Page 97 of Decimation

“You’re safe,” he whispers, and this time the words are not a reassurance but a statement of fact, an unbreakable law of the universe. “Both of you. I won’t let him touch what’s mine.”

I turn my head, and our eyes meet. His are still wild but the storm is passing, leaving behind a fierce, exhausted tenderness.

I reach up and touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. “I know,” I say. “I know.”

But even as I say it, even as I let him gather me against his chest and pull the ruined sheets over us, I feel that serpent of fear still coiled in my belly.

Konstantine is looking.

And in this world of monsters and men, being found is only a matter of time. For now though, I am held in the arms of the most dangerous creature I have ever known. For now, that is enough.

The mansion is quiet when I leave her.

Dawn is still an hour away, the sky outside the windows a deep, bruised purple that reminds me of the marks I left on her throat. I stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a moment, watching Leandra sleep. She’s tangled in the sheets, her hair a dark spill across the pillow, one arm stretched out toward the empty space where I lay. The bite mark on her shoulder is already darkening, a brand that says mine in a language older than words.

I want to crawl back into that bed. I want to pull her against my chest and forget the world outside these walls exists.

Instead, I close the door.

The hallway stretches before me, lined with portraits of people who have been dead for centuries. People who betrayed the Brethren, people who played with fire and got burnt, or so the story goes. I’ve never bothered to verify. This place is full of lies dressed up as history, and I’ve learned that some truths are better left buried.

My footsteps echo on the wood as I descend the staircase. The chandelier above me is dark, but I don’t need light. I’ve walked these halls enough times in the dark to know every creaking floorboard, every shadow that doesn’t belong.

Tonight, the shadows are still.

Waiting. Watching.

He’s already in the foyer when I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Devin Blake stands with his back to me, making a play of examining a painting on the wall, a mediocre depiction of Icarus falling from the sky, wings in flames. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I see his shoulders tense, the slight tilt of his head that tells me he’s listening.

“You called,” he says. “Sounded urgent.”

“It is.”

Now he turns. Devin is not a small man; he’s built in a way that would make you believe giants truly existed. But despite his size, he moves like a blade being drawn from a sheath; smooth, deliberate, utterly deadly.

His hair is cropped short, military-precise, and his eyes are the colour of winter slate. He’s wearing civilian clothes, dark jeans and a leather jacket, clothes meant to make him blend in but they do anything but.

I trust Devin. It’s not a word I use lightly. Trust is a currency in our world, and I’ve seen too many men bankrupt themselves on it, but Devin is different. Devin has something to lose.

Or rather, someone.

“How is Paitlyn?” I ask.

Devin’s expression doesn’t change, he’s too well-trained for that, but something flickers in his eyes. A shadow. A wound that hasn’t fully healed despite the years.

“Fine,” he says.

“Konstantine still doesn’t suspect anything?”

“No.” The word is flat, final.

I nod. This is why Devin is here. This is why I trust him. For two years now he has kept this secret, kept his mouth shut, proven himself loyal to me and all the while controlled enough to not seek vengeance on the man ultimately responsible for his and his wife’s suffering.

“If Konstantine finds out…” Devin starts.

“He won’t.” I cut him off. “Not from me. Not from anyone, but right now, I need you here. I need you to protect someone for me.”