I was hers the second she opened those eyes and whispered“You don’t think I’m desirable?”
Because I do. More than anything.
SEVENTEEN
Cassiel sits silently across the room, his hands folded loosely in his lap, his gaze fixed on her. OnLillien. She’s curled on my bed, motionless, her dark hair spilling like ink across my pillow. Her breathing is even, steady, untouched by the storm that changed her. The aftermath of transformation always looks like this—serene, deceptively calm. But beneath the stillness, something monstrous is stirring.
She hasn’t moved since Cassiel wrapped her in silence and care, crouching beside the bed with a washcloth in hand, wiping the sweat from her brow like she was porcelain—cracked, not yet shattered. I watched him move, slow and reverent, like he was performing some sacred rite. As if cleaning her would preserve her innocence. As if she hadn’t already been torn apart and rebuilt into something new. Something ours.
Sheisfragile. For now. But that won’t last.
Behind me, Bastion stretches with a long groan, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders like a soldier coming down from battle. “I need a fucking fight,” he mutters, flexing his fingers. “All that pussy made me soft.”
Cassiel says nothing, and I don't bother acknowledging the comment either. Bastion’s always loud after he’s quiet too long,like his body doesn’t know what to do with stillness. He yanks his hoodie from the back of the chair and heads for the door without another word.
“I’ll be back before sunrise. If she wakes up possessed or something, call me.”
The door slams behind him. The sound echoes, hard and final, like a gavel dropped in judgment.
I move closer, arms crossed as I study her face. She still lookshuman.That illusion won’t last either. Her soul’s been rewritten. Her body will catch up.
Cassiel rises from his seat and joins me at the edge of the bed. “She’ll wake soon,” he says quietly. “I left clothes for her.”
“Good.” I don’t tear my eyes away. “We need to be gone before she does.”
His head snaps toward me, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “What?”
“She needs to wake up alone,” I repeat, sharper this time. “Figure it out on her own. Feel it without us here to coddle her.”
“She’s newly transformed,” he argues, stepping closer. “She’ll be disoriented. She’ll need support.”
I laugh, the sound low and dry. “She doesn’t need hand-holding, Cass. She needs to stand on her own legs. She needs tofightto remember who she is now.”
His jaw sets, a muscle ticking. He doesn’t like it. But he doesn’t challenge me again, either. Because he knows I’m right.
“She won’t be alone. Not really,” I add, glancing at her again. “We’re bonded now. If anything happens, I’ll know. I’ll come.”
Cassiel exhales slowly, tension still bleeding from every line of his posture. But he turns and walks away, pausing only once at the door before disappearing into the hall.
I wait until I’m sure they’re both gone. Then I step outside, slipping into the darkness. The woods welcome me easily. The night folds around my shoulders, and I scale the low branchesof a nearby oak, finding a perch with a clear line of sight to the window.
I settle in, silent as a blade unsheathed.
And I wait.
Because when she wakes up, the real story begins.
When she wakes, it’s slow. Not groggy, not confused—just gradual, like the way dusk folds into night. Her lashes lift one at a time. She blinks at the ceiling, at the room around her. At nothing in particular. For a moment, her eyes are vacant. But then—there it is. The flicker. A thread catching fire. Awareness sliding back into her gaze like it never really left. I see the exact second memory returns. Not all of it. Just enough.
She stretches. Her body arches like a cat, languid and fluid and too graceful for someone who only just clawed her way back into a body not quite hers anymore. Then she rises and moves toward the pile of clothes Cassiel left for her, and I study the way she dresses—no hesitation, no trembling hands, no cracked mirror of fear.
There’s no panic. No screaming. No tears.
Fascinating.
Instead, she roams.
She walks the halls like a ghost haunting her own life, peering into rooms, brushing her fingertips over walls and door frames like she’s cataloguing what was left behind. She doesn’t call out for us. Doesn’t speak at all. But I know she’s looking. I can feel the quiet in her chest turn into something heavier.
