The car looked like it had murdered someone rich and stolen their identity.
Long, sleek, black—something halfway between a luxury wagon and a shadow with wheels. I didn't know what kind of machine it was, but I knew enough to tell it was expensive. Powerful. Dangerous.
Like him.
Darian slid into the driver's seat like he'd done it a thousand times. Of course he had. Of course he was the only one who knew how to drive mortal tech.
I climbed in beside him, and Sylas flopped into the back seat like a prince with zero responsibilities. He kicked his feet up, stretched out like a lazy cat, and yawned.
"Wake me up if we die," he mumbled.
The doors shut.
The car purred to life.
And silence swallowed us whole.
Not awkward silence.
Not comfortable silence either.
The kind of silence that buzzed under your skin. Like static. Like you're waiting for something to detonate.
I tried to stare out the window. I really did.
But every time I caught his reflection in the glass—sharp jaw, perfect profile, the quiet focus in his eyes—I felt like I was being pulled apart from the inside.
My soulmate was driving us through a city I didn't understand, and my body had the audacity to react like this was something romantic. Like it wasn't war.
Gods, I hated this.
I hated how good he looked under city lights.
I hated how calm he was after everything.
I hated how I kept wondering what his voice would sound like if he wasn't always being cold and tactical.
Do not stare.
Do not notice his hands on the wheel.
Do not inhale when he exhales.
The car finally pulled to a stop in front of a building that looked like a glass sword stabbing the sky.
Tall didn't even begin to cover it.
The kind of place built for mortals with too much money and not enough soul.
Inside, the lobby gleamed like a shrine. Black marble. Gold trim. Tall ceilings and cold perfection. Everything smelled like artificial lavender and ambition.
I hated it.
Not because it wasn't beautiful.
Because it was wrong.
It was too clean. Too still. My world didn't look like this.
The immortal world moved. It breathed. It whispered when you walked and bled when you cut it. Even the most powerful palaces had roots and life and sound.
This?
This was a graveyard dressed in silk.
We took the elevator up—of course it was the top floor.
Sylas snored against the wall the entire way.
The apartment was gorgeous. Wide open space, polished black floors, endless windows. A fireplace that looked like it had never been used. Not a speck of dust. Not a misplaced shadow.
It was flawless.
And I hated it, too.
Because it didn't feel real. It felt like something borrowed. Something waiting for its owner to return.
Sylas stretched once and didn't even pretend to care.
"I'm claiming the first room," he said, walking straight down the hall. "If there's no bathtub, I'll scream."
He disappeared.
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, we were alone.
Me.
And him.
No more interruptions.
No more fights.
No more Aven.
No more Sylas.
Just… us.
And I didn't know if I wanted to punch him or ask him to speak.
"I want answers."
He didn't even look back. "We should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be early."
"No," I snapped. "No more dodging. No more missions. No more explosions. You said we'd talk. And we're alone now. So talk."
He walked a few steps toward the hallway. "It's been a long day."
I reached into my boot.
He should've known better.
The knife left my hand before I even thought about it.
It flew fast—straight for his shoulder.
He ducked effortlessly, not even flinching. The blade embedded itself in the wall behind him with a satisfying thunk.
He turned slowly.
"…Where did you even get that?"
"Emergency knife."
He blinked once. And then—he laughed.
Soft. Brief. But real.
Something uncoiled in my chest so fast it hurt.
"Talk," I said again, before my brain could spiral further.
He met my eyes. "You want to know why the dagger matters more than revenge."
No hesitation. No deflection this time.
His voice went quiet. Measured. Deadly.
"It was forged from the Tears of the First Mourning Mother. The Blood of the God of War. The Light of a Dying Star. And the Ash of the First Fallen Immortal."
Each word landed like a blow.
"It was made for one reason only: to remind immortals that even gods can bleed."
I said nothing. But my fists clenched without thinking.
"It's the only weapon that can kill a pure royal vampire," he continued. "That's why it was used to kill your mother."
Breath caught. Spine locked.
"And it's the only weapon that can kill you."
The room swayed. Just a little. Just enough to make the walls feel farther away.
"It's here," he added. "That dagger. In this realm. In this city."
I forced my voice out. "Why here?"
"Because the five kingdoms—Vyrethane, Fenrath, Thalassora, Velmora, and Nymerial—they all agreed. They hid it here because they knew you wouldn't feel it."
"I don't feel anything."
He took a step closer. The space between us felt thinner.
"You're bonded to it," he said. "Whether you want to be or not."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means your blood calls to it. And it calls back. But this realm? The pollution. The chemicals. The radiation. All of it dulls that connection."
"So what—" I snapped. "You brought me here to chase a bond I can't feel?"
"No." He looked me dead in the eyes. "I brought you here because you can still feel enough. If you stop fighting it."
"I'm not fighting it."
His expression said otherwise.
"Try, Wolf," he said softly. "Really try. Block out this world and reach for it. You'll know."
The sound of that name—Wolf—on his lips made something twist low in my stomach.
Like it belonged to me.
Like he did.
But I shoved that thought away and closed my eyes.
The air was thick with chemicals. With noise. With light.
But beneath it… if I reached far enough…
There was something.
A hum. A pull.
Distant.
But real.
Like a thread tied around my ribs.
My eyes snapped open.
"It's here," I whispered.
There was a pause. One breath. Two.
And then—
"I know," he said, smug and calm.
That smile. That smile like he'd been waiting for me to catch up.
"How the hell do you know?" I snapped. "How did you know the dagger was here? That I'd be able to feel it? That I was your soulmate before you ever even saw me?"
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't.
He turned like he was about to walk away again.
So I moved like I had another knife. Twitched my hand just enough to make a threat.
He stopped.
He knew I didn't have another weapon on me.
But he didn't know what I'd do. And something about that amused him.
He turned back around, cocking his head slightly, and dropped onto the velvet-gray sofa like this was just a casual conversation between emotionally-stunted immortals.
"I see the future," he said.
I stared. "You what."
"I see visions. Not constantly. Not perfectly. But enough."
"That's not a thing."
"It is for me."
"Witches don't do that."
"Wizard."
"Whatever."
He held my gaze. "I'm not just a wizard. I'm a hybrid."
The room stilled.
"What kind of hybrid?"
"Half wizard. Half fairy."
I sat down without meaning to.
Witches were powerful enough on their own—masters of illusions, blood sigils, mental attacks, elemental summoning. Ruthless, brilliant manipulators.
And fairies? Real ones, not the palace pawns—
Fairies could control nature. The elements. Light, earth, wind, fire. And the royal ones could bend reality if they tried hard enough.
And he was both.
Of course he was both.
Of course the man fate picked to be my soulmate had to be some impossibly rare fusion of danger and discipline.
Like magic had hand-crafted a weapon and handed it a jawline.
I stood again. I needed a distraction, this was all too much.
"I'm hungry."
Darian blinked. "You're what?"
"I haven't eaten since breakfast," I said, annoyed. "I need food."
"Okay…" he said slowly.
"Where can I hunt around here?"
Silence.
"I like deer best. Not the baby ones—those are gross. But the big stags? Gorgeous. The blood is so warm and thick after a run through the trees. Sweet. And the meat—gods, the meat."
I looked off dreamily. "Ripping through muscle, cracking bone—it's just the perfect meal. Not too stringy if you cook it right."
He stared at me.
Shook his head once. "You're not hunting in the middle of a mortal city."
"Why not?"
"You just described your dinner like it was a murder fantasy."
"It is," I said. "That's the fun part."
He rubbed his jaw. "You'll draw attention. There are cameras everywhere. And apparently, you have no self-control."
"I have excellent self-control. I didn't stab you twice."
"Yet."
"I'm hungry, not homicidal."
"You're always both."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Fair.
He grabbed his keys. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"You're not going to hunt. And I haven't stocked the apartment yet. So I'll take you to get something to eat."
That's when it hit me.
This was… a date.
Or something dangerously close to it.
And worst of all?
I didn't want to say no.
The burger place looked like it had been open since the invention of regret.
It was a 24-hour joint, squished between a pawn shop and a place offering psychic readings and discount tattoos. The windows were fogged, the neon sign buzzed like it was angry at still being alive, and the smell of grease clung to the walls like a ghost.
Inside, it was worse.
Sticky floors. A counter with a cracked menu board overhead. Two workers behind the register who looked like they'd lost all hope sometime after midnight. A few tables scattered with tired mortals, eyes dead, fries soggy.
Darian walked in like he belonged here. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
We ordered—something with meat, something with cheese, nothing that bled—and slid into a booth in the corner, under a flickering light.
I stared at him.
He didn't fidget. Didn't scroll a phone. Just sat there, hands folded on the table like this was completely normal.
I decided to ruin the peace.
"How old are you?"
"Two hundred."
"Yeah. That makes sense." I leaned back. "You've got that brooding immortal cryptid energy."
"I'm flattered."
"What's your last name?"
"I'll tell you when you've earned it."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, mysterious. So on brand."
He just smirked.
"What's it like? Living in hiding for that long?"
"Lonely," he said. "Tiring. Repetitive."
"I almost lost my mind. And it's only been twenty-one years."
"You did lose your mind."
I opened my mouth, offended, but he leaned a little closer across the table.
"And honestly," he added, voice low, "you wear it well."
I stared at him.
The light above us flickered again.
And something shifted in the air—like the space between us got heavier.
"Order 189!" someone yelled from the counter.
Darian stood to get it. I turned to the window, staring at the blur of city lights and trying to pretend I wasn't unraveling on the inside.
He came back a minute later, sliding the tray onto the table. The smell hit instantly—grease, onions, salt, something else I couldn't name.
I didn't wait. I grabbed the burger, took a huge bite—
And instantly gagged.
I spat it into a napkin and pushed the rest away like it had burned me.
Darian froze. "What?"
"It's disgusting," I choked out. "It tastes like… like metal and poison and sadness."
"There's—there's something wrong with it," I said. "I can taste the chemicals. The preservatives. The hormones. The plastic wrap. Whatever oil it was fried in. Even the fake grill flavor. It's like chewing an apocalypse."
Darian stared at me.
Then he looked down at his own burger. "Tastes fine to me."
I gave him a look like he'd just admitted to like licking garbage.
He sighed, leaned back, and muttered, "Of course. Your senses are too strong. Even your taste."
"You don't just smell the hormones and chemicals," he said. "You taste them."
I groaned, glaring at the burger like it had personally betrayed me.
"That," he said grimly, "is going to be a problem."