Seraphina did not open the door immediately.
She stood frozen in the middle of her living room, heart pounding so violently she was certain he could hear it through the wood. The mark beneath her collarbone pulsed once slow, deliberate like a warning, or an invitation. She pressed her palm flat against her chest, trying to steady herself, trying to think.It couldn't be him.
The man from the bar had belonged to a night she had already categorized as a mistake dangerous, intoxicating, finished. She had left before dawn precisely so she wouldn't have to face consequences, questions, or explanations. Men like him didn't come looking. They moved on.
And yet the voice on the other side of the door had been unmistakable,Calm.,Controlled,Certain.
"Seraphina," he said again, not louder this time, but closer. "I'm not going away."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "You don't get to say my name," she called back, surprised by the steadiness of her voice. "You don't even know me."
There was a pause. She imagined him standing there, tall and composed in the narrow hallway, utterly unbothered by her resistance.
"I know enough," he replied. "And you know I'm telling the truth."
The worst part was that he was right.
She took a slow breath and crossed the room, each step heavy with dread. Her hand hovered over the lock. For a brief, irrational moment, she considered pretending she wasn't home. But something deep inside her something newly awakened urged her forward. She opened the door.
Aurelian Blackthorn stood just outside, filling the doorway with his presence. He was dressed simply this time dark coat, tailored trousers but there was nothing ordinary about him. The hallway lights flickered faintly as if struggling to remain steady around him.His gaze locked onto hers instantly.
Relief flashed across his face before he masked it, but she saw it. Felt it. The bond between them tightened, humming beneath her skin like a live wire.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, though the words sounded weak even to her own ears.
"No," he agreed quietly. "But neither should you be unguarded."Her temper flared. "You followed me."
"Yes."
"You tracked me."
"Yes."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be," he replied.
She stared at him, anger and fear tangling together. "Then why are you here?"
His eyes flicked briefly to the hallway behind her, assessing, calculating. "May I come in?"
"No."
The answer was immediate, instinctive.
Aurelian did not move. "Seraphina," he said softly, "there are things happening to you that you don't understand. Things that will draw attention you are not prepared to face."
"And you are?" she shot back. "Prepared to face them?"
"Yes."
The certainty in his voice unsettled her more than threats would have.
She hesitated, then stepped aside sharply. "Five minutes."
He entered without comment, his presence instantly altering the atmosphere of her small apartment. The space felt tighter, heavier, as though it had been forced to acknowledge something far larger than itself.
Aurelian took in his surroundings with a single glance cheap furniture, worn floors, signs of a life lived carefully, modestly. His expression shifted subtly.
"You live alone," he said.
"That's not information you're entitled to," she replied, closing the door behind him.
He turned to face her fully. Up close, he was even more overwhelming. His gaze seemed to peel back layers she hadn't realized she was hiding behind.
"The mark," he said quietly. "It appeared again today."
Her stomach dropped. "You don't know that."
"I do," he replied. "It flared at approximately eleven forty-two this morning. Brief surge. No external damage."
She stared at him in disbelief. "How could you possibly"
"Because I felt it," he interrupted.
Silence crashed between them.
Her voice trembled despite her effort to control it. "You felt something happening inside my body?"
"Yes." "That's impossible."
"In your world," he corrected gently.
She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "This is insane."
"And yet," he said, stepping closer, "you didn't ask me to leave."
Her breath hitched. He was close enough now that she could feel warmth radiating from him, the air between them charged with something dangerous and familiar.
"You left me," he continued. "That was your choice. I respected it."
"By hunting me down?" she snapped.
"By not stopping you," he replied evenly. "You walked away. I let you."
Her chest tightened. "Then why now?"
"Because you're no longer safe."
The words landed heavily.
"What do you mean?"
Aurelian hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes. "You triggered a blood awakening."
She recoiled. "Stop saying things like that."
"Your blood carries dormant magic," he said calmly. "Ancient magic. It was sealed for a reason."
Her head spun. "This isn't real."
"I wish that were true," he said quietly.
The mark flared beneath her skin, responding to his proximity. Heat spread through her chest, unsettling and intimate. She gasped softly, clutching at her shirt.
Aurelian's gaze darkened. "It reacts to me."
Tears burned her eyes not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm of it all. "You did this to me."
"No," he said firmly. "I awakened it. There is a difference."
"That's not better."
"I never said it was."
She turned away, pressing her hands to the counter, breathing hard. "You don't get to walk into my life and rewrite reality."
"I don't intend to rewrite it," he said. "I intend to keep you alive."
She spun back toward him. "At what cost?"
The question hung between them.
Finally, he answered. "Your freedom."
Her heart sank.
"I won't cage you," he continued, reading her expression. "But you cannot continue living like this. Unprotected. Untrained. Unaware."
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "But the world doesn't care what we ask for."
They stood there, locked in a silence heavy with truths neither was ready to fully confront.
Outside, unseen forces shifted.
Eyes turned toward the flare that should never have occurred.
And as Seraphina met Aurelian's gaze, she understood something instinctively, terrifyingly clear:
Opening that door had set events in motion that could not be undone.