Chapter 21
Apparently, near-death experiences come with a complimentary migraine and trust issues.
The vault door slammed shut behind us with a hiss that felt way too final. The sound bounced in my skull like a warning bell.
My legs weren't exactly working, but I didn't let them see that. Not when every step felt like walking out of a battlefield where I wasn't sure who'd won—or if I'd just survived out of sheer dumb luck.
Dexter was whistling. Like he hadn't just opened his skull and spilled a prophecy across the floor for everyone to choke on.
"Tell me that was fun," he said cheerfully, spinning his key ring like we hadn't just stared into a cosmic breakdown.
I didn't answer. My throat was still raw from… screaming? Breathing wrong? Honestly, who knew anymore.
Damian snorted behind me. "She looks like she's about to collapse. What was that, Vaughn? Psychic karaoke?"
"Relax, Hothead," Dexter replied lazily. "She didn't die. Gold star for the team."
"I can still hear you," I muttered, hugging my arms around myself as we hit the elevator.
Draven didn't speak. Of course he didn't. He was ice carved into a person, his gaze cutting over me once before sliding away like I was… data. A calculation.
Devon, on the other hand, crouched slightly to meet my eye level—even though I couldn't exactly see him. His voice was soft, a balm against the static in my veins.
"Your heartbeat's erratic," he murmured. "You need water. And rest."
"I need to not be in a creepy underground bunker," I whispered back.
He smiled, even if I couldn't see it—I felt it in his tone. "Fair."
The elevator doors slid open, and a rush of cool air hit me like a mercy. But the silence that followed wasn't merciful at all. It pressed against my skin, heavy with words no one wanted to say out loud.
Damian tossed his keys with a flourish. "I'm driving."
"No argument there," Dexter said, already sliding into the passenger seat like a cat claiming a sunbeam.
Devon guided me toward the open door, but before I could orient myself, my foot snagged on something. I stumbled—and landed on something definitely not leather upholstery.
"Whoa," Dexter yelped, his laugh ringing way too loud in my ear. "Princess, if you wanted me this bad, you could've just asked."
Heat exploded in my cheeks. "Oh my God—"
"Correction," Damian cut in, voice sharp with laughter, "on me. She's on my lap, Vaughn."
I froze. My hands were splayed on someone's chest, and from the faint heat radiating through his shirt, yeah—this was Damian.
And that's when it hit me.
This wasn't even the first time.
"This is the second time," Damian added with a grin I could hear. "What is it with you and my thighs, Crimson?"
If embarrassment could kill, I'd be a chalk outline.
"Move," I hissed, scrambling like a blind raccoon. My knee hit something solid—probably Dexter's smug face, if there was any justice in the world.
"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled. "You're gonna start rumors."
"I hate all of you," I muttered, finally sliding into the actual seat with all the dignity of a pancake.
Damian was still laughing when the Tesla roared to life. "Worth it," he said.
Draven? Silent in the back. But I felt his stare. Cold enough to bite.
By the time we reached the suite, my head was a foggy mess. I didn't even process how huge the place was until my shoes sank into a rug that probably cost more than my foster home.
I almost tripped on said rug, too.
"Steady," Devon said, his hand brushing mine. Warm. Gentle. Safe.
"I'm fine," I lied, yanking my arm back.
"You're not," he replied calmly. "Let me—"
"No." The word came sharper than I meant.
The air chilled a degree. Draven. Watching. Measuring.
"Sleep," he said finally, tone clipped. "Tomorrow, we start."
Start what? A cult? A murder pact? Blind Girl Bootcamp?
I didn't ask. Because asking meant admitting I cared about the answer.
Instead, I let Dexter's voice cut through the tension: "Sweet dreams, Princess. Try not to dream too loud. Things might hear you."
My skin prickled.
I was halfway to the guest room when Damian spoke. His voice was low, like he didn't want me to hear—but of course I did.
"She's a liability," he said flatly. "You all know it. A blind storm with teeth. A burden—and a threat. We should—"
The pause was a knife. My breath snagged.
Kill her. He didn't say it. He didn't have to.
The room changed temperature before anyone answered. Heat from Damian's fire clashing with a different current—cool, sharp, edged with something… not human.
Devon's voice was soft when it came. Soft, but lethal. "Say it again, Damian. I dare you."
A hum bled through the air—Fae magic, thrumming against my skin like static.
Damian growled, low and animal. "What? Going to light a candle and curse me, fairy boy?"
"Touch her," Devon said, voice wrapped in velvet and venom, "and you'll burn from the inside out."
The air snapped. Hot. Cold. Dangerous.
I didn't wait for Draven to weigh in. Didn't wait for Dexter's inevitable joke.
I ran.
Found the nearest door. Slammed it shut.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Through the walls, I heard voices rise—muffled, sharp. Then silence.
I sank to the bed, pressing my palms into my eyes.
Wishing the world would stop spinning.
Wishing I didn't hear Damian's words echoing like a curse:
One day, she's going to kill us all.
And the worst part?
A tiny, treacherous part of me wondered if he was right.