The villa settled into its nocturnal rhythm the moment the last echoes of dinner faded. It wasn't silent—far from it—but the clamorous heartbeats of the day had slowed to a measured pulse. Every corridor, every chamber, seemed to inhale a deep, expectant breath, as though the walls themselves held secrets they were almost ready to spill.
I stepped out of my room barefoot, the cool marble tiles pressing gentle reminders of gravity into my soles. My hoodie sleeves were pulled so far over my hands that only my fingertips peeked out, warmed by the fabric more than the night air. High above, crystal chandeliers scattered their light across the corridor in fractured patterns—like falling stars caught on polished stone.
I didn't have a destination. All I knew was that I needed to move.
At the far end of the hall, the great glass archway beckoned, its panes luminous under the watchful moon. And there, standing like an alabaster statue brought to life, was Sera.
She was draped in a robe of midnight velvet, the fabric pooling around her feet in soft, shadowed folds. Her hair, usually restrained, fell in loose curls about her shoulders, catching the moonlight like dark silk spun with silver. One hand rested lightly on the glass—delicate, yet certain. The fountain outside murmured in the garden below, its gentle ripples echoing her stillness.
I thought of Cassian.
Of the truck that should have killed him.
Of Mavier Auterus, lurking behind every heartbeat.
And of the stark truth that Sera had known—and kept silent.
I halted a few feet away. My heart pounded loud enough that I was certain the house's living bones could hear it. She didn't turn. Instead, her voice, low and smooth, drifted back to me.
"Couldn't sleep again?"
There was no reproach in it. No invitation, even. Just a bare statement of fact.
I swallowed. Took a single, measured step closer. "Did you know he was going to tell me?"
At that, she pivoted with the grace of a panther shifting its weight. Her eyes—amber flecks over dark obsidian—fixed on mine with quiet intensity.
"Yes," she replied simply. "I hoped he would."
The moonlight glinted off her cheekbones, revealing the faintest shadow of fatigue beneath her eyes. I searched for hesitation, guilt, any crack in her composure. Found only someone shaped by centuries of burdens, and yet still standing.
"He almost died," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "He could have died, and you didn't tell him."
Her shoulders straightened, not in defiance, but as though she were bracing herself for admission. "I know."
I crossed my arms, heart thundering beneath each rib. "That's not good enough."
"It's not," she agreed, her tone bare.
The corridor felt suddenly colder, as if even the scented candles that lined its walls had retreated. I wanted to lash out, to blame her, but the weight in her gaze held me silent.
"I thought you were protecting him," I said, pain and anger warring in my chest. "I thought you were good for him."
Her gaze softened, sorrow flickering through the glow of her eyes. "I never claimed to be good," she said, voice hushed. "Only that I wouldn't hurt him."
"You didn't," I spat. "You just left him in the dark."
She looked away, fingertips grazing the smooth glass as if counting the raindrops that weren't there. "If you knew a war was coming for the ones you love, would you warn them before you had a plan?"
I hesitated. Her question cut deeper than any accusation.
She stepped toward me, the hem of her robe whispering across the marble. "I tried to contain it, to keep it from reaching him. And I failed."
Her confession echoed among the silent portraits and bowed ceilings. I studied her face—the gentle plane of her jaw, the slight crease between her brows—a visage both ageless and achingly human.
"You don't get to pretend this isn't real," I said.
"I'm not pretending," she replied.
"He's not like you," I whispered, voice nearly lost amid the house's soft susurrations. "He's not built for centuries of scheming."
"No," she acknowledged. "But he chose it. He chose me."
That admission, tender and fierce, made my chest tighten as though I'd swallowed a fistful of ice.
"I don't trust it," I said at last, my words small but absolute.
Sera inclined her head, expression unreadable yet unfazed. "You don't have to."
I drew back, turning to leave—but paused at the weight of her next words.
"Do you love him?" I asked, not looking at her.
The corridor held its breath.
Finally, she murmured into the hush, "Yes."
I exhaled, the sound soft as falling feathers.
No more words were necessary. Not in that moment.
Behind me, the villa sighed—a deep, resonant exhalation—as if it, too, weighed the unsaid truth and wondered if it would bring salvation… or ruin.
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The first thing I noticed was the cold.
Not the room. Not the sheets. Me.Cold where her body used to be.
I reached out instinctively, hand brushing the still-warm silk. Empty.
Seraphine was gone.
I blinked into the dim light—sunlight slanting through tall curtains, soft as dust and bone. Her bed was too big without her. Too quiet. Like the house was holding its breath.
"Where'd you go..." I murmured, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
I sat up slowly. The robe she'd worn last night hung from the post of the bed. Her scent still clung to the pillow—jasmine and something darker, warmer. I tried not to breathe it in too deep.
Didn't work.
I stood, dressed in the clothes I'd worn the day before—slightly rumpled, still smelling faintly of her. The villa's marble floor was warm underfoot, like it knew I'd be walking it. The hallway outside was just as silent.
I didn't call her name.
It felt wrong somehow—too loud for the kind of morning this was. Instead, I let the house guide me.
Candles flickered to life in alcoves as I passed. The air stirred around me, nudging gently, like invisible fingers turning my shoulders when I hesitated at a hallway.
She wasn't in the library. Not in the east wing. Not the dining hall, either—though breakfast had been laid out already, fresh fruit and warm rolls and tea that steamed like it had just been poured.
The house was awake.
But she wasn't here.
I moved past the arched entry to the courtyard. Vines curled along the stone, brushing against the edges of my sleeves like they were curious. A small orchid bloomed open beside my elbow when I passed. The house liked me.
Or it liked her liking me.
Finally, I turned the last corner and stopped.
There she was.
Standing barefoot in the conservatory. Framed by green things—moon lilies and trailing vines and wild roses still damp with dew. The sunlight through the glass panels gilded her skin like a memory. She had her back to me, one hand resting on the edge of a stone table, her other fingers lightly brushing a single unfurled rose.
For a second, I didn't speak. Just watched her.
Watched the way she moved—still, deliberate, like every part of her belonged in this place. Like she'd grown from the earth instead of time.
Then, quietly, "You gonna keep disappearing before I wake up?"
She didn't jump. Didn't startle. Just turned her head slightly.
"I didn't want to wake you."
"I'd rather wake up next to you than in an empty bed," I said before I could think better of it.
She turned fully then. No robe this time—just a soft, sheer dress that floated when she moved, too elegant to be accidental.
"I forget," she said, walking toward me, "how... earnest you are."
"Not sure if that's a compliment."
"It is," she said, stopping just in front of me.
I searched her eyes—those garnet-dark depths that always looked like they were thinking too many centuries at once.
"You okay?" I asked.
A pause.
Then: "Yes."
I raised an eyebrow.
She smiled faintly. "I just needed to feel the day begin. There are mornings when time sits differently in my chest."
I didn't understand what she meant.
But I didn't need to.
I reached for her hand.
Her fingers laced through mine—cool, smooth, grounding.
We stood there like that, in the garden-light hush, as lovers.
I leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Next time, just stay."
She turned her face, caught my mouth with hers in something soft, brief, warm.And for a second, the centuries didn't matter. The secrets didn't matter.
Only this did.Only now.
Silence again.
But this time, it wasn't heavy. It stretched between us like silk — warm and smooth, stitched with things neither of us said aloud.
Then she tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Your sister's probably wondering why we haven't shown up yet."
I groaned. "She probably thinks we're doing something scandalous in bed."
A smile curved her mouth — wicked, slow. "Are we not?"
Blood rushed to my ears. "Not yet."
She laughed, low and sultry, the sound curling down my spine like warm smoke. It wasn't fair — the way she looked at me like she already knew how I'd taste again, how I'd sound when I gave in.
"Come on," she said, lacing her fingers with mine. "Let's go pretend to be responsible, polite, and properly dressed for five minutes before I drag you back to bed."
There was a promise in her voice — silk wrapped around a blade. I swallowed.
The villa sighed as we left. The candles in the hallway flickered brighter as we passed, shadows drawing back like the house didn't quite want to let us go. Her feet were silent against the marble, but mine echoed behind hers.
Just before we reached the dining hall, I tugged her hand gently, pulling her to a stop.
"Seraphine."
She turned to me, brows lifting.
The light caught her hair like fire in dark water. Her lips parted slightly. Waiting.
I didn't know what I was about to say — not exactly. I just knew it was sitting in my chest like a weight I hadn't named yet.
"I know this was never supposed to be... complicated," I said quietly. "But it is. At least for me."
Her expression didn't change — not much. But something flickered in her eyes. Something that almost looked like fear and longing.
I took a breath. "You don't have to say anything. I just... needed you to know."
She stepped closer.
One hand cupped my cheek. Her thumb traced the edge of my jaw like it was something precious. "I've lived long enough to know most things are complicated," she murmured. "But I don't regret you."
The words lodged in my chest.
Before I could say anything else, she rose on her toes and kissed me — slow and deep and full of quiet understanding. Not lust. Not possession.
Just want.
And maybe something deeper we weren't ready to name yet.
Then she stepped back, eyes still on mine. "Come on," she whispered. "Before she comes looking for us and finds more than she wants to see."
I exhaled, laughed under my breath, and let her lead me the rest of the way.