suspiciously like a personal jab.

Before Mrs. Hass can dig further into my personal life, the door behind me creaks open, and I turn, unprepared for the sight of the man standing there.

He looks like something dragged out of an old horror film—pale as a ghoul, with bloodshot eyes that seem to bore straight through me beneath a ridge of sparse, ghostly white eyebrows.

“Father,” Mrs. Hass greets warmly, and my eyes catch the pristine collar peeking out from beneath his coat. So, guest number four finally makes an appearance.

“Please, call me Sebastian,” he says, pulling off a black-rimmed hat to reveal a thin, tufted patch of white hair. It’s so wispy it’s practically translucent, like cobwebs clinging to his scalp.

Somehow, I’m not surprised. Nothing about this place could ever feel normal.

His red eyes fall on me, his smile breaking for only an instant before pulling his mask back on. “And who’s this?”

“Dami--” I began, nearly forgetting my cover.

“Daniel,” Mrs. Hass says over my blunder, and for once I’m grateful for her imposing politeness.

His red eyes linger on me, their intensity unflinching, as if peeling back layers of pretense to find whatever it is he’s looking for. For a second, I’m tempted to hold his gaze, challenge it—but I rein myself in. There’s no sense in drawing attention, not now.

“Daniel,” I repeat, offering a tight smile that feels more like a grimace. I shove my hands into my coat pockets, adopting the posture of someone unconcerned, someone unremarkable.

“Daniel.” His voice rolls over the name like he’s tasting it, deciding whether or not it agrees with him. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The smile he gives me doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of smile that hides sharp teeth.

“You as well,” I reply, keeping my tone polite but flat. If he’s looking for something, I’ll give him as little as possible to work with.

“Well,” Mrs. Hass interjects, clasping her hands together like she’s desperate to dissolve the tension. “Dinner’s on the table if either of you are hungry.”

Sebastian’s attention shifts to her, his smile softening into something more genuine—or at least a better imitation of it. “Thank you, dear, but I’ve already eaten.” He turns back to me, as if I’m the next course he’s considering. “And you, Daniel? Are you staying in tonight?”

Mrs. Hass perks up, her meddling instincts flaring. “Oh no, he’s meeting a girl for the third night in a row”

I see the flicker of interest in Sebastian’s expression, subtle but unmistakable. “A girl?”

I stifle a sigh. Of course, she had to mention that. “Just a friend,” I say, keeping my voice even.

Sebastian chuckles, low and dry, like he knows something I don’t. “Friends are good to have.”

There’s something unsettling about the way he says it, like the words are meant to carry some hidden weight. I force myself to nod, my expression carefully blank.

“Well,” I say, shifting toward the door, “I should get going.”

Sebastian steps aside, gesturing for me to pass. “Don’t let us keep you.”

As I move past him, I can feel his eyes on my back, heavy and unrelenting. It takes all my restraint not to glance over my shoulder, to let him know he’s under my scrutiny as much as I am under his.

Outside, the crisp night air bites at my face, and I exhale a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I glance back at the house. Through the window, I catch a faint outline of Sebastian, still standing where I left him, his figure stark against the warm glow inside.

“That was weird,” I mutter, my breath curling in the raw air.

But other than his unsettling appearance and the way he studied me like a chessboard, there’s nothing solid to go on—just instinct and unease. I file it away, though it lingers like a splinter beneath my skin.

I set off toward the center of town, shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets as the temperature claws at the edges of comfort. The air smells sharp, electric, and damp, carrying the promise of snow. From what I understand, an October snowfall isn’t unheard of here, though not exactly welcomed.

The streets are alive with people bustling between shops, weighed down by bags of essentials. It’s a scene of quiet panic, everyone bracing for the possibility of losing power. I spot the usual culprits—bread and milk hoarded like gold. The bread I can understand; the milk makes less sense. What exactly do they plan to do with it once the power’s out? Stand outside with their glass of skim and toast to the snow?

The faint absurdity of it all distracts me for a moment, but only for a moment. My mind drifts back to Sebastian, his blood-red gaze, the way he’d rolled my alias over his tongue. A man like that doesn’t stay in a place like Mrs. Hass’s boarding house unless he has a reason. And reasons are dangerous.

I quicken my pace, letting the cold air whip against my face, hoping the rhythmic sound of my boots on the pavement will drown out the growing sense of unease.

It dawns on me that Raven might know him. I'll have to tread carefully—she knows me by my real name, while he only knows me by the one that doesn’t seem to fit. Years spent lurking in confessionals must have sharpened his sense for deceit, even against a liar as skilled as I am.

I hate admitting it—even to myself—but I am a liar. Not that honesty has ever been my defining trait. I’ve kept more secrets than any of the Titans, enough to rival my father. Still, the word doesn’t sit right with me. It feels like my mother’s legacy, not mine. That I’m more like her than I care to be.

I follow the old train tracks downtown and arrive at my first stop. The food order is ready, and the cold, broken English of the hostess suits me fine. I’ve had enough meaningless interactions for one day. Between the ghoul of a priest and Carol’s aggravating theatrics, my rolodex of potential enemies is filling up faster than I’d like.

I step out of the cramped restaurant, greeted immediately by the biting cold. It’s almost refreshing, and I can’t say I hate it. In fact, I prefer the cold. Growing up in the snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas gave me a certain appreciation for winters like this. The sight of snow feels familiar. Like home. Well, minus the scraping of plow trucks and the absurdity of people forgetting how to drive at the first sign of a single snowflake.

I cross the street as the first flurries fall, the wind whipping them down to settle on the cold pavement. I follow the tracks again, drawn to the quiet solitude of this side of town. In the distance, a faint light breaks through the darkness—growing larger, like a rift in the fabric of time. The hum of the tracks vibrates beneath my boots, the ground practically quaking.

Seconds later, the train roars past, so fast it could rip me from this plane of existence before I even knew I was gone. I watch it blur by, likely heading toward the New York skyline, leaving me here, in the forgotten town of Dunwych.

The sight triggers a memory—a song Todd used to play.

"When it's passing strange,

And I'm waiting for the train,

Caught up on this line again…”

I never gave much thought to the inane lyrics of modern music, but something about that one always struck a chord. The whole song, really. A haunting meditation on stagnation, caught between life and death, with the fresh cost of blood staining the driven snow. All wrapped in its cryptic title.

"Nine while nine,

And I’m waiting…

For the train.”

Simple words, cryptic yet meaningful. Both profound and benign. Like being trapped in a moment of time—so slow, it feels like nothing’s moving at all.

The train’s shriek fades, swallowed by the night, leaving only the steady crunch of my boots grinding rough salt against concrete. My breath fogs the air, and I imagine it carrying away the fragments of thoughts I’d rather not entertain. Thoughts of Sebastian’s red eyes, of Mrs. Hass’s prying, of Raven. Especially Raven.

But she lingers anyway, her name like an incantation I can’t break. The sound of it thrums under my skin, relentless and invasive, like a hymn I don’t believe in but can’t stop singing.

I shake the thought loose and focus on the present—this backwater town, its desperate calm before the storm. Dunwych wears its fear poorly, each streetlight flickering against the encroaching dark like a weak protest. It makes me think of Gotham, though here the shadows are thinner, the sins more manageable. Or maybe just less interesting.

The train tracks carry me farther into the outskirts, where even the town’s weak pretense of civilization thins to nothing. I’ve always liked places like this—on the edge of nowhere, where the air feels raw and the silence isn’t so much quiet as expectant. A liminal space. The kind of place where things shift, where masks slip.

Which is why I came here in the first place. Dunwych is small enough to disappear in, but strange enough that no one really belongs. A perfect hiding spot for someone like me—or someone like Sebastian. The thought itches at the back of my mind, a persistent irritation.

I pause by an old, graffiti-tagged bridge, leaning against the iron railing as the cold seeps through my gloves. The first flakes of snow catch on the steel, like ghostly embers burnt to ash. My fingers twitch with the urge to draw something, anything, just to make sense of the mess my thoughts have become. Instead, I close my eyes and listen—to the faint hum of the town behind me, to the rush of wind through barren trees. To the heavy silence Sebastian left in his wake.

For a moment, I think I hear footsteps—light, deliberate. But when I turn, there’s nothing. Just the stretch of empty tracks behind me, disappearing into the shadows.

Paranoia, I tell myself. Or instinct. Either way, I don’t let my guard drop.

The wind picks up, carrying the scent of snow and metal, sharp and clean. I let it bite at me, let it anchor me to the here and now. Whatever’s coming, I’ll meet it head-on. I always do.

As I move past the bridge, I see the later edge of downtown, Raven’s apartment mere minutes away.

The lights of downtown waver in the distance, dim against the creeping dark. They lack the oppressive glow of Gotham’s skyline, but there’s something unsettling about their frailty. Like candles left too close to an open window—vulnerable to the faintest gust of wind.

The snow falls heavier now, blanketing the cracked pavement in silence. Each step I take eats into it, leaving a trail that feels too conspicuous. Another set of footsteps could follow mine, but I’d never hear them, not here. Not with the snow smothering everything. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting movement in the shadows.

Nothing.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone. It’s a sensation I’ve been trained to trust. Paranoia is a liability, but instinct? That keeps you alive. I adjust my gloves, tightening them over cold fingers, and keep walking.

Raven’s apartment is only a few streets away now, tucked behind a sagging brick façade that could have been charming if it weren’t for the years of neglect. She would live in a place like that—a reluctant participant in a town that doesn’t quite know what to make of her. She doesn’t fit here, but then, neither do I.

The thought brings me no comfort.

When I reach the corner of her street, I pause beneath the flickering light of a broken lamppost. It’s instinctive, my body slowing before my mind catches up. There’s no movement ahead, no sign of Sebastian or anyone else, but something feels…off. I study the windows of her building, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of her shadow moving behind the curtains. But they remain still, the glass fogged over from the cold.

I force myself to move.

I reach for my phone and dial her number. The front entrance is locked, something I take comfort in, as no one can just come and go as they please. Not without permission. However, after several long rings, my call goes straight to voicemail. I peer at the button next to the intercom, each one numbered. I hit Raven’s to no avail, again no one seems to be answering the call.

I peer at the lock again, remembering Raven’s claim that someone had followed her in. The door should have been locked, but when I arrived, it was open, left ajar. Maybe she left it unlocked?

I try the nob and find the door surprisingly unlocked. That’s concerning and I’m sure to lock it behind me. Taking a moment to scan the street, assuring that no one has followed me then make my way up to  the third floor.

The stairwell leading to her apartment groans under my weight, each creak of wood loud enough to make me wince. The dark walls are narrow, the coarse texture horsehair plaster riddled with peeling paint and chipped hardwood. It smells like dampness and something metallic, like rattling, rusted pipes. Almost like blood.

By the time I reach her door, I’ve convinced myself I imagined the footsteps on the bridge. That the shadows outside were just shadows, nothing more. But my hand hovers over the worn brass doorknob longer than it should. My instincts scream against the silence, against the stillness.

I knock, once, twice.

No answer.

My hand drops to the handle, testing it. Locked. Good.

I knock again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Something’s wrong. Raven’s not careless, and she wouldn’t ignore me—right?

My chest tightens, my mind running through every scenario it can conjure. Sebastian’s red eyes flash behind my closed lids, and I hear his voice—mocking, taunting, knowing.

“A girl?”

I glance over my shoulder one last time, the stairwell empty and silent. Then I turn back to the door, pulling the lockpick from my jacket pocket.

Locks this old are usually stubborn, their components rusted and stiff. But this one relents quicker than expected, clicking open with a reluctant groan. I’m just starting to push the door open when—

“Damian? What are you doing?”

I whip around, startled. Raven stands just behind me, her expression sharp with curiosity.

“Um...” I stammer, red-handed and entirely off-guard. How had she crept up on me without a sound? “You didn’t answer your phone or the intercom, and when you didn’t answer the door—”

“You thought something was wrong?”

“Yeah?”

“So you decided to

break into my apartment?

”

“‘Break in’ sounds dramatic. Let’s call it proactive concern.”

Her lips twitch, amusement flickering beneath her frown. “Proactive, huh? How gallant of you”

“Gallant might not be the right word,” I admit.

“No, it’s definitely not.” She steps past me, brushing her hand lightly against mine to open the door. “Next time,” she says looking over her shoulder, her body but a breath from mine, “try waiting five minutes. Or calling twice.”

She crosses the threshold, and glances back at me. “You coming in, or are you going to lurk out here all night?”

I scowl, stepping inside behind her, give the room a once over, appraising my surroundings before placing the takeout bag on the counter.

“Wine?” Raven asks, though it feels less like a question and more like a declaration of intent. She doesn’t wait for an answer, crossing to the small kitchen where an open bottle and two glasses sit on the counter.

“Sure” I say, removing my chilled leather gloves.

I watch her. My gaze follows the short hem of her skirt, tracing the smooth black fabric up to the thin straps slipping over her shoulders—stark white against the dark cloth. She pours the wine, the deep red swirling into the glass, before turning to me. The neckline of her top plunges just enough to hint at the shape of her breasts, lace holding their delicate secrets at bay. My eyes drift higher, following the line of her collarbone, the slope of her pale neck. A single red pendant glows against the alpine backdrop of her skin.

“You gonna take your coat off and act like you’re gonna stay awhile?” she teases, though it’s more of a challenge and crosses the room.

I give her a half smile, shrugging it off, realizing  she’d likely caught me staring, but she was not deterred by it. She might even like it.

“That’s more like it,” she says, her tone dull as she hands me my glass.

“Sorry it’s kinda cold out there,” I say meagerly, playing it off as though I hadn’t just been caught drinking her in like I needed her to quench something I didn’t want to name.

Her brow arches, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Cold? Are you telling me you can’t handle a little New England snowfall? Or is that just your excuse for being underdressed?”

“I run  hot--” I instantly regret that answer and the curl of her lips suggest I’ve just opened a door I possibly shouldn't have. “It’s called tactical layering,” I reply, my tone dry, trying to save myself from drowning. “Also it’s supposed to be October, but it feels like January.”

“Sounds like typical bipolar weather,” she chuckles softly, the sound low and melodic as she sinks onto the couch, crossing one leg over the other. Her skirt rides up just enough to be distracting, and I force myself to focus on her face instead of the curve of her thigh. She’s enjoying this—she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So what were you doing before in the hall?” I ask, trying to change the subject from my wardrobe choice to something that might actually serve as

“investigating,”

since that’s what I should be doing, not imagining what she’ll look like if I rip that dress off. That would give me much trouble.

She places her wine down and gestures for me to bring the food over. “Well if you must know, Mr.

Tactical Layering,

I had to bring some boxes down to storage. The LandLady said I could stash a few down there for when I get back.”

“So you are coming back?” I question placing the bag of food on the coffee table.

“To get my stuff,” she says, staring up at me, not even inviting me to sit quite yet.

I hesitate, caught off-guard by her bluntness. “That’s it? Just to get your stuff?”

Raven’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment, the teasing edge vanishes entirely. “What else would I be coming back for?”

I meet her eyes, unflinching. “I don’t know, you tell me?”

“I just did.”

“I got you your extra order of egg rolls,” I say as a peace offering.

“Thank you,” she sighs and opens the bag. “You just gonna stand there?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you sit?”

“Is that an invitation?”

She stares up at me, aware of this game, but coolly plays it off as she’s not playing at all. “Do you need one?”

I smile roughly and sink down, being sure to leave a comfortable space between us.

“See, not so hard?” she smirks, falling back into her thin line of teasing, clearly trying to goad me into whatever she has planned. “You want an egg roll?”

“No, I’m good. I don’t really like egg rolls.”

“More for me then.”

“Considering you’re gonna be out in the middle of nowhere for three long months…” I let the sentence hang, watching for her reaction.

“Yeah,” she says simply, reaching for an egg roll. She doesn’t elaborate, just takes a slow bite, her eyes never leaving mine.

I lean back, trying to feign indifference. “Must be a hell of a place to drag you away from here.”

“Maybe I need the change of scenery.” She shrugs, licking a stray drop of sauce from her thumb. It’s maddeningly casual, and I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or just her being… her.

“Or maybe you’re running from something,” I suggest, testing the waters.

Her gaze flickers, a brief crack in the armor. “Aren’t we all?”

The words are heavier than I expect, and for a moment, I consider pressing. But she’s quick to recover, reaching for her wine and changing the subject before I can dig deeper.

“You sure you don’t want an egg roll?” she asks, her tone lighter now, almost dismissive.

“I’m fine,” I reply, watching as she finishes the first and reaches for another. She’s calm, too calm. Like she’s done this dance before and knows exactly how to keep me off balance.

“You’ve got a funny way of interrogating someone, you know that?” she says, smirking as she sips her wine. “All these questions, and yet you’re not really saying much about yourself.”

“Maybe I don’t like talking about myself,” I counter, leaning forward slightly, closing the space between us. “Maybe I’m more interested in figuring you out.”

“Good luck with that,” she murmurs, her eyes meeting mine, unblinking. There’s a challenge in her gaze, daring me to try, daring me to fail. “You haven’t touched your wine yet.”

I glance at my untouched glass. “I’m not a wine drinker, reminds me of my mother.”

“Fascinating,” she drones dryly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but its the only booze we have.”

“Miss Roth, are you trying to get me drunk?’

“It’s a snow storm, it's customary,” she defends between sips as if my question is foolish. “I don't know how you do things in… um—where are you from?”

“Gotham,” I offer, instantly questioning why I told her the truth.

“That explains a lot,” she laughs and raises her glass. “But seriously, get on my level, Damian. I was inviting you  here for a reason.”

I raise my glass with a glimmering question in my eye. “A reason? And what might that be?”

“Y’know…” she stammers. “To drink, eat shitty chinese food and enjoy my last night of freedom and whatever else comes of it.” she clinks my glass, and takes another sip, her glass half empty while mine remains full.

“You make it sound like you’re going to prison,” I pondered and take my first sip, the wine hitting my tongue with a pleasant rich taste of wood and the slight hint of bourbon. I take another sip.

“I basically am.”

“Prison?” I echo, swirling the wine in my glass. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

She leans back into the couch, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. “You don’t know this place. Three months in the middle of nowhere, no noise, no people. Just me, a few boxes, and an awful lot of silence.”

“You’re acting like silence is a bad thing.” I watch her closely as she takes another sip.

She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze flickering to the window where snow pelts against the glass. “Depends on what you’re trying to avoid.”

Her honesty catches me off guard, and I find myself searching for a reply. Instead, I take another sip of wine, the warmth spreading through my chest.

“I’m starting to think you’re the one with something to avoid,” she says, turning the tables. Her smirk returns, faint but deliberate. “Why else would you be here, spending your evening interrogating me?”

“Maybe I just enjoy good company,” I reply smoothly, though the truth feels more complicated.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she quips, though there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“Good thing I wasn’t trying to flatter you.” I take another sip, letting the weight of her earlier words linger. “But if you’re trying to escape something, why come back at all? Why not just stay gone?”

Her glass stills mid-air. “Because running doesn’t fix things,” she says softly, her tone devoid of its earlier playfulness. “It just delays them.”

I don’t respond immediately, her words settling into the quiet between us. I’m used to reading people, to picking apart their lies and defenses, but with her, there’s a depth I can’t quite untangle.

“You really don’t like egg rolls?” she asks suddenly, breaking the silence with a forced casualness.

“Not my thing,” I answer, watching as she finishes the last one without hesitation.

She wipes her fingers on a napkin, her movements deliberate. “Well, you’ve got three months to figure out what is.”

“And what if I figure you out first?” I counter, setting my glass down with deliberate care.

“Good luck with that.” Her smirk returns, but this time it feels more like armor than a weapon. “You’re not as mysterious as you think you are, Damian.”

“Neither are you, Raven,” I reply, testing the weight of her name.

For a moment, she freezes, the shift in tone palpable. But instead of retreating, she leans over me, her gaze locked on mine as she pushes the boundary of my personal space. “You’re wrong about that,” she says, her voice low and steady. “You don’t even know the half of it,” she adds and takes the container of rice. “You hate fried rice too?”

“No.”

“Good, finally something we can agree on.”

“I guess so.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Arella’s Journal:It was the hardest decision I ever made, but it was a decision I made regardless.I stared into the void—the deep hollow of the large tree—empty, yet radiating something unseen. Something evil.After escaping the Church, Ann—Blood’s wife—looked down at me trembling in the cold shadows of the woods, clutching my newborn daughter as though the weight of the world rested in her tiny, fragile body. Ann didn’t ask questions, though I saw the wariness in her eyes. Perhaps she knew better than to press me. Or perhaps she already knew enough.Under the cover of night, she led me to her home—a small cabin—her hands quick and steady as she helped me bathe Raven and wrap her in fresh linens. We worked in silence, broken only by the soft whimpers of the infant in my arms.But she made one thing clear: our stay would be brief."You cannot stay here. My husband will be home soon, and we cannot allow him or anyone to find her.""Why?" I asked cautiously. "That thing… her… her father. What is he?"Ann only glared at me, her hair a mess as she pulled the covering from her head. "You know what he is… you felt him."I didn’t reply, only looking down at my sweet daughter’s face, the dusting of thick black hair smelling faintly of lavender. She always smelled like lavender. To this day, even the slightest hint of it brings tears to my eyes.When the moment came to part, Ann gave me more than just shelter for a single night. She gave me hope."Go to Holy Shadows," she said, pressing a worn scrap of paper into my palm. Written on it was a single name: Sister Azar."She’ll help you," Ann whispered, her voice resolute, as though trying to convince herself as much as me. "Azar will know what to do. But you must leave now, before it’s too late."I didn’t argue. I couldn’t afford to. But I still had to ask."What do I tell her?""You tell her the truth," Ann said urgently. "Tell her your daughter is being hunted by the Church of Blood. That she needs God’s protection— His guidance."I stared at her, and slowly, the harsh reality unfurled in my mind… But I couldn’t accept it. Not my perfect daughter. Not the only thing I’d ever done right. She couldn’t be—Yet the demon’s face flashed in my mind. Two sets of yellow eyes, inhuman and filled with nothing but rage.How could something so sweet, so innocent, be His ?Ann placed a hand on my shoulder, as if she knew I was reeling. "You need to leave while there is still time."So I did.Before dawn, I set out, the cool air biting at my skin as I carried Raven in a makeshift sling across my chest. The forest trail was long, every shadow an enemy, every sound a threat. I kept moving, even as exhaustion clawed at my body, even as Raven’s cries grew louder, more desperate.When I finally reached the monastery, I was near collapse.A kind-faced nun opened the door, her expression softening the moment she saw the bundle in my arms."I’m here to see Sister Azar," I managed, my voice barely more than a whisper.She hesitated, her eyes scanning my face as though searching for answers. Then she nodded, stepping aside to let me in.I don’t remember much after that. Just the warmth of the fire, the soft murmurs of voices, and the feeling of my body surrendering to sleep.But I do remember the first time I saw Azar.She was calm—almost unnervingly so—her presence filling the room like a quiet storm. She looked at me, then at Raven, and said only, "You’ve done well to come here."For the first time in months, I felt something I hadn’t dared to feel in a long time: hope.Safety."But you can’t stay," she added somberly, the weight of her words crushing the fleeting hope I had clung to.Disappointment surged across my face, but she didn’t falter. Her eyes met mine with quiet resolve."Not if you want to keep her safe. From them ."Her meaning was clear. The Church’s reach was long, and their obsession with my daughter would not end at these walls. I nodded, swallowing my fear.Azar had given me shelter, but the fight to protect Raven had only just begun. And I would have to do the one thing I wasn’t ready for.But for the sake of my daughter’s future, I would.

Beyond the Veil Poll 👈

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

DamianI peer down into my nearly empty glass, watching the dark red liquid catch the faint glow of the lamplight. The heat of the wine has begun to creep into my blood, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts, though not enough to silence them entirely. Across the  sofa, Raven tilts her head back, her lips brushing the rim of her glass as she drinks the last sip. She sets it down with a soft clink, her movements fluid, almost practiced, before reaching for her phone. Her fingers glide across the screen, their movements swift and sure, as though she’s done this a thousand times before. A moment later, the soft hum of music fills the air—a haunting melody that weaves its way between us, delicate yet insistent, like a thread pulling at something buried deep within.She reaches for the bottle, refilling her glass with an unhurried precision, not even sparing a glance to see if I want more. When I notice the small tattoo of a rose on her wrist. "Well, you’re on a mission," I say, voice dry as I sip my wine, letting the heat steady my pulse. "Nice tattoo, by the way.""And you’re on it with me," Raven fires back, ignoring the latter half of my comment entirely. "You just don’t know it yet," she adds, a sly smile curls at her lips.“You say that like we’re fated, Witch Girl,” I tease, the stiffness in my tone loosening as the wine works its magic, coaxing me into a dangerous sort of ease.“Which Girl?” she questions, her face giving away a sense of familiarity. “Why Witch Girl ?”I pause, unsure of what to say other than. “It feels… right ?”“Like we’ve done this before?”I nod, unable to put the feeling into words. The closest thing I can liken it to is deja vu, but even that doesn’t entirely do it justice. “Like talking to an old friend.”​​She only smiles. A soft laugh escapes her, low and throaty. Again a familiarity takes over me, and before I realize it, she leans back against me, cradling her glass in both hands. The movement is easy, but purposeful, finally erasing the space between us, and instinctively, I hook my arm around her. “Wow,” she murmurs, settling in to me, her voice just above a whisper, “you do run hot .”I nearly choke on my wine, forcing it down with a rough swallow and stifled cough. Her words clearly meant to throw me off balance. “Yeah…” I manage, trying to mask my reaction with a shrug. “I’m definitely the person you wanna be stuck out in the wilderness with on a cold night.”“Too bad you're not coming with me.” Her fingers drift—light, yet possessive—before settling on my thigh, nails pressing in just enough to feel like a warning. A boundary I’m dangerously close to crossing.“Is that even an option?”I feel her grip on my leg loossen, as if she’ll retreat. “No.” Her tone is absolute, leaving no room for argument.“Didn’t think so,” I reply, my lips quirking in a faint smirk as I tip my glass back again. “Why are you going anyway? What’s the purpose?”She takes a long, measured breath, as if searching for the right words. “It’s the next step to wherever I’m going.”“You don’t sound so sure.”Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing in sharp defiance. “I am sure.”I bite back the response hovering on my tongue— You don’t seem sure. Her warning look is enough to keep me silent. But it doesn’t stop the thought from lingering. The wine, the dresses, the carefully orchestrated proximity, the way her guard slips just enough to let me see her cracks—it all suggests otherwise.Second thoughts.Maybe she’s questioning whether this path—this vow of sacrifice—is worth it. Whether trading away even the most basic pleasures in life, the ones she’s hardly known, if at all, is a cost she’s willing to pay.Before I can decide whether to press her further, the apartment is suddenly plunged into darkness.“Power’s out.”“Thank you for your keen observation, Captain Obvious,” she replies, her tone laced with annoyance, though it seems directed more at the situation than at me.“I’m sure it’ll be back before you know it.”“No,” she sighs, the faint glow of her phone screen illuminating her frown. “This is Dunwych, and we have National Grid.”I raise an eyebrow, unfamiliar with the reference. “I take it they’re not exactly dependable?”“Definitely not,” she mutters, grimacing as she scrolls through her phone. “Help me light some candles. We probably won’t have power until tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”“That bad?”“It’s a snowstorm in October. It’s practically a tradition around here. Like clockwork, the big electric companies conveniently forget how to do their jobs.” She stands, and I notice the sudden absence of her warmth as she moves away. “Come on, I’ve got candles stashed in a box.”She crosses the room, striking a match to light the stove burners for additional light. The soft hiss and flicker cast shadows across her face as she kicks a box toward me. “Mind picking that up?”I grab the box, placing it on the kitchen table. “I take it this wasn’t part of your master plan, Witch Girl?”Her eyes roll, but there’s the faintest trace of a smirk. “Never said it wasn’t,” she deadpans, brushing past me to open the box, her body stirring dangerously close to mine. “What better way to set the mood than a dark apartment, candlelight, and my seething hatred for a multi-conglomerate utility company?”“So you are trying to seduce me, Miss Roth,” I muse boldly, unable to help myself.At first I feel her body melt. Like she might turn and match my flirtation, but she freezes, her fingers hovering over the box’s lid. For a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the burners, and I immediately regret pushing the boundary too far.“Joke didn’t land?” I say, trying to gauge her reaction.Her gaze sharpens as she straightens. “How do you know my last name?”I blink, caught completely off guard. “You told me.”“No,” she says, her voice calm but edged with suspicion. “I didn’t.”My mind races. She’s right, of course, but I’d some how forgotten that detail. Worse, it didn’t feel like something that slipped my mind, but rather information I’d known more intimately than just reading from a file. Now, I need a lie that feels just truthful enough.“Okay,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck and feigning sheepishness. “You caught me. I read it on a piece of your mail.”She gives me a long, curious look, one brow arching just slightly. “What’s next, a full background check? Or did you already do that too?”I hold up my hands in mock surrender, the corners of my lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Background check? What kind of creep do you think I am?”“The kind that spends the night at a girl’s house and reads her mail,” she fires back, quick and unflinching, her tone slicing through the dim light.“Fair point.” I conceede, leaning casually against the edge of the table. “But for the record, it was sitting out in plain sight. Hardly counts as snooping.”Her eyes narrow slightly, her lips curving into something between a smirk and a frown as if questioning something deeper beyond my comprehension. “You did a background check on me, didn’t you?”I pause, debating whether to play coy or go for honesty. She’s too sharp to fall for a lie, and I respect her enough not to insult her intelligence. “I may have Googled your name.”“Did you find anything interesting?”Yes. Far too much, but none of it useful. “Not really,” I say instead, keeping my tone deliberately casual. “Just some real estate agent in Wyoming with the same name.”She quirks a brow. “That’s my aunt.”“Really?”“No.” Her laugh is low and brief, the kind of sound that’s both disarming and guarded. “I don’t have any family, remember?”“Right,” I reply, nodding slightly, recalling her earlier admission. There’s a weight to it that she carries effortlessly, but I don’t press. Her annoyance has softened into curiosity now, her guard lowering just enough to draw me in.“What were you looking for, anyway?” she asks, her head tilting slightly, the faintest glint of amusement in her gaze.“Making sure you weren’t a serial killer,” I deadpan.“Shit, you caught me,” she sighs with mock exasperation, rolling her eyes. “You were going to be my last victim before I skipped town and changed my name again.”“Well, sorry to spoil your plans,” I say, letting the corner of my mouth tug into a smirk.She shakes her head, fighting back a smile as she crosses her arms. “So, what now? You gonna cuff me and take me to jail, Boy Wonder? ”My Gaze hardens on her and it takes all I have to keep my anxiety unditectible. “Very funny,” I droned and let the question hang in the air for a beat, letting her think I might actually take it seriously. Then I tilt my head, my smirk widening. “But I don’t know… you’re just a bit too pretty for jail.”Her laugh comes easily this time, and for a fleeting moment, the walls between us crack. “You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, but there’s no malice in it—just something warmer, something lighter.“Ridiculous or witty?”“Definitely the former.”“You have a snarky remark for everything?” I challenge, straightening up and reaching for another candle, the flickering light catching in her eyes as I hold her gaze. For all her deflection and dry humor, I can tell she’s studying me just as much as I’m studying her.And for now, I’m content to let her.Her laugh is quick, sharp, but genuine, cutting through the dim atmosphere. “That’s a weak line, even for you.”“Not a line,” I counter smoothly, pushing off the table to close the space between us just slightly. “Just an observation.”Her gaze flicks up to mine, her amusement shifting into something more measured. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you really were the Boy Wonder ,” she teases, the corners of her mouth lifting in a sly smile. “You’re starting to sound like one of those guys who thinks charm is a personality.” If you only knew, I think, but I refuse to rise to the bait. “And you sound like someone who uses sarcasm to deflect real intimacy.”
Thanks, Donna.
“That’s a bold accusation,” she retorts, stepping around me to place another candle on the counter. The warm glow of the flame reflects off her hair, softening her edges but doing nothing to dull the sharpness in her tone. “What are you deflecting from, exactly?”“Your secrets,” I say easily, watching her movements. “They’re harder to crack than I expected.”“Maybe you’re not as good at this freelance gig as you think?”“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than most people.” I tilt my head, studying her, fighting the urge to pull her in. “But hiding takes practice. Effort. And usually, a reason.”Her hands pause briefly, fingers resting on the edge of the box, before she shakes her head. “You overthink everything, don’t you?”“Not everything,” I reply. “Just the things that matter.”She lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and leans against the counter, crossing her arms. The candlelight dances in her eyes as she looks at me, her expression carefully neutral.“And you’ve decided that I matter?”“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”The silence that follows is heavy, charged with an unspoken challenge. For a moment, I think she might call me out—press me further. But instead, she straightens, brushing past me once more.“Grab another candle, detective,” she says, her voice light but not without its edge. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”My eyes don’t leave her as I reach into the box, feeling around for more candles, but instead, my fingers brush against something else—the rough edge of carved wood. I pause, peer inside, and find a bundle of herb-scented candles tied together with twine.And beside them, a wooden box I can’t ignore.I run my fingers over the carved wheel, its intricate details catching the faint flicker of candlelight. The wood is smooth, worn with time, as if it had been held often, pondered over. “I thought Tarot cards were a no-go in your religion?” I say, holding it up to let the light reveal more of the etching.Raven glances over her shoulder, her expression unreadable as her gaze lands on the box. She exhales softly, shaking her head. “That they are,” she replies, her voice even, but tinged with something I can’t quite place. “Those are from a very differen t part of my life.”I glance between her and the box. “You were into that sort of thing?”She shrugs, her movements nonchalant, though her eyes betray the weight of the memories. “As a naive teenager looking for answers,” she admits. “Yes.”“And now?”Raven turns to fully face me, her arms crossing loosely over her chest. The flickering stove light dances across her features, casting shadows that make her look both distant and strikingly present. “And now I know there are no true answers in those cards.”I chuckle at the thought, imagining her hunched over a deck, deciphering their cryptic messages, eyes narrowed in solemn concentration.“What’s so funny?” Her tone is sharp, but there’s a faint curiosity there, as though she’s already guessed.“I’m just having a hard time imagining you taking stock in something so futile,” I say, setting the box down on the table.“Oh, really?” she counters, arching a brow. She crosses the room, her presence somehow filling the small space between us. “Let me guess: you think there’s nothing to the universe but a science experiment—a constellation drifting aimlessly in space?”“I didn’t say that,” I reply, leaning back slightly, though it’s not too far off from my worldview.“You don’t have to.” Her voice is quieter now, more measured, as she brushes past me and picks up the box. She opens it with the kind of care reserved for something deeply personal, pulling out the deck with possessive fingers. The cards are worn, their edges soft from years of handling. “I’m guessing you’ve never had a reading?”I shake my head, watching her with equal parts skepticism and intrigue. “I like to think I make my own destiny.”Her lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, not quite mocking but close. “Do you?” She steps closer, the deck in her hands like a secret she’s daring me to uncover. “I’m not convinced we do.”“And you think these”—I gesture toward the cards—“are going to prove otherwise?”“They don’t prove anything,” she says simply, reminding herself of her true path . “That’s not the point.” She fans the deck out slowly, the colors and symbols catching the light, ancient and arcane. “They show possibilities. They reveal patterns you might be too blind—or too stubborn—to see for yourself.”“I’ll take my chances,” I say, but there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—mischief, perhaps, or a quiet confidence—that makes it hard to dismiss her outright.“Afraid of what you might learn about yourself, Damian?” she asks, my name dipping lower, the words carrying a weight that feels far too intentional.I snort, straightening up. “Hardly. I just don’t buy into superstition.”“It’s not superstition,” she replies, stepping even closer, the deck now between us like a challenge. “It’s… a doorway… One you might learn something from—if you’re brave enough.”“Brave enough?” I echo, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You think I’m  scared of a few old cards, arranged for dramatic effect?”“Only one way to find out.” Her voice is calm, but her eyes are locked on mine, daring me to push back.For a moment, I consider brushing her off, walking away. But there’s something in the air between us—something electric, something more than the cards. Against my better judgment, I nod dismissively. “Fine. Let’s see what the universe has to say then.” “This should be fun.” Her smile widens just enough to show satisfaction, and she gestures for me to sit down by the couch.I watch as she places the deck on the coffee table and lights several of the musty candles before she arranges them in a triangular pattern.“So where’d you learn to do this?”“I mostly taught myself,” she muses, recalling how she’d come into this sort of thing. “There was this older girl, Amy. She used to do Tarot readings on the downlow, usually at night after the nuns went to bed. I was always fascinated by it. She taught me the basics and I started doing it too. When she aged out of the program, she left me the deck.”“So you became the orphan fortune teller?”She smirks. “Pretty much. Made a killing in cheap jewelry and sweet tarts.”“If those things were legit currency you’d be a rich woman.”“Actually,” She laughs, “when I aged out of the program, I was sent to this fancy catholic boarding school in Vermont. Those kids had money.”“And you didn’t.”“Let's just say it was one hell of a pay raise.” She turns to me, face serene, yet her eyes wild in the candlelight. Their deep color taking on a dark, otherworldly violet hue against her pale skin. Her gaze locks onto mine; I can see myself mirrored back in them—the way she sees me. And in that moment, those eyes cut straight through.“You ready?”I falter a moment, a sense of uncertainty bubbling in my chest. “Um… you sure you should be doing this? Wouldn’t you be committing a sin?”“God will forgive me,” she drones. “Plus this is far from the worst thing I’ve ever done.”“Good to know He’s so accommodating,” I reply, arching a brow.“For someone so skeptical, you seem very concerned for the eternal damnation of my soul?” she teases. I shrug. “I just know your faith is important to you and I don’t want you compromising yourself on my account.”“How sweet of you,” she smiles, though something in her gaze says more than her words convey. Like she can see my deeper desire, knows the sinful thoughts of her that cross my mind in the dark. “But let’s see what the cards think of you, Damian.”“Okay,” I sigh, “but if this lands you in Hell then—”She gives me a warning glare. “This is not the thing that is gonna land me in Hell,” she drones dryly. “Now shuffle the cards.”I do as I’m told and shuffle the cards, their edges rough and worn, catching against my fingers like something alive. They’re heavier than they should be, each card carrying a weight that seems to hum against my skin. Raven watches me with a predator’s patience, her gaze sharp and steady, peeling away layers I didn’t know I had.“Good shuffle,” she murmurs, her voice calm, detached. Too calm. “Now pick three.”“Three, huh?” I smirk, but the unease coiling in my chest betrays me. “Any reason we’re sticking to that number?”Her lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile, though it feels more like a warning than reassurance. “Three is… significant. It has power, unity, balance… and imbalance. Creation. Destruction. Chaos. Clarity.”“Comforting,” I mutter, my tone dry as I pull the first card. I place it face down, then the next, and finally the third. My hand hesitates over it, my instincts prickling with an urgency I refuse to acknowledge. “What’s your birthday?”“April 5th.”“So you're Aries, the god of war. That’s not surprising,” she muses with a hint of sarcasm, considering the date. “Your element is fire and you’re led by the head. You’re stubborn.”“So I’m told.”She gives me a smile and flips the first card with a deliberate, almost reverent motion. “The Lovers.” Her eyes narrow, their unnatural violet hue darkening in the flickering candlelight. The image is serene on the surface—two figures beneath an apple tree, their hands almost touching, an angel, maybe even God, hovering between them—but there’s a heaviness beneath it, something unspoken and raw. Original Sin comes to mind.“Unity, temptation, choice,” she murmurs, her fingers ghosting over the illustration. “Love isn’t just connection; it’s a test. It demands sacrifice. Sometimes… it takes more than it gives.”Her gaze lifts to mine, sharp and knowing. “Relationships will always be complicated for you.”I force a laugh, leaning back into the couch. “Join the club.” But her words lodge themselves somewhere deep, a splinter I can’t quite shake.“The card is reversed, meaning it’s upside down,” she clarifies. “This shows hesitation in your desire—perhaps you have reservations. Or maybe you’re just afraid of real intimacy. ”“So I’ve been told.” I shrug, though if there’s any truth to this, and I’m being honest with myself, I’m clearly caught between her lust, my obligations, and her faith.She flips the second card. “The Three of Swords.” The image is stark and unforgiving: a heart skewered by three blades, a storm raging in the background. The candlelight seems too dim, shadows creeping closer as Raven studies the card.“Pain,” she says softly, her voice like a whisper from the grave. “Heartbreak. Loss. The kind that lingers. The kind you can’t avoid.” Her gaze doesn’t leave the card as she adds, “Or the kind you cause.”The words hang in the air, cold and suffocating and they hit me with more force than I expect. I shift in my seat, the unease now a lead weight pressing on my chest. “That’s… cheerful.”She looks up, her eyes cutting through me like the very blades displayed upon the cards. “You should avoid the number three, Damian, or sets of three.”I blink, thrown off by the sharpness of her tone. “What?”“Triads. Pairs, any combination of the number three,” she says, almost absently, her attention still on the card. “So 3, 6, 9 every number combination that adds up to 3 and similar numbers like it. They’ll bring you closer to something… dangerous. Something you won’t walk away from.”“That’s vague,” I retort, though the words taste hollow. “Yet oddly specific. Do you really expect me to deal in numbers?”“I don’t expect you to do anything,” she says flatly. “Which is the whole reason for doing this,” I grumble and gesture for her to move on.She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. Instead, she flips the final card.
“The Devil.”
The air seems to thicken, the room shrinking around us. The horned monstrosity  towers over two chained figures, their bindings loose enough to slip free—if only they’d try. But they don’t. Nor will they.Raven’s breath catches, so faint it’s almost imperceptible. Her hand trembles as she traces the edge of the card. As if she herself has a long standing connection with it. Maybe she does. I know in my own way, I do. “What does it mean?” My voice is low, tense, the question pulled from me against my will.“Temptation that’s so intense it becomes obsession,” she whispers, the word heavy with dread. “Bondage. Being tied to something… someone… you can’t escape. Or worse, not wanting to escape.”A chill snakes down my spine, sharp and biting. “You’re sure we’re talking about me?” I ask blithely, though the obsession part might be on to something.Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, they seem bottomless, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that shouldn’t be there. “It’s always about you, Damian.”Her words linger, thick and suffocating, as she slides the deck toward me. “Pick one more.”I hesitate, my instincts screaming at me to stop, but I do it anyway. I draw a card and lay it face down on the table.“Turn it over,” she says, her voice steady but brittle, like glass about to shatter.I flip the card. “Death.” The skeletal hand reaches outward, its scythe gleaming beneath an ashen sky. I force a smirk, trying to mask the gnawing dread clawing at my insides. “Well, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Death. So that tracks.”Raven doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even move. She stares at the card, her expression tight, her eyes darting between it and me like she’s seeing something she doesn’t want to admit.“What?” I demand, the tension in the room now unbearable.“Nothing,” she says too quickly, her voice strained. “Death is… transformative. It’s not literal… Not always.”“Then why do you look like I just signed my own death warrant?”She snaps her gaze to mine, irritation flashing in her eyes. “You’re not going to die,” she snaps, though the words lack conviction. “You’re right—this was stupid.”I push myself to my feet, the oppressive weight of the reading still hanging over me. “It’s just a deck of cards,” I mutter. “Nothing prophetic about it.”Raven’s eyes fall on me as if what I said was a lie, one she wanted to believe, but doesn’t. “Maybe,” she says, her voice softer now, almost a murmur. “But you should still avoid sets of three.”I pause, glancing back at her. She’s watching me again, her expression unreadable now, her eyes far too knowing.“You need to be careful, Damian,” she says, the words barely audible. “Whatever’s coming… I don’t think you can outrun it.”I try to force a smile, but it feels hollow. “Maybe it’s you I can’t outrun?”Her gaze sharpens, her lips parting like she might respond, but no words come. The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating, as if the cards themselves are listening.“Wanna fuck around with a oujia board next,” I say, trying to break the tension. She turns to me with a sharp look. “No, those are a great way of inviting evil shit in.”“And this isn’t?”“It can be,” she admits, shuffling them away. “Now I remember why I stopped using them,”“Why?”“They’re just…” she stammers, trying to find right words. “They’re not real.”I slug back the last of my wine and don’t even hesitate to refill my glass. “After this glass I should probably go.”“Damian, you can’t leave,” she says, her voice sounding more ominous in the wake of the card reading. “What?”“It's a goddamn blizzard out there and there is no power, I don’t even think the plows are out yet. You can’t leave.”I feel uneasy as something inside me shifts, my hand tightening around the glass. The weight of her words sinks in like a stone, and for a moment, the room feels colder than the storm raging outside. I glance at the window, the thick frost creeping along the edges of the glass obscuring the view. The howling wind outside makes it clear that she’s right, but her tone—it carries something more than practicality.“What are you saying, Raven?” My voice is steady, but I can’t shake the flicker of unease coiling in my gut.She doesn’t answer immediately, her fingers aloafly shuffling the cards as if the motion itself can distract her from whatever’s brewing beneath the surface. Her movements are quick, mechanical, and yet, there’s a certain deliberation to the way she slides the deck back into its box. When she finally looks up, her eyes meet mine, and they’re darker now, like the storm outside has seeped into them.“I’m saying you shouldn’t go.” Her words are careful, measured—but there’s a tremor beneath them, subtle but unmistakable.I chuckle, low and dry, trying to dispel the sudden heaviness in the room. “Raven, I’ve walked through worse weather. I’ll be fine.”She stands abruptly, her movements sharp yet fluid, and suddenly she’s towering over me. “This isn’t about the weather, Damian. Not entirely.”“Then what is it about?”Her gaze flickers to the table, where the tarot deck sits, before settling back on me. “Something feels wrong. I can’t explain it, but… I don’t think you should leave. Not tonight.”I sigh, setting my glass down a little harder than I mean to. “So let me get this straight—you pull me into a tarot reading, practically dare me to overlook basic logic, and now you’re telling me it’s too dangerous to step outside? You’re not exactly selling this as a low-stakes evening.”Her expression hardens, and for a moment, the Raven I’m used to—the calm, unflinching force of nature—breaks through. “This isn’t a joke, Damian. If I thought it was safe, I wouldn’t stop you.”“And what, the cards told you I’m doomed if I step outside?” My voice drips with sarcasm, but the way she flinches makes me regret it almost instantly.“No,” she murmurs, sinking down beside me. Her voice is softer now, but there’s an edge to it, something raw and uncertain. “I don’t need the cards to feel it. Something’s… off. It’s like a gift of mine.”“A gift ?” I ask, curiosity creeping in despite myself.She takes a slow breath, as if she’s already said too much. “Since I was a little girl,” she pauses, rubbing her clasped hands together, “I’ve been able to sense things.”I hold her gaze, waiting, pushing her to go on. “What kinds of things?”She swallows hard. “I can feel what people feel. Their emotions, their fears… even when they try to hide them.”I take in what she says. It’s not unthinkable—not even impossible—that she has some sixth sense, an ability that makes her keen on the emotional output of others. But I’ve met plenty of people who think they’re special when they’re just average. I know she has a history of mentle illness. So, I can’t help but push back.“Or maybe you just have one hell of a bullshitter detector?”She smiles, shakes her head. “I wish.” Her gaze flickers away, like she’s already decided I don’t believe her.She offered me something intimate, a piece of herself, and I just stomped all over it. Good move, Damian. Real slick. Todd would be so proud.“I believe you,” I say, trying to win back the sliver of trust I just fumbled. “I just don’t entirely understand.”She looks back at me, doesn’t hesitate. “Because it’s hard to understand unless you experience it. But it’s fine if you think I’m crazy,” she adds, diverting the subject, her tone sharp with quiet defiance. “You wouldn’t be the first.”The air between us crackles, the weight of something unspoken settling between us. I study her face, recalling what I saw in her file—knowing more about her than I should. More than she’s comfortable with. For a moment, she looks almost vulnerable, a rare crack in her armor that unsettles me as much as the reading itself.I want to push, demand a clearer explanation. But the rational part of me—the part trained to trust instincts over evidence—knows better than to ignore a warning.I sigh again, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through my hair. “Alright, fine. I’ll stay. But if I’m stuck here, I’m making another drink. Something stronger than wine.”She nods, but her shoulders don’t relax. “Shit, I forgot. I think there might be a cheap vodka in the freezer. But there's nothing to mix it with.” “Works for me,” I huff  and head to the freezer, taking whatever coffee mug that’s on hand. Raven moves to the window, peering out into the swirling white chaos. Her silhouette is stark against the dim candlelight, and for a moment, the storm outside feels like it’s pressing in, as if the room itself is holding its breath.“Do you feel it?” she asks suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.I pause mid-pour, glancing at her. “Feel what?”Her fingers grip the edge of the window frame, knuckles pale. “The… weight. Like something’s waiting out there.”I don’t answer right away, letting the question hang in the air as I finish pouring the drink. The truth is, I do feel it—an uneasy, creeping sensation that’s been gnawing at me since she flipped that last card. But admitting it feels like giving it power—making it real. Instead, I take a long sip and set the mug down.“Maybe it’s just the storm,” I say finally, my tone light. “They tend to mess with people’s heads.”She turns to face me, her expression unreadable, but her eyes are sharp, unrelenting. “Maybe,” she says, though the word feels more like a placeholder than an agreement. A reminder that her mind is not in sync with reality. The wind howls louder, rattling the windows and sending a sharp gust of cold air through the small cracks in the frame. Raven doesn’t flinch, her gaze fixed on me as if waiting for something.“Here,” I say, offering her the vodka. She takes it, drinking straight from the bottle. “If it makes you feel any better, if I’m trapped here with anyone, I'm glad it’s you.”Raven stares at me, her eyes drifting over me like a puzzle she’s intent to solve. “So what’s your last name?”“What?” I ask, wincing as the burn of the cheap vodka slides into my chest. “You know my last name, but I don’t know yours,” she reasons and takes up her wine glass again. “What is it?”It should be an easy question, but it’s not. Lying to her feels wrong, even if we do nothing but perpetually lie to each other. But I can’t tell her my real last name. “Which one?”“What?”“I have two,” I explain, laying the groundwork for the lie I’m about to tell. “My mother’s and my father’s, which one?”“The one that feels the most real to you.”I can work with that. “Grayson… it’s Grayson.” It’s not, but…She smiles, settling into the lie as if it were fact. “Damian Grayson,” she muses aloud, “Can’t wait to see what I dig up when I google you.”“Good luck with that,” I smile and chase the cheap vodka with the expensive wine. Terrible combo by the way. However, as I peer out the window I see the candlelight reflecting off the black glass like whispers, unlocking secrets beyond what my own mind can comprehend. It makes me wonder if Raven’s perceived madness is madness at all or something more, like a plane of alternate reality she’s lifted the veil to. “This wine is giving me one hell of a buzz.”She smiles over her shoulder, finally looking away from the candlelight licks across the black window glass. “Funny thing about a good buzz… it can blur the lines between what’s real and what’s not.”I let the words sink in as I feel them seep into my nervous system before they soak into my mind like a sip of bad vodka. There’s something about her expression: A warning. A dare. Maybe both. And I’m dangerously close to wanting to find out.I tip my glass back, letting the burn chase the thought away before it settles too deep. Then, with a slow exhale, I meet her gaze.“I’m game.”“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I watch the candlelight dance across the dark shadow of my glass. Staring into it, the glowing flames flicker, curl, and bloom into shifting shapes—ghosts swimming in the wine, drowning in blood. The thought is grim, and for a moment, I pull myself back, feeling myself slowly slipping into a dreamlike state. Part of me wants to fight it, the synapses clawing at the edges of my mind, drinking in my wavering sobriety before I’m once again pulled down into a brilliant abyss.

My nervous system ignites, the world around me suddenly more vivid. The taste of the wine is richer, the velvet sofa against my back softer, the hum of the music deeper, more profound. Everything feels brighter, more bearable, more alive.

“Funny,” Damian’s voice murmurs from beside me, low and unintrusive. “I was thinking about this song today.”

“I love this song,” I say, my pulse syncing to the rhythm of “

Nine While Nine

.” “I read once that it represents a repetitive period of waiting. In numerology, the number nine symbolizes the end of a cycle—completion.”

“The song’s about purgatory,” Damian counters, his face aglow in the flickering candlelight. “The waiting never ends. The train isn’t coming. It’s a future with no destination.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. His face remains still, stoic, the candlelight casting sharp shadows over his features. It reminds me of a line I read once:

still yet deep

. It’s his eyes—still, unflinching—but catching the light, burning with something beneath.

“That’s... a bleak take,” I finally reply, letting his words sink in, weaving my own sentiments around them until they take shape.

“It’s a bleak song,” he says matter-of-factly, his tone unchanging. “The repetition, the stagnation—waiting and waiting, trapped in a cycle that will never break.”

“I think you’re right about purgatory,” I admit, tilting my head as I study him, “but I get the sense they’re already dead.”

He shrugs, his gaze still fixed on the candlelight. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Forever trapped in a twelve-hour cycle, waiting for a train that’s never coming.” He pauses, eyes dark against the candlelit glass. “That sounds like the worst kind of afterlife.”

“Talk about killing time,” I joke with a sly grin.

“And you say my lines are trite.”

“Careful,” I tease, “your pretentious asshole is showing.”

“You are ruthless, Witchgirl.”

He’s allowed the namesake to settle on me, and I endear it enough that it begins to feel right. It suits me in a way that feels real, almost becoming. I sink into the familiar feeling, as if we’ve shared this moment before. There’s an easy trust between us, something deeper than words can describe.

But as soon as I settle into that feeling, a ghost from my past comes ripping through.

The

key

—a minor—haunts me as it dips into the F chord and rises to the C and D chords. Its melody sends a chill up my spine, unearthing a memory buried deep within my skin. The song is a visceral reminder of someone I wish I’d never met.

Without thinking, I reach out and swipe the screen, changing the song with the edge of my fingertip. Sending it back to its grave of irrelevance. Ironic, given the song has recently found a second life due to social media. Every time it plays, I feel my sanity splinter just a little further.

“You don’t like that one?” Damian asks, his ever-observant eye missing nothing.

“It’s overplayed,” I reason, the candlelight just masking the inner crisis flickering behind my eyes.

If Damian sees it, he says nothing, letting my scar tissue ache in silence.

“You don’t strike me as the type to moon over ‘80s goth songs,” I teasing, trying to shift the mood.

“Definitely not,” he sighs, taking a sip of his wine. “My older brother has...

eclectic taste

in music. This one just happened to stand out.”

“You have a brother?” I ask, surprised. It’s rare for him to offer up personal details unprompted. The alcohol must be thinning his blood more than he’s letting on.

“I have three,” he clarifies, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. He swirls the wine in his glass, his eyes lingering on the number as though he’s counting them in his mind. “They’re adopted, though—on my father’s side. I’m his only biological child... that I

know

of.” He rolls his eyes and takes a deeper sip.

“I’m sensing a little resentment there?”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders falling just enough to betray the weight he carries. “Like you said, relationships are complicated for me. It’s in my DNA.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He reaches for the vodka, turning the bottle in his hand as though the answer might reveal itself in the swirl of the liquid. “To my mother, I’m a reminder of an opportunity she took. To my father, I’m a reminder of a lapse in judgment. A mistake.”

“I’m sure your father doesn’t see you as a mistake.”

“You’ve never met him.” His voice sharpens, fire flashing in his green eyes. He throws back a shot of vodka, the burn barely registering. “And with any luck, you never will.”

He swallows hard, his face unreadable, but I can see the cracks beneath the surface. The way he chokes down pain like it’s second nature, a skill honed from childhood. It’s then that I see it: the exquisite duality of him—beauty and pain, perfectly intertwined.

“What about you?” he asks, setting the bottle down with a dull thud. “Are relationships complicated for you?”

My gaze drifts away from him, the question pulling at a thread I’d rather leave untouched. “Yes. I’m not really close to anyone anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. The people I love get hurt.”

“How?”

“You ever have your heart broken?”

“Sure,” he says, his voice dull, like a knife ground down to be blunt.

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat alongside the bittersweet fear clawing its way up. “I had a good friend, a few years back. And the choices I made... well…” I falter, trying to find the words. “I hurt him.”

“He loved you?”

I nod. “Joseph was in love with me. Hopelessly so. And I—” My voice wavers, breaking like glass beneath the weight of my confession. “I let myself get caught up in a lie. In someone who only wanted to use me. I chose a monster over his gentle kindness... for little more than lust and vanity.”

Damian studies me in the candlelight, his expression unreadable as the words settle between us. Then, quietly, he says, “If he truly loved you, maybe someday he’ll forgive you.”

“He’s dead.” The words hang heavy in the air, sharp and final. I wish they weren’t true. I wish forgiveness were even a possibility. “It’s my fault.”

He stares at me, his expression unreadable, as if he’s turning over my confession in his mind, trying to decide whether he’s heard me right.

“Say something, Damian.”

A stiff shrug lifts his shoulders before they fall again, burdened by the weight I’ve placed on him. “What is there to say, Raven? People make mistakes.”

I blink, almost aghast at his nonchalance, as if I’d just admitted to something trivial—like backing into someone’s car or forgetting an appointment. “A mistake? It’s more than that, Damian.”

“Did

you

kill him?”

“No—of course not!” I hiss, the words sharper than I mean them to be. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not responsible. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Only I do,” he says, his tone cutting, his words sharp with finality, like a blade dropped between us.

I pause, stunned. The room feels smaller somehow, the air heavier. “What do you mean?”

“I have blood on my hands too,” he says, his voice flat, emotionless, but the words carry a weight that feels centuries old. “Probably more than you can imagine.”

“What are you saying?”

“That we do what we have to,” he replies, his gaze fixed on the candlelight, the flames reflected in his sharp green eyes. “Sometimes that means making choices we regret. But you didn’t kill him.”

“You don’t even know how he died.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me, his expression unreadable. “You care to tell me?”

“No,” I snap, the word sharp and defensive.

“Didn’t think so,” he says, his tone more knowing than dismissive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap again, leaning forward as irritation flares in my chest.

“It means you’re holding onto it,” he says simply, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “Whatever happened, it’s not the story you’re afraid of. It’s the weight of it. The guilt. You carry it like it’s a part of you now.”

I freeze, his words slicing too close to the truth. “And what do you suggest I do? Just forget it?”

“No,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time. There’s something raw there, something almost painful. “You don’t forget. You find a way to live with it. To make it mean something, even if it eats at you.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” I whisper, my voice quieter now, the anger ebbing into something more vulnerable.

He shifts closer, his hand gliding across my back before resting on my shoulder. He gives it a firm, steady squeeze, lingering just long enough for the tension in my chest to ease. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he draws me closer. I let him, my head resting against the curve of his neck.

This close, his aura is intoxicating. The wine seemingly amplifying the warm, peppery scent radiating from his pulse, and I breathe him in. It’s strange how someone so stoic, so tightly controlled, can feel this warm, this welcoming. Here, in his arms, there’s a sense of safety I can’t explain—and for once, I don’t need to.

“You’re doing what you think is best,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple. Then he presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, a gesture so tender it threatens to undo me. “But if it helps, I haven’t figured it out either. I just… keep going. One step at a time.”

I say nothing. Instead, I wrap my arms around him, letting the weight of my body rest against his. He shifts, leaning back and pulling me with him, the movement seamless. My head finds its place against his chest, the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat filling my ears, lulling me into a quiet calm.

We settle into the silence, taking comfort in it. It’s so intimate, so enveloping, that it makes me think about all I’m giving up.

Before Damian, my experience with love was shallow, tainted by the selfish predations of wicked men who saw me as nothing more than flesh to be used. Love was a weapon, a blade aimed straight at the heart. Nothing good ever came of it but the emptiness that followed. But with Damian, it’s different. There’s safety here, and something more—a sense of knowing. Knowing he’d never leave. Knowing he doesn’t want to be without me, just as I don’t want to be without him.

“It’s too bad you have to leave tomorrow,” he finally says, breaking the silence with his own forlorn thoughts.

“I wish I’d met you sooner,” I sigh, my fingers trailing across his chest. His own hand tangles in my hair, twirling a long strand of black silk—hair destined to be cut when I take my final vow. The thought stings more now, knowing he loves me as I am. “Maybe then, everything would be different.”

As I watch the candles burn lower, marking the time we have left, a deep feeling of longing begins to creep in. I want to feel this—feel

him

—just a little longer. It’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I want him to be mine, in every way I swore I never would.

My hand brushes against the sharp line of his jaw, lingering as the roughness of his stubble draws a shiver up my arm. It feels different somehow—everything does. My thoughts are a haze, tangled between what I know and what I feel, the wine softening the edges of my usual caution.

“What’s with the five o’clock shadow?” I ask, my voice huskier than I expect. The words slip out before I fully register them, curiosity pulling me closer to the heat radiating off his skin. “Leaning into your dark, mysterious air?”

He exhales a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest, into me. “Didn’t have time to shave,” he says, his tone quieter, more intimate. “Had to lick my wounds instead. Do you not like it?”

I laugh lightly, the sound strange to my ears, like it belongs to someone else. “No, I like it,” I say, and I mean it, though the confession feels bolder than it should. “I don’t know if I’d love you in a full beard, though. You’re too handsome to hide your face away.”

His fingers shift against my ribs, pressing in slightly, grounding me. His eyes, shadowed by the flickering candlelight, soften in a way I don’t often see. “You think I’m handsome?”

“I never said you weren’t.” The words spill out, and I don’t even try to stop them. A warmth blooms in my chest, spreading out in waves, and I lean into him, drawn by something I can’t name.

His breath hitches—barely—but I catch it, and it sends a thrill through me. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, “it’s less impactful if you steal my flirtations and turn them back on me.”

“Is that so?” I tease, reaching for my wine, wanting to chase this feeling that has left me so blissfully unbound. But before I can press the glass to my lips, it slips from my grasp and spills across the dull red fabric of his shirt. The dark liquid shines brilliantly in the candlelight, and without thinking, I jump onto his lap, babbling apologies and giggling about the stain as I urge him to shimmy out of the ruined long sleeve.

Rendered shirtless, he freezes, and we both stare at one another. My heart practically leaps out of my chest, like a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis. And that’s when I see him, really see him. The warm olive hue of his skin gleams gold in the flickering light, his face angular yet rugged like that of a Greek god, his body more exquisite than any classical painting I can conjure in my mind. He’s not just handsome—he’s beautiful.

“Is this part of your plan too?” he asks, his voice breathless beneath me, his own desire tightening against the deep ache building in mine.

“Maybe,” I reply, still perched atop him, dragging my nails lightly across his chest. His sharp inhale that follows is like music, and I feel his hand slide up my thighs, beneath my skirt, his eager fingertips pressing with a possessiveness that drives me wild—makes me want to let go.

It’s like I’ve been taken over, but not really. It’s as though something within has awakened, and its hunger is something I let devour me. It wants to devour him. This isn’t me—I don’t lose control… not like this. But right now, control feels distant, fragile, like chains I no longer want to bear.

I let my arms curl behind my back, my hand grasping the clasp of my dress, then the zipper.

I wanted this to happen,

I remind myself, and pull the metal binding down, my black dress billowing out before I slowly let it fall, first down my shoulder, toward my breasts. I watch his liquid-dark eyes fill with envy and lust, desperately wanting the fabric to drop.

His hands grip me tighter, his body shifting, eager, wanting, enthralled with anticipation.

I pull my arms free of the flimsy straps, holding the feeble form of the dress in place. “You look at me as if you’d burn the world down for me, Damian.”

He sits up slightly, as if called to action. “Maybe I would?”

I smile at his sincerity, even through the fog of wine, and finally let the fabric pool at my waist. “What about now?”

“Oh… fuck…” There’s a warning in his tone, but it’s soft, his resistance crumbling under the same heat I feel.

He hesitates, his fingers tightening under the hem of my dress. Whatever doubt flickers  in his eyes, vanishes the moment I whisper his name. “That’s the plan,

Damian

.”

His hands tangle in my hair as his lips hover close to mine, the space between us magnetic. The warmth of his breath mingles with mine, and the air feels heavier, charged with something I don’t understand but can’t fight. My heart pounds against his, our shared rhythm untamed, and it’s as if the world outside of us ceases to exist. Only he exists to me, and me to him, like we’re one entity in this infinite, intimate chaos.

I feel his thumb trace the seamed line of the scar on my belly, as if he knows what it is and is pained to know the story behind it.

“It’s nothing,” I whisper between breaths.

“I hate the idea of someone hurting you.”

I answer with a deeper kiss, raking my teeth over his bottom lip and digging my nails into his jaw — a silent promise that I’m not some fragile thing that will break beneath his touch.

His hand trails down my back, the stroke of his fingers like fire and ice all at once. I want to feel his touch everywhere. He pulls me close, as though every fiber of his being is drawing me into him, until there’s nothing between us but skin and the weight of our mutual need.

The flickering candlelight blurs around us, casting everything in golden hues, and I feel a deep, aching hunger I’ve never known before. One I’ve only ever truly known in him. The connection between us… it’s deeper than just physical—it feels ancient, primal.

“Would you burn the world down for me?” I whisper, our lips so close that the faintest brush of mine against his makes him shiver. I breathe his name like a prayer, steeped in longing.

“Damian?”

His name spills from my lips like a spell, heavy with yearning, daring him to drive in the final nail. In an instant, he gathers me into his arms and flips me onto my back, as if the action costs him nothing. He’s above me now, my dress a crumpled mess around my waist, his bare skin, fevered and alight, pressed against mine.

His eyes blaze, vibrant yet shadowed, dark enough that I see myself reflected in them — see myself as he sees me: beautiful, desired, the only girl who’s ever mattered. The only one who ever could.

“If that’s what it takes,” he breathes, and I bite my bottom lip, hunger unraveling me from the inside out. “I’d do anything for you.”

Those words are everything — more than I ever dared to want — as his lips crash against mine, sparking something ancient and primal between us. Together, we surrender to this rhythm, these carnal instincts, until we dissolve into one flame, burning so fiercely it feels as if the universe itself has bent to make room for us.

And for now, we let ourselves die a little longer, until stars fill my eyes and tomorrow comes, reminding me that love is just a stranger meant to pass me by.