In case that does happen, I should have preparations in place to keep her safely contained. Maybe not forever, but long enoughto remind her that I can supply her with everything she needs to be happy with me, where she belongs.
Desire pulses through me at the memory of her locked in the suite connected to my quarters, where only I could reach her. However, it’s quelled when two figures enter from the shadowed corridor, and everyone in the room hushes.
Ambrogio strides forward first, the original vampire radiating power that ripples outward. He’s no longer the fragile corpse the Blood Coven resurrected a year ago. Where his skin was once translucent and webbed with dark veins, it now gleams like polished marble. His red-gold eyes, deep as the void and just as ancient, sweep over the assembled coven with cold assessment.
Behind him walks Gwen, her violet eyes blazing with devotion so intense it borders on madness. Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and she’s draped in a crimson gown that seems to flow like liquid around her body. An ancient amulet gleams around her neck—one of the countless relics she collected over centuries in pursuit of her obsession to resurrect Ambrogio.
Ambrogio gazes around the room, locking eyes with each of us, and everyone stills.
“Tonight, we’ll witness an evolution the world has never seen before,” he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. “It’s time for us to make history.”
With those simple words, Zara, Morgan, and Willow take their positions around the altar at the center of the room. Zara stands at the head of it, her tall figure imposing in black robes. Morgan takes her place at the right side, fire dancing at her fingertips, while Willow positions herself at the left, her eyes wide and slightly scared.
“On this night of the new moon,” Zara begins, “when darkness reigns and magic waits patiently in the shadows...”
“We stand at the threshold of transformation,” Morgan continues, raising her hands as flames spiral from her palms and up her arms.
“From magic, we bring strength and life,” Willow adds, her voice softer yet no less confident.
Together, their voices blend in perfect harmony: “From darkness, power will rise.”
Zoey shivers against me, sending a primal satisfaction through my body at the fact that she seeks shelter in my touch, depends on me, and trusts me enough to remain by my side.
My fingertips trace circles against her back, reinforcing my claim with every small, insistent movement. But as we watch the ceremony unfold, my thoughts drift to Riven, the brother I almost had and so quickly lost.
Despite everything, a part of me wishes he were here. That he could stand beside me, so we could witness this historical moment together. That he, Sapphire, Zoey, and I could be a family, united in power and purpose.
Such thoughts are useless fantasies now. Riven made his choice. And though the bitterness of his rejection burns cold in my chest, I push it aside. After all, tonight isn’t about what I’ve lost. It’s about what we’re gaining. Zoey and our child represent everything Riven threw away—strength, destiny, and dominion over all.
And so, I return my attention to the ceremony, watching Ambrogio take Gwen’s hand, leading her to the altar with a gentleness that seems at odds with the power radiating from him.
Her eyes shine with devotion as he guides her onto the surface, her gown spilling across the black stone like blood on midnight as he lays her down and kneels before her.
“Do you remember,” Ambrogio asks her, his voice intimate yet carrying to every ear in the room, “the night I found you and our sons?”
Gwen’s smile is radiant. “The winter feast in Corinth. You appeared like a dark angel at the end of the celebration.”
“And you were never afraid,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Not of you,” she replies. “Never of you.”
His fingertips linger on her skin, and with a single nod to Zara, Morgan, and Willow, he silently commands the ritual to continue.
The sisters begin another chant, ancient words that pull at reality itself. The air thickens, charged with power, as they spill their blood and weave their spell around Ambrogio and Gwen.
When they finish, Ambrogio leans over Gwen, cupping her face in his hands.
“Are you ready, my love?” he asks her.
“I’ve been ready for centuries,” she breathes, her voice trembling with anticipation.
His eyes soften, an expression so human it’s jarring on his ancient face. “Then come into the darkness and rise from my power.”
Tilting Gwen’s head back, he exposes the pale column of her throat. His fangs extend, longer and sharper than any vampire’s I’ve ever seen, and the room collectively holds its breath as his teeth pierce her skin.
A soft gasp escapes Gwen’s lips, her back arching as Ambrogio begins to drink. Her eyes widen—first with pain, then with something deeper, darker, and more profound.
Finally, when her heart stops, Ambrogio pulls away, venom glistening on his fangs as he observes Gwen’s body.
