THE WARDEN'S WHISPER: On the night of prom, the air itself becomes an omen—perfume and blood threading through the same breath. The séance calls for unity, yet every heart beats to a different grief. Love, too fierce for its vessel, bleeds through the seams of rage, staining every vow made under borrowed light. In the hush between laughter and lament, and the veil between devotion and ruin grows perilously thin.
A SHADOW'S CAUTION: angst, confrontation, emotional tension, religious symbolism, mentions of death and violence, grief, make-out session.
The snow outside fell without mercy, the kind of cold that silences the world until even the gods stop whispering. Inside the mansion, the walls breathed warmth.
A beast lulled by candlelight.
The green-haired girl's bare feet brushed against the dark oak floor, each step echoing against shelves carved with wolves and wings. The library was alive; every book hummed with voices older than her pulse.
She traced her fingers over the spines—De Occulta, Ars Obscura, Codex Tenebrarum. They murmured in languages long swallowed by time. She stopped before a shelf that glowed faintly, as if something behind the wood remembered her dream.
“Mundorum Ruina…” she whispered, voice trembling under the dim lights of the library.
The words slid out like a confession. The ruin of worlds. The black sun. Noctis Votary. She had seen it—or him, in sleep: a figure shrouded in eclipse, light bending around him like a wounded halo.
His eyes had been the color of dying fire.
“You call it by many names.” Murmured Fenris behind her, his voice low, velvet over iron, from the doorway. “But none of them do justice.”
Davet turned. The wolf in him was always present, quiet but immense, a gravity she could never escape. He leaned against the carved frame, arms crossed, watching her like she was the only star left in a collapsing sky.
“It came to me again… well, he.” she murmured. “The Black Sun. Noctis Votary. It stood by a river made of glass and told me the Veil had chosen wrong.”
Fenris tilted his head slightly, his raven hair catching the candlelight. “Dreams, or warnings?”
“Neither… I think.” She shrugged. “Memories that don’t belong to me.” She picked up an old Latin text and flipped through the fragile pages until she found the sigil that had burned into her mind that night—a circle split in two by a vertical line, like an eclipse bleeding light.
“Et sol niger resurget in carne mundi,” she read softly.
Fenris smiled faintly. “You still speak it like Pia taught you.”
At the mention of the Italian woman, a softness crossed Davet’s face—brief, but there. “Mater mea secunda…” she whispered under her breath. “She told me language has soul, and Latin bleeds the loudest.”
Fenris moved closer, his steps almost soundless. “Pia was right. You carry her voice still. But why speak of the Black Sun tonight, Davet?”
Her gaze lifted to him, those storm-laden eyes that could bend iron and silence in equal measure. “Because something is waking up…” she murmured, voice low as a blade unsheathed. “Something tied to this sigil.”
She pointed at it—a mark older than scripture, etched into the ash with trembling fingers. The shape shimmered faintly, as though it breathed, remembering its own hunger.
Fenris’ jaw tightened. “Old bloodlines.” His voice a growl buried in centuries. “Witchcraft carved in blood and prophecy.”
“Yes.” Davet whispered, tracing the symbol again as if her touch might calm it. “They guard the Veil, and he… the Mundorum Ruina… he breaks it. Their paths are meant to collide.” Her throat tightened, words came like confession, reluctant and aching. “But…”
The hybrid swallowed hard, the firelight pooling in her eyes like green glass and grief. Fenris watched her, his shadow folding over hers, a creature forged in her storms, bound not by loyalty but something older, wordless.
“He’s one of them…” She breathed.
The flames cracked—a low sound, as if the fire itself bowed to the truth. Fenris stepped closer, his presence wrapping around her like armor and omen.
“You’ve seen him?” he asked, softly now.
Davet nodded once, the motion fragile. “Only his shadow.” Her gaze dropped to the sigil, where the smoke coiled and pulsed like a living heart. “But his heart was unmistakable. It carried destruction, yes…” She exhaled, the air trembling with unspoken sorrow. “But also… sorrow and light. Like he was torn in two pieces. Like me, Vánagandr.”
He said nothing. The wolf within him stirred, recognizing the quiet ache that threaded through her words. That strange, shared ruin between them. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of fire breathing and the world remembering old names it should have forgotten.
She shut the book and looked up at Fenris, a small smile curving her lips, the kind that never reached her eyes but it was sincere and warm.
“He doesn’t know yet… But the ruin of worlds already walks among us.”
The wind howled against the windows. In the distance, the snow thickened, swallowing the moon whole.
Fenris turned, his feet whispering on the floor like torn wings. “Then it’s already too late, Hell.” he muttered, starting toward the door.
“He’s always being held by a girl.” He froze. Davet’s voice cut through the cold.
Fenris stopped mid-step, slowly, he turned back. “A girl?”
Davet’s gaze had gone distant, her pupils expanding as though she were staring into another life. “Yes. She looks like him… the boy. Noctis Votary.” Her words trembled. “Though her eyes are different. They’re purple. Deep purple. Like bruised amethyst—like something that’s been dying beautifully for too long.”
A flicker crossed Fenris’ face, confusion and recognition stitching together. “And what is she doing?”
“She looks… vengeful.” Davet whispered, voice low as a prayer, as if naming the vision might summon it fully into this world. “She’s always staring at another boy with bright green eyes. So bright they almost hurt to look at—like shards of spring trapped in winter’s throat.” Her breath shuddered, and for a moment her eyes flickered neon green, reflecting what she saw. “And he looks at her. Cold, hungry… hollow. The way predators look at their prey before devouring them.”
“You think she wants to kill him?” Fenris asked, stepping closer. The girl shook her head.
Her voice softened, trembling on the edge of awe and sorrow. “There’s something else beneath it. As if he’s starving for her—starving for the same thing he means to destroy. His gaze shakes between devotion and damnation, and she—” Davet’s throat tightened. “She doesn’t fear him. She meets that hunger with her own. It’s like they’re both caught in the same fire, burning each other to stay alive.”
The air between her and Fenris grew heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath. Snow moaned against the windows, and Davet’s next words came out in a tremor.
“She isn’t only vengeful. She’s grieving. As if love and ruin were born in her chest on the same night—and now, every time he looks at her, she remembers the end.”
Fenris frowned. “You know who he is?”
Davet shook her head, a small, haunted motion. “No. But I can feel what she feels. Rage. Love. Betrayal. It’s all tangled together like thorns.”
The God-Devouring Wolf took a step closer, his tone darkening. “These visions—this ability to see memories that aren’t yours... it shouldn’t be possible. You already carry your vampiric gifts, more than most. So what is this?”
Davet’s lips parted, her breath a curl of frost. “Maybe it’s because I’m tied to the shadows,” she murmured. “They remember things no one else does.”
For a moment, silence held the room, sentient, like the air itself was listening.
Then Fenris turned away again, his expression carved from stormlight. “Shadows have long memories, Davet. They always demand a price.”
When he was gone, the wind returned, brushing her cheek like a whisper from another world.
The Hellhound stood alone, her thoughts spiraling back to the faces she didn’t know but somehow carried in her dreams.
She thought of the boy with the green eyes—merciless, incandescent, carved from something older than mercy itself, staring into the girl’s face as she cradled the body of the Mundorum Ruina. Snow and ash seemed to fall behind them, though perhaps it was only memory decaying into vision.
There was hatred between them, yes, but threaded through it was a terrible tenderness. A wound disguised as love, bleeding through the silence. Whatever had happened between them, or was yet to unfold, would undo them both. It would devour them from within, like a slow and beautiful death that mistook itself for devotion.
Her breath trembled. She could feel it—the pull, the inexorable thread binding them across lifetimes, across ruins. They were entwined by something she could neither name nor sever, something older than flesh and crueler than destiny.
In the pit of her stomach, she knew the ruin to come had already begun and it began with them.
HEMLOCK GROVE, PENNSYLVANIA.
The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the room was already exhaling boredom. Half the students were packing up early, backpacks unzipped and pencils abandoned. The scent of acetone and overcooked experiments still lingered in the air like ghost fumes.
Mrs. Kepler droned on about lab safety for the fourth time that week, her voice barely louder than the hum of the overhead lights.
Baelor sat at the back, hunched in his chair, long legs stretched out beneath the lab table like he owned the floor. His safety goggles dangled from one wrist like a bracelet, half-melted candle wax still on his gloves from the botched combustion test he’d done with Peter earlier. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing faint ink smudges and a scar that looked like it belonged in a story he didn’t plan on telling.
Next to him, Heather was still scribbling the last line of her lab notes, hair tied up messily, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth. She had this way of frowning in concentration that made her seem like she was solving something bigger than a titration formula.
Baelor watched her for a beat too long before lazily flicking a pen cap at her notebook.
She looked up. “You gonna start setting things on fire again, or…?” she asked, brow raised.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Depends if Peter dares me again.”
Heather smiled, and for a second, the lab didn’t smell like chemical regrets anymore.
The bell rang. Scraping chairs, chatter, the shuffle of sneakers. Students started pouring out.
Baelor stayed seated. He didn’t even look at her when he spoke next, just tilted his head slightly in her direction, his voice low and even, like it wasn’t a question—just a suggestion he didn’t care if she took or not.
“You going to that school thing tonight?”
Heather blinked, caught off guard by the change in subject. “The party?”
He nodded once. Still not looking at her. Just picking at the edge of a burn on the table, fingernail scratching char. “Yeah. That.”
“I don’t know. Depends.” she murmured cautiously. “You going?”
Baelor finally looked at her. His eyes were unreadable, but something shifted in them—something quieter than interest but louder than boredom.
“If I did…” He murmured standing slowly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You’d go?”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking me to go… with you?”
Baelor gave a slow blink, like the question hadn’t occurred to him in that exact way. “I’m asking if you’d rather stand around with a bunch of drunk idiots without someone who knows how to make an exit.” He said dryly. “That’s all.”
Heather tried not to smile. She failed. “I’ll think about it.” she said.
He walked past her, hand brushing the doorframe as he left. His voice floated back lazily over his shoulder. “Try not to blow up the next lab without me.” And just like that, he was gone.
Baelor walked the hallway of school in silence, was he actually asking a girl out?
His cheeks flushed for a minute, but he quickly gained composure as he stepped to the courtyard, the air outside still smelled like rust and sunburnt leaves.
The courtyard buzzed with the final hour of freedom before curfew kicked in—the golden lull between the last bell and dusk. Letha was sitting on a stone bench with her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, flipping through a textbook she wasn’t reading. Peter stood beside her, picking at the frayed hem of his hoodie, staring off toward the track where freshmen were still dragging their feet in gym class.
Heather arrived first, slipping through the side gate like a rumor. He moved like shadows had taught him how—quiet, effortless, and with just enough confidence to irritate everyone.
She came from the west wing doors, backpack slung one-handed over her shoulder, the top of her dress peeking out from beneath her black cardigan. There was an energy around her that prickled the hairs on everyone’s arms—something stormy, charged, as though she’d just walked out of a thunderclap.
“Look who’s suddenly social!” she called out, her voice cutting through the hum of chatter. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, sharp and knowing. “Inviting people to parties now?”
Baelor didn’t respond right away. He slid his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, gaze flicking toward Heather for half a second before settling back on his twin.
He could already feel it—her magic, thin as smoke but crawling under his skin like a warning. That familiar hum in the air meant she’d done it again—used her Sight, or worse, whatever blood-born trick she’d inherited from their grandmother.
“You didn’t just hear that, did you?” He muttered, brow furrowing.
She tilted her head, feigning innocence, though her smirk deepened. “Didn’t have to. Some things just… reach me.”
Baelor exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half annoyance. “Yeah, sure. That’s one way to put it.”
The wind rose, just once, like the air itself was laughing in her favor.
“Relax, Bael.” She said softly, stepping closer, her tone somewhere between teasing and prophetic. “I didn’t see everything. Just enough to know something’s about to change.”
Baelor wanted to roll his eyes, to say she was being dramatic again, he couldn’t. Because he’d learned long ago that when his sister felt something emotive, the world usually followed.
“Just trying to make sure she doesn’t get bored to death.” He answered flatly, praying to the gods that his face didn’t turn red. “You looked like you had that covered.”
“Ouch…” She muttered, mock-wounded. “Here I thought we shared everything, Bael.”
Peter let out a low whistle, cracking a grin. “She got you there, man.”
Heather blinked between them, a little confused, a little amused. Letha leaned forward, curious.
“Heather.” His sister called all faux-casual charm, a glowing smile plastered on her face. “He ever invite you somewhere and not pretend he was doing you a favor?”
Before Heather could answer, Peter tilted his head toward the building. “Hey, where’s Roman?”
Everyone went quiet for a second.
Then Letha sighed. “He’s probably messing around with that girl from Advanced Literature again.”
“In the second floor bathroom.” Peter added. “The one that always smells like lemon disinfectant and weed.”
“Romantic.” Baelor deadpanned, a smirking tugging on his lips.
His twins’ face didn’t move, but the change was instant. Like someone had flipped a switch just under her skin.
Or, how Baelor liked to call it, the flickering.
Suddenly, the breeze kicked up, harder than it should have. Leaves scattered across the courtyard like they were running from something. Clouds slid fast across the sun, cooling the air sharply.
Peter glanced up. “Uh… weather witch moment?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m fine.” But her voice was thinner than usual. Brittle, almost. Her jaw was too tight.
Baelor stepped closer, voice dropping. “Hey…”
She didn’t look at him. Just stared off toward the parking lot where Roman’s car sat empty. “I said I’m fine.” She retorted, and the wind picked up again. A nearby lamppost buzzed, then flickered out.
Heather looked around, alarmed.
Letha put a hand on her arm gently. “Hey… come on. Let’s walk. We’ll find him later.”
“He doesn’t need to be found.” She retorted quietly. “He’s exactly where he wants to be.”
Baelor, still silent, watched her with something unreadable in his gaze. Then he murmured low, for her ears only. “You’re allowed to be mad, you know.”
The girl finally looked at him, eyes dark and glassy. Her mouth curled—not into a smile, but something close to grief wearing lipstick. “I’m not mad.” Her twin shot back. “I’m just tired of pretending like I don’t notice when he disappears.”
And just like that, the wind calmed.
Peter gave a small shrug, trying to lighten the air. “Well… party tonight should be fun.”
Baelor looked toward Heather. “Only if she shows.” he muttered.
Y/N's brows shot up again. “Oh, I’m definitely going now.” Her smirk returning—duller this time, but still sharp. “Can’t miss Baelor in flirt-mode. It’s practically a natural disaster.”
Even through the storm still smoldering behind her ribs, that got a laugh.
“I’ll pick you up at 9:30. Be ready, Van Helsing.” She said to Peter, hearing the bell ring for the last time in the day.
The air shimmered faintly, thick with residual magic.
Crickets held their breath. Even the grove stood still.
Six-year-old Gaia and Gael stood ten paces apart in the clearing behind the manor. Their hands were small but steady, faces marked with focus far beyond their years. Between them, the grass trembled—unseen tension crackling like the charged silence before a thunderstorm.
“Remember.” Their older sister murmured gently, crouching beside Gaia. “You’re not fighting each other. You’re measuring yourselves. Stay in control.”
Gaia gave a quick nod, her curls catching firelight as her little hand twitched with spark—green-gold motes of living energy flickering over her palm.
Across the field, Baelor placed a steadying hand on Gael’s cheek. “No fire in the trees this time.”
“That was one time.” Gael muttered, but her grin was devilish.
“No showboating.” Baelor warned, placing a kiss on her head then stepped back.
At the edge of the field, Irene stood like an old statue carved into dusk. Her honey-brown eyes didn’t blink, arms folded across her chest. A soft breeze tangled in the black strands of her braid. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
The twins raised their hands.
A soft vibration rippled through the air as Gaia conjured a wall of ivy-laced stone, quick and graceful. Not brute force—creation. Her brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as the spell strained, stone pushing from the soil like a heartbeat. Gael grinned, eyes glowing faint white as she whispered a wind into being—then pushed forward with a cutting arc of air, sharp as blades but slow, measured.
The wind hit the wall and cracked it—splintered vines flying like ribbons. Gaia stumbled back, surprised but not shaken. She recovered, dug her heels into the dirt, and clapped both palms to the ground. Roots answered. They always answered.
Gael turned, felt them coming—coiling like snakes, like arms ready to drag her down—but raised a single hand and clenched.
Everything stopped mid-motion. The roots froze. Gaia’s power shuddered—halting.
Across the field, the twins shared a glance.
“She’s improving her conjuring.” Baelor murmured.
“But Gael’s learning how to freeze flow.” Y/N added, eyes flicking between the twins. “That’s not just power—it’s interruption. That’s Nana’s technique.”
As if on cue, Irene finally spoke—softly, but the air bent around her words.
The twins didn’t complain. They reset their stances—tired but eager. Sweat on their brows. Magic thick under their fingernails.
This wasn’t play. Not for children of the Darkhavens. Not when bloodlines pulsed with old gods and older grief.
Gaia exhaled, and this time, lit the ground beneath her with bioluminescent moss. Gael responded with mist. Obscuring. Distracting. The grove around them began to react—trees leaning in, leaves vibrating with latent power.
Behind her clipboard of mental notes, Y/N stood straighter.
“They’re starting to draw from the land.” she whispered.
“They’re learning its language.” Baelor replied.
From her distance, Irene finally smiled. This was the beginning of their storm.
By the third round, the grove had grown quiet again, too quiet. The kind of hush that only followed serious magic.
Gaia’s fingers were trembling. Her moss had faded. Gael’s mist clung to the trees, but her shoulders drooped, lips pale. Still, they stood. Neither cried. Neither quit.
They just waited, breathing hard, waiting for a verdict.
Irene stepped forward from the shadows like the spirit of dusk itself, hands still clasped behind her back. Her boots made no sound across the dead leaves. Only the whisper of her voice reached them.
Gaia exhaled shakily. Gael swayed where she stood.
Their older sister stepped between them and crouched, first touching Gaia’s cheek, then reaching over to brush Gael’s damp hair from her forehead.
“You did amazing. I mean it.”
“Did I win?” Gaia asked, too softly.
“Did I win?” Gael followed, louder.
Baelor let out a single snort of laughter behind them. “You both lost. But better than last week’s disaster.”
That earned twin scowls—mirror images.
Irene, meanwhile, said nothing for a long time. When she finally spoke again, her voice had the weight of stone in riverbeds, weathered and permanent.
“Gael. You’re clever. Too clever. Control will be your salvation or your destruction. Learn the difference.”
She blinked up at her, confused.
“And Gaia…” She straightened. “You draw beautifully. But you do not yet listen to what the earth tells you. It is not your weapon. It is your equal. When you understand that, you will no longer tremble.” Gaia’s chin quivered, but she nodded hard.
Without another word, Irene turned and disappeared between the trees, fading into shadows like smoke. Her silence left a hollow in the clearing.
“Let’s get you clean up.” Neven's voice echoed through the space.
“Dad!” The twins shout out in unison, running to his arms.
“Hey, dad.” The older pair murmured in unison. Neven smiled kindly, reaching his eyes.
They still spoke at the same time… every once in a while. And for a minute, he saw them as kids again. Not weighed by their future role, much less like heirs. Just mirrors of each other. His children.
“You’re early.” Gaia murmured, touching her father’s face.
“I know…” he murmured, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Your mom said something about some beignets she wanted… had to run to the bakery and used it as a perfect excuse to return home early.”
Gael giggled on his arm, nuzzling her head on his neck.
“Wanna grab a drink upstairs?” Y/N murmured to Baelor when Neven started to walk towards their home. Her brother nodded silently, following his fathers steps.
Once they step inside, they heard giggles from the master bedroom. Baelor smiled heading to the kitchen, finding Irene with a cup of tea.
“What’s the occasion?” The black haired Darkhaven asks, sipping her tea like Hemlock Grove wasn’t a chaos at the moment.
Baelor shrugged. “We’re just sharing a drink before the party.”
Irene stands then, her braid slicing down her back like a blade. Polished, deliberate, and dangerous. The faint sound of her chair moving across the floor feels like punctuation, the quiet warning of a woman who has seen too much to believe in casual celebrations.
However, Baelor always noticed the small things—details most people would overlook. Especially how his sister and grandmother always wore their hair braided, dark ropes bound tight against the pull of wind or worry. It wasn’t vanity. It was ritual. Control. Both of them were creatures of composure, women who folded their grief neatly and tucked it somewhere no one could reach. They carried silence like an heirloom, the same way they carried their power.
His mother on the other hand, was a different kind of creature for him. Her hair was almost always down, loose waves spilling over her shoulders as if refusing to be tamed. She laughed often, cried easily, spoke her heart without hesitation. There was something alive in the way she moved—her emotions were just another current of magic, unrestrained, honest.
She was the warm breeze when their house felt like it was made of cold stone.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” She whispered walking slowly to the bar, and grabbing a bottle of wine.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nana.” He mumbled. His cheeks flushed.
“I’ve known you before you were born, my boy.” Baelor scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Sauvignon Blanc.” She grabbed the bottle, handing it to him. “It’ll help set up the mood.”
“We’re gonna be at the balcony.” He said, taking the bottle and two cups.
“I know. Now go, your sister’s waiting.”
The voice of his twin echoed through the manor, so loud he could have sworn she was enhancing her voice.
“And good luck with Ravenwood.”
He froze for a minute. Then headed to the balcony.
Irene smirked. Oh, tonight’s gonna be fun.
Baelor Darkhaven reached the main balcony of the manor. It hummed with quiet magic beneath the surface, but out in the space, the air was still. The night breeze was soft against their skin when he sat, heavy with pine and distant smoke from the chimneys below. The twins sat side by side on the old balcony rail, legs dangling into the dark, overlooking the woods that wrapped around Hemlock Grove like a secret.
The sky was an indigo bruise, stars barely pricking through. Below, the forest whispers in hushes, like it knows things it’ll never tell. A full bottle of wine sits between them—white, rich. A faint ember glows at the end of a joint Baelor took out of his pocket, and now rested on his fingers as he took a slow drag and exhaled toward the sky, smoke curling like thoughts too delicate to say out loud.
“They’ll say we’re late. Again.” The boy murmured, voice low, almost amused.
“Let them. It’s not like the party starts until we walk in anyway.”
She takes the joint from his hand, fingers brushing. He watches her—her profile lit by the soft gold spill from the manor’s windows behind them. Her lips part as she inhales, holding it like a secret before she releases a gentle breath, clouding the space between them.
“I hate pretending it’s all fine. Like none of us are carrying ghosts in our pockets.”
“It’s what we do best, isn’t it? Smile like our hands aren’t stained.”
“You sound like Nana now.”
“Well, someone has to keep the mood grim. It might as well be me.” She laughs, nudging him gently with her shoulder. A lull stretches between them—not awkward, but thick with shared history.
They’ve always existed like this, between silences, between spells, between everyone else’s expectations.
Baelor pours them each a small glass from the wine bottle. The liquid glints soft yellow in the moonlight.
“To surviving another week without hexing anyone.” Baelor murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
They clink, gentle. Sip. The alcohol is warm and velvet on the way down.
“Remember when we used to climb that old oak by the fence? Before everything got complicated?” His sister whispered, nostalgia clinging to her ribs.
“You cried the first time you fell. I told you I’d break the branch that betrayed you.”
“You did. You climbed right back up and kicked it till it cracked.”
They both laugh softly, the sound settling in their chests like something sacred.
“Sometimes I miss her… The girl I was. Before we had roles to follow, before magic demanded everything.”
“She’s still there. You just wear more armor now.” She looks at him now, the kind of look that only exists between twins who’ve known each other’s hearts from the womb.
“Thank you…” Her voice is a soft whisper under the moonlight, embracing how Baelor always held her close when the world was too much.
“For what?” He asks, confused.
“Still being here… even when he leaves.”
She leans her head against his shoulder. He rests his chin lightly against her hair. The joint sits forgotten, ash curling at its end. The wine darkens in their glasses. Somewhere inside, music starts to play—someone getting impatient. But out here, in the dark, the twins take their time.
It isn’t often they are quiet together. The house always hums with voices, footsteps, arguments over who inherited whose temper. But here, on the edge of the balcony, where the lamps don’t quite reach—they are just Baelor and Y/N. Not heirs, not witches, not the children of a legacy too heavy for their years.
Just two hearts that learned to beat side by side before they ever learned to speak.
He feels her breathing slow, the way it did when they were small and afraid of storms. She still hides her tremors behind laughter, but Baelor has always known where the cracks run deep. “You’re thinking too loud…” he murmurs.
Her lips curve faintly. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
The night wind stirs her hair, and he thinks of all the years they’ve spent carrying each other through fire, water, earth, air, shadows, blood, monsters. How her hand found his in every grief, how his shadow stood guard behind hers. There’s something sacred in their silence, something that belongs only to twins who have seen the same ghosts and kept the same secrets.
For a moment, he wished time would still itself entirely—let the ash fall, let the wine spill, let the song inside fade. Just to keep her here, leaning into him, the dark around them thick with unspoken things.
Because Baelor knew that eventually, Roman would make her choose again—like he did when they were kids. Her brother or his lover. Her blood or her ruin. He was selfish like that; always had been. Roman took and took, until even silence felt like surrender. And his sister, for all her sake, had always been soft when it came to him.
The boy could already see it. That slow unraveling of her certainty, the way she’d start defending Roman with that tremor in her voice, pretending she wasn’t hurting. It would end the same as before: her caught between love and loyalty, trying to hold two worlds that refuse to touch.
He held her a little closer now, memorizing the weight of her head against his shoulder, the quiet steadiness of her breath. Because soon she’ll drift back to where the sorrow lives, back to the gravity of Roman Godfrey. And Baelor will be left with the same ache he’s carried all his life—knowing he never means to hurt her, but being the one who always picks up the pieces.
The manor buzzed with a strange energy—part magic, part nostalgia, part mild parental panic. Somewhere in the old record room, a forgotten jazz vinyl spun under a faint enchantment, as if the walls themselves were humming in approval that the twins were, for once, behaving like normal teenagers.
“Normal” is a generous term.
Baelor stood in front of his mirror, buttoning the long black trench coat over his all-black ensemble. Slick, sleek, precise. Hair combed back lazily, dark sunglasses perched on his nose, boots shone just enough to catch the faint silver glint from his rings.
Neo. Not costume-party Neo. Full Matrix Reloaded chic.
His sister leaned against the doorway of his room, arms crossed, one eyebrow high.
“You know you look like you just stepped out of a hacker cult, right?”
Baelor didn’t look up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She smirked and stepped in, black boots clacking softly against the marble floor. Her dress was velvet, dark as ink, and corseted up the back with black hooks. Her hair was braided like rope magic, loose strands falling around her cheekbones, and her lips were painted the kind of red that left memories.
“Still think my outfit’s more powerful.” The girl mocked, tossing a scarf onto his bed. “What’s the point of looking like an eldritch widow if I don’t have a cane to match?”
“Don’t.” Baelor half-smiled. “She’s gonna say yes and then start crying about it.”
As if summoned by magic… or maternal instinct, Gabrielle swept past the siblings' wing with a shawl over her arms and an excited glimmer in her chestnut eyes. “Let me see you both—ah! Che Bello! Look at you two! My dark little angels are going to an actual school party. Neven! Neven, come see your children! Hurry!”
Her daughter rolled her eyes. “It’s just a party, Mother.”
Gabrielle ignored her completely, circling Baelor and patting imaginary dust off his shoulder. “You should wear a pendant. Or no… wait, are you sure this isn’t too dark?”
“He’s going as Neo…” The young witch retorted, snorting. “Let him be dramatic.”
Just then, Neven appeared, sleeves rolled, tie loose, a glass of scotch in one hand. “Well, look who decided to play human tonight.” He leaned against the wall, eyeing his son. “Bael, if you get mistaken for a cult recruiter, make sure you at least hand out flyers with our crest on it. Branding matters.”
Baelor smirked under his sunglasses. “I’ll keep it subtle.”
Neven turned to his daughter. “And you—are you attending or hexing?”
“A little bit of both.” she said sweetly, smiling at him.
“Smart girl.” Neven murmured, placing a kiss on his daughter’s temple. She stepped past him into the main hall.
“Nana!” she called. “Can I borrow your cane? The red one, with the blackwood handle?”
Irene appeared a moment later at the top of the stairs, already holding it out, as if she’d been expecting the question since her granddaughter was in the womb.
“I carried this to my own coven’s ascension party.” She confessed, them. Their coven. Her voice spilled with a sweetness she hadn't seen in a while. “If anyone touches you without permission tonight, aim for the kneecaps.”
She laughed and took it with awe and a grin. “You’re a menace, Nana.”
“Survival runs in the bloodline.”
Gabrielle clasped her hands together. “Oh—picture! Wait, just the two of you. Neven, get my phone!”
But it was already too late—Gabrielle was snapping a dozen photos as the twins stood by the staircase. Baelor in his all-black Neo realness, his sister with her black-handled cane and death-witch aesthetic. They didn’t smile. They didn’t have to. The camera caught the unspoken language that only the twins could speak.
When the chaos finally quieted, Baelor was the first to move.
“WOW!—BAEL.” Gaia and Gael appeared in the doorway, staring at their older brother.
“You look like a goth prince—“ Gaia giggled, admiring his tall frame.
“More like a private assassin.” Gael retorted, frowning.
“Thank you, girls.” The older Darkhaven murmured, placing a kiss on their head. “I’m heading out.” He said then, grabbing his keys from the black crystal bowl near the entrance.
Gabrielle’s eyes lit up again. “Oh! Picking someone up?”
He paused. Didn’t answer.
“He’s picking up Heather,” Y/N said for him, smiling. “She’s a Ravenwood.”
Neven gave a low whistle. “So it is a cult recruitment.”
“Snitch.” Baelor slipped on his sunglasses again and opened the door. “Don’t wait up.” He muttered.
Then he was gone—coat sweeping, car already humming in the drive before the door fully shut behind him. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he’d just been. Her fingers curled around the cane, the red cool against her palm. Wind stirred gently through the trees beyond the window, as if the manor itself was holding its breath.
The party hadn’t started yet, but something had.
“I think these wheels will look great on you tonight.” Neven appeared behind her, the keys of his car dangling from his hands.
“NO WAY!“ The girl tried to contain her excitement but it wasn't possible seeing how her father was handing it to her. “Dad, I can drive my car. It’s okay…“
“Nonsense!” Neven smiled. “You look like your great-great-great-grandmother. She loved luxury, so you definitely should take my car.”
Suddenly, the car's engine purred under the glow of the manor’s lanterns, Neven's eye turning a subtle shade of gray, headlights slicing through the mist that had begun to creep across the lawn like an omen. She stood beside it, cloak thrown over one arm, cane tucked against her shoulder, keys dangling from one finger like she’d been born with them.
“Take it easy on the curves.” Neven said as he stepped down from the porch, one brow raised, watching her like she was fourteen again and trying to astral project through a locked door. “This car handles like sin but bites if you flirt too hard.”
“I’m not Baelor.” His daughter replied smoothly, smirking. “I don’t drive like I’m being chased by the Horsemen.”
Neven offered a crooked smile, then handed over the final charm—a protective sigil carved into a small silver coin, worn smooth at the edges. “Slip it into the glove box. Just in case.”
She nodded, slid it in without question. Then, with one fluid motion, she opened the door, tossed her cloak onto the passenger seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and backed out with the kind of practiced elegance that had not come from practice.
In the blink of an eye, his daughter was gone.
She drove through the cold night of Hemlock Grove, her feet resting on the accelerator like it belonged there. With grace and sharp precision.
The drive to Peter's house was short, the air hugging the car like it belonged to it. The Rumancek trailer had a warm flicker of lamplight inside—but then the front door swung open and Peter stepped out like he’d been waiting in costume his entire life.
Tall boots. Worn leather. A long dark coat that billowed behind him, silver clasps across his chest and a wide-brimmed hat tilted slightly forward. His crossbow was plastic—barely—but everything else looked like it had been stolen from a real monster hunter’s grave.
She stared from behind the wheel as he approached.
“Van Helsing?” she asked, amused.
Peter tipped his hat with a grin. “I figured if I’m going to crash a party full of monsters, I might as well dress like someone with job security.”
She laughed, unlocking the passenger door. “Get in, hunter. We’ve got souls to traumatize.”
Peter got in the car, a soft smile on his face. He enjoyed her company, which was weird cause the first time they spoke, the tension was ripping the air. The wolf buckled in, the smell of her perfume threading through the air, something earthy, like rain on stone. He glanced at her profile as she started the engine, her eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights in a way that almost looked supernatural.
“Can’t believe I’m letting you drive me anywhere,” he teased, stretching his legs out. “Last time I saw you behind the wheel, you nearly ran over a trash can.”
“First of all, it was Baelor's fault, second, that trash can jumped in front of me.” She retorted, shifting into gear with a glare that only made him laugh harder.
“Sure, sure. Possessed trash can. Classic witch excuse.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself, pulling onto the empty road. The sky was low and gray, the kind of evening that hinted at something brewing—not quite an explosion, but something close.
For a few minutes, the silence was comfortable. The hum of the tires filled the car, and Peter’s fingers tapped against his thigh in rhythm to the song barely audible from the radio.
“So…” Y/N said finally, “why the Van Helsing getup? You could’ve gone with something simple. Werewolf chic, maybe?”
He smirked, watching her from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, because showing up as myself always goes over great with small-town crowds. Thought I’d blend in as the guy who hunts me for a living.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “That’s dark.”
He shrugged. “That’s life.” Then, after a pause, softer. “Besides, figured it might make you laugh.”
It did. She pressed her lips together, hiding a grin. “Mission accomplished, hunter.”
Peter relaxed back into the seat, the kind of quiet falling between them that didn’t feel awkward anymore. There had been so much tension the first time. Suspicion, unspoken rivalry, that electric awareness neither wanted to name. But now, it felt easier. Like they were both learning to lower their guard, piece by piece.
“You know,” she said after a while, glancing at him, “you’re not as terrible as I thought.”
He laughed under his breath. “Wow. I’ll treasure that glowing review forever.”
“I mean it,” Her yes fixed on the road, but the edges of her voice softened. “The way people talk about you, you’d think you were some kind of danger magnet. That you abandon people when things get… tough. But you’re…” she hesitated, searching for the word, “Normal. In a weird way.”
“‘Normal,’” he echoed, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a deeply mysterious lone wolf, thank you very much.”
She shot him a dry look. “Uh-huh. Very mysterious. Especially with that plastic cross around your neck.”
Peter looked down at the cheap Halloween accessory and smirked. “You wound me, miss Darkhaven.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. The headlights stretched across the empty highway, the trees lining the road like watchful silhouettes.
“Why are you going anyway?” he asked after a bit. “Thought you weren’t the ‘school party’ type.”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “But my brother’s going. My friends are going. I guess I just want to feel… normal for a night.”
He glanced at her, the way her knuckles tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “You don’t strike me as someone who wants to be normal.”
She gave a quiet, humorless laugh, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, well. Sometimes I get tired of being different.”
The words hung there between them—soft, but heavy. Oh, so heavy. Peter turned to look at her properly this time.
In the glow of the passing streetlights, she looked nothing like the untouchable witch everyone whispered about. The shimmer of her family’s name—the Darkhavens, all legacy and myth. It seemed to fade under the sodium light. For a moment, she was just a girl gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, shoulders drawn in as though the weight of the whole world had found its way into her bones.
Her face, so composed in daylight, looked younger now. Vulnerable, even. The silver gleam of her pendant caught the light and flickered across her throat, a small reminder of the lineage she carried like armor. Peter had seen her do impossible things, things that made his blood run cold, but here she was wishing for something as simple as being normal.
It hit him in a quiet, unexpected way. He’d always thought of her as someone far above all this. Unshakeable, proud, almost otherworldly. But hearing her say that, seeing her in this fragile light, he realized how wrong he’d been. She wasn’t made of marble. She was human, burning under too much expectation. A Darkhaven by birthright, a witch by duty… but maybe still just a girl who wanted to go to a dumb school party and laugh at stupid jokes and watch people of her age try to discretly get drunk.
Peter leaned back in his seat, his usual smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “If you can pull off pretending for a night,” he said, voice low, “then maybe I can too.”
She flicked her eyes toward him, brows lifting slightly. “Pretend?”
He gave a small shrug. “Be normal. Not the Romani kid who changes with the moon. Not the freak people whisper about in town. Just… a guy who's driving to a party with a pretty girl and might get another pretty girl to be his girlfriend even though he doesn't know how to do the whole "love thing". ”
She turned her head at that, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Pretty, huh?”
Peter grinned. “Don’t let it go to your head, Darkhaven. I was talking about Letha.”
She laughed. For real this time—small, almost shy, but it reached her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eased a little, and the silence that followed was different. Lighter.
He could still see the legacy in her. The power and the shadows and the bloodlines that whispered in her veins, but he also saw something else. The way she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song, the way she rolled her eyes when she was trying not to laugh, the way she wanted out of everything expected of her, even for just one night.
Peter watched the world blur by outside, the lights, the trees, the dark ribbon of the road. He thought about all the things they both carried. The curses, the expectations, the hunger to belong somewhere.
“Maybe we’ll both get lucky,” he said quietly. “And tonight, no one will see what we really are.”
She smiled faintly, eyes on the road ahead. “And what are we?”
Peter’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost under the hum of the tires. “A little bit broken. A little bit magic.”
Her laughter was softer this time, the kind that sounded like a secret. “Then I guess we make a good team.”
“Normal’s overrated anyway,” he said finally. “People spend their whole lives trying to fit in just so they can die being forgotten.”
She blinked, turning to him briefly. “That’s morbid.”
He shrugged. “You hang around enough graves, you learn a few things.”
“You sound like my grandmother.”
“She’d like you. You’ve got that haunted look she always admired in strays.”
Peter laughed quietly. “And you? You like strays too?”
“Depends,” she murmured, eyes gleaming as the car passed under a flickering streetlight. “Do they bite?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
A beat of silence followed but it wasn’t empty. It felt charged, like the moment before rain starts to fall.
Peter turned his gaze out the window, hiding a smirk. “You know, if you keep talking like that, people might think you like me.”
She let out a soft laugh. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hunter.”
“Fair,” he murmured. “But I think you do.”
She glanced at him, and for the first time that night, her expression softened in a way that almost hurt to look at. “Maybe I will,” she said quietly. “Someday.”
Before they could notice, the school gym had been transformed with cheap string lights, half-wilted decorations, and music that vibrated through the parking lot like it was trying to escape. Teenagers gathered in clusters, laughing too loud, already a few sips into things they shouldn’t have had access to.
The Mercedes pulled in slowly, cutting through the chatter like a knife. Heads turned. Phones lifted. No one ever saw a Darkhaven arrive quietly.
Peter stepped out first, trench coat catching the wind like a movie shot. Y/N followed, cane in hand, cloak billowing around her ankles, heels tapping softly on the cracked pavement. The pair of them looked like they’d walked off a gothic novel cover—or a very cursed Netflix adaptation.
“Remember not to kill the heir of the white tower.”
Darkhaven adjusted her braid over her shoulder. “Shut up.”
They reached the door just as the next bass drop shook the pavement. Peter held it open with a flourish. “Shall we, milady?”
She arched a brow. “Let the haunting begin.” And together, they stepped into the chaos.
Inside, the gym reeked of waxed floors, old basketballs, drugstore perfume, and someone’s poorly hidden vape pen. String lights dangled above like lazy constellations, casting warm shadows over students pressed together in groups, swaying awkwardly to whatever remix of a remix the DJ thought counted as dancing. Peter led the way through the crowd, nodding at a few familiar faces who flinched at his coat and crossbow combo. The witch followed a step behind, her black-handled cane clicking on the hardwood floor with surgical precision.
She saw them before Peter did.
Baelor leaned against the bleachers like he’d always belonged there, one boot resting on the step behind him, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses off but tucked into his shirt collar. His Neo trench coat looked too expensive for a school function, but that had never stopped him before.
Heather stood next to him, dressed in a sleek, black, off-shoulder number—simple but sharp, like she didn’t try but still managed to destroy most expectations. She was laughing at something Baelor had said, but her eyes flickered when she saw them approaching.
Letha was a few feet away, talking to someone with a red Solo cup in her hand, but she immediately lit up when she spotted Peter.
And Roman, of course, was standing just behind Baelor, shirt unbuttoned halfway, bow tie hanging like an afterthought, jaw tense like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever trouble he’d been up to earlier. His eyes locked onto hers the second she entered the room.
She didn’t return the stare.
“Look who’s here!” Baelor muttered with that crooked smirk, straightening up. “Van Helsing and the Queen of Night herself.”
Peter chuckled. “Told you we’d haunt this place.”
Letha beamed and rushed forward, nearly slipping in her platform heels. “Peter! You look amazing!” Then she gave Y/N a slightly more hesitant smile. “You too, miss.”
She tipped her head politely, but her eyes never once drifted toward Roman. Not even when he shifted closer, like he was trying to catch her in his periphery.
Baelor stepped forward and eyed the keys in her hand. “Is that…?”
“Yep.” she said before he could finish. “Dad let me take his car.”
Letha’s jaw dropped. “Your dad? Neven?”
“He never even lets me touch it.” Baelor muttered, half to himself.
She smirked, flipping the keyring on her finger like a charm spell. “He said I drive like a goddess and that Baelor handles corners like he’s possessed.”
Heather laughed, and even Peter whistled. “Damn. That’s not favoritism—that’s worship.”
Baelor rolled his eyes. “He just wanted to be sure she didn’t fly off into a ditch.”
Behind them, Roman hadn’t said a word. He was watching her like she was a problem he couldn’t solve—a riddle with sharp edges. But Y/N? She hadn’t so much as glanced his way. Not once.
Peter noticed it. So did Baelor. So did Roman.
The silence between them pulsed harder than the bass.
She turned slightly toward Heather, offering a sharp half-smile. “You look good.”
Heather blinked, surprised. “Oh. Thanks.”
Still, not a word to Roman. Not even when he shifted again, close enough now that his cologne teased the edges of her senses. He waited—eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he wanted to speak—but she turned toward Letha instead.
“I need a drink.” she said. “You coming?”
“God, yes. I hate this song,” Letha groaned, already looping her arm through hers.
As they walked away, Peter clapped Baelor’s shoulder, falling in step beside him. “Think he’s gonna survive the night?”
Baelor shrugged, watching his twin disappear into the crowd. “Depends how stupid he was this morning.”
Roman didn’t respond. But his jaw clenched. And the storm inside Y/N? Still brewing.
When she stood near the drink table now, cane tucked at her side, leaning slightly as she spoke to a tall boy from her AP English class—Kieran Maddox, the kind of smart-cocky with a lazy drawl and a quiet confidence that made teachers both love and loathe him. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing ink on one forearm, and he held a ginger ale like it was scotch.
He was saying something that made her laugh—not her usual dry, sharp smirk, but a real one. Brief. Bright. She tucked a loose braid behind her ear, gaze flickering up to meet his.
Roman saw the whole thing from across the gym.
The second the laugh left her lips, something dark uncoiled in his chest. That familiar burn, low and fast, like someone had reached in and twisted the vein that fed straight into his pride. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t said a word. And now some mouthy lit nerd was standing where he should’ve been.
Baelor, from his lean, caught Roman’s movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh, there he goes.” Heather grinned, eyes glinting with excitement.
“Can we get popcorn?” Peter asked, smirking.
“Don’t push it.” Baelor murmured but he didn’t stop him.
Roman moved like smoke, graceful, irritated smoke. He slipped through the crowd like a shadow in heat. One second, She was listening to Kieran describe how he thought Frankenstein wasn’t about monstrosity but fatherhood, and the next, a hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist.
She didn't need to turn to see who it was, she knew it was him. Roman.
He didn’t say anything to Kieran. Didn’t look at him. Just stared at her like the noise around them didn’t exist.
“Come with me.” His voice was low. Not a question. Not a threat. Something in between.
Darkhaven’s expression cooled instantly. “Excuse me?”
Roman stepped in closer, jaw clenched. “You’ve made your point.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” He tugged her away from the drink table, cutting through the music and laughter that spun through the gym like static. “Roman,” She hissed, trying to pull back.
He didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, something feral flashing behind his eyes. Kieran’s voice cut through from behind them, confused and a little too loud.
“Hey, man—what the hell?”
Roman turned, slowly. His expression smoothed into something cold, like a mask lowering into place. The gym’s colored lights flickered across his face. Green, blue, red. But his eyes stayed steady, deep green, bright as cut glass.
It wasn’t a shout. It was soft, nearly drowned out by the bass. But it carried. Kieran froze mid-step, mouth still open as if to argue, then went still. His expression blanked, his shoulders slackened. His drink tilted in his hand, spilling sticky liquid onto the floor.
Without another word, he turned and walked away. Roman exhaled sharply, wiping his nose with the back of his hand—a quick, desperate motion, the crimson smear catching the gym’s light. He blinked hard, his focus snapping back to Y/N, whose eyes were wide with disbelief.
“What—what did you just do?” she whispered.
Roman swallowed, his breathing shallow. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
She could feel the magic, or whatever it was, rippling faintly off him, that strange, hypnotic pull that lingered in the air. Something old. Something dangerous. Roman dragged her out of the gym. Away from the main lights. The music still thudded around them, but it was quieter here. Barely.
She didn’t resist. But she didn’t follow easily, either. She knew what happened.
She yanked her wrist from his grasp. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Roman ran a hand through his hair, eyes wild but tired, like whatever he was feeling had been simmering all night. “You were laughing.”
“Yeah?” she snapped. “It happens. Some people don’t ruin the morning and then disappear into a bathroom with the first pair of legs that says hello.”
“That wasn’t—” he paused. Jaw tightened again. “It wasn’t what it looked like. You don’t laugh with people. You’re… difficult to them.”
She laughed, cold this time. “Don’t. That line’s older than your fortune.”
Roman looked at her for a long second. The world around them, the dim lights, the echoing bass, the laughter that had once felt far away collapsed into silence. Just her. Her, standing there in front of him, pulse wild at her throat, eyes sharp enough to cut through him. Silence. She made his head go completely silent.
Not the kind of beautiful he’d grown used to. Maybe he didn't even know the true definition of it. He fucked girls for fun or even boredom. He never saw them as something made to be adored. But Y/N, standing in front of him was something rawer. Terrifying. Her beauty was all flame and fury, the kind that burned through reason and made the air taste like copper. Her hair caught the dim light like wildfire behind door; her anger radiated, vibrant and trembling with life.
She was alive. Alive in the way storms are alive.
Not just existing, but becoming. Her breath came fast, her magic curled under her skin like lightning looking for a place to strike. He could feel it, taste it, the electric hum of her soul brimming with both defiance and heartbreak.
Roman hated it. He hated that he’d made her look like this. That he’d been the one to draw that fire out of her—not in laughter or warmth, but in pain. He’d taken that light and forced it to flicker, to defend itself.
It was always like this, wasn’t it? Everything he touched turned into something darker. He told himself it was instinct, hunger, genetics, but the truth was simpler. He wanted too much. Needed too much. He wanted her to look at him the way she once had—curious, wary, maybe even a little fond. But not like this. Not with this mixture of betrayal and fear in her eyes.
He’d wanted to protect her, maybe even impress her. Some twisted part of him thought he could. But instead, he’d become the thing she had to protect others from.
Her gaze on him felt like a reckoning. And still, God help him, he couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop memorizing the way her chest rose and fell, the trembling of her fingers as she tried to make sense of what he’d done. The way her magic pulsed faintly, golden and aching beneath her skin.
He wanted to reach out. Not to apologize, not even to explain, just to feel that warmth again. To remind himself that she was real, that this wasn’t another dream where everything good slipped through his hands.
But he didn’t move. He couldn't.
He only watched her, bleeding quietly into the stillness, knowing that no spell, no power, no ancient Upir birthright could ever undo this; the moment he crossed a line he didn’t even see until she looked at him like that.
Like she’d just witnessed something she couldn’t unsee. And still, she was so damn beautiful. Beautiful in her fury, her defiance, her refusal to break.
Roman, Roman Godfrey, heir to the tower of monsters, could only stand there, hollowed out by his own longing, and wish he’d been born human enough to deserve her.
“I didn’t like seeing you with him.” He finally spoke.
“Good.” she answered sharply. “Because I didn’t like hearing that you were screwing someone in the bathroom.”
Silence again. Utter silence.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.” Roman admitted. “Even when I’m trying to pretend I don’t.”
She stared at him, breath caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak.
“Then stop pretending.” Before he could answer, she walked past him, cane tapping hard, each step a statement he wasn’t ready to hear.
Roman didn’t follow. He just stood there in the dark, swallowing his own ache.
She stood outside the gym doors, her heart hammering behind her ribs like it wanted out.
Not just from her chest. From the school. From him. From everything.
She stood still for a moment, a feeling crawling in her skin, hand on the metal handle of the gym entrance, staring down at her own reflection in the glass: mascara slightly smudged, braid loose from its knot, lips parted like she’d just remembered how to breathe.
I don’t know how to stop wanting you.
His voice haunted her like it had been carved into the underside of her skin. She hated how fast it had undone her anger. How much she felt it. How much it hurt to hear it.
She took one breath. Then another. Her fingers curled around the handle.
But before she could pull it open… “Don’t.”
Roman. His voice again, low and loaded with warning. She turned slowly, expecting more of the same mess—more jealousy, more excuses. Instead, his expression had shifted.
Something wasn’t right. He looked wired. Edges frayed. That usual arrogant poise replaced with something sharp and dark.
“What did you do?” she asked carefully.
He didn’t answer right away.
Roman’s eyes flicked toward the hallway that led deeper into the school. Students still danced inside. Laughed. Screamed over music. Blissfully unaware.
“The snake.” he said simply. “The one in the hallway that’s beside the chem classroom.” He shrugged, like a kid.
The silence that followed was suffocating. She didn’t move, her cane rooted to the tile floor like a second spine.
“You let the serpent out—there?”
“It needed space.” Roman muttered. “Noise. Chaos.”
She took a step back like the truth had burned. “You unleashed a blood serpent because I was talking to someone?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t twist it—”
“No, you twisted it.” she snapped. “You always do. You can’t handle the idea of not being the center of gravity so you spiral and expect everyone to orbit your damage.”
His jaw twitched. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to see.”
“I wanted you to hurt!” she said, her voice shaking. “Because you keep showing me I don’t matter to you. Not really. Not enough.”
“Then why do you keep choosing everyone else?”
That landed. Hard. Cause it was easier. But he didn’t say it, he couldn’t. Roman stepped back, like she’d actually hit him. The air shifted again—dense, stormy. Somewhere down the corridor, a light flickered.
She turned toward the gym again, hand on the door once more, face pinched with restrained fury.
Roman’s voice cracked through the silence. “Don’t go in there.”
She didn’t turn around. “Why not? Afraid I’ll see you disappear into another girl’s mouth again?”
“No.” he rasped. “Afraid you’ll get hurt.”
She froze. And for a moment, neither of them breathed.
Roman stepped forward, slow, hesitant, like approaching a wounded creature.
“This is too much for me.” he said softly “I don’t know what to do about this, about Baelor, about you.”
The witch turned to face him again—eyes glassy now, mouth trembling. “You don’t have the capacity to love, Roman. It’s sad, but true.”
He was in front of her now. Close. Too close. Roman cupped her face with one hand, the other still half-trembling at his side. “And you do? You run away at the first glance of affection I give you. I ache for you and you act like it’s a Friday night for you, so don’t talk to me about knowing how to love, cause you’re just like me.”
She hated that it was true. Hated that it wasn’t enough to stay angry.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” she whispered.
“You could’ve killed someone.”
No warning. No permission. Just the shattering sound of something breaking loose inside him. The kind of kiss born from years of restraint and ruin, from all the words they’d never said, all the nights they’d spent trying to hate each other into silence. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. It was fire meeting fire—reckless and consuming, as if they could burn the world between them into ash.
Her mouth crashed against his with all the fury she’d kept buried, her breath trembling against his skin. The taste of her was sharp and familiar, like the edge of a blade he’d forgotten he’d bled on.
His hands found her waist, her back, her hair, the curve of her ass. Desperate, searching, trying to anchor himself in her before she vanished again. Her braid had come loose; the black ribbon slipped free, catching for a heartbeat between his fingers before falling to the floor.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she pressed him harder against the wall, her palm flat against his chest as if she wanted to feel his heart break under her touch. Her cane hit the ground with a sharp, metallic sound; a small violence that fit the moment perfectly.
He didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.
Her magic was rising, a low hum beneath her skin. Wild, bright, alive. It met the darkness in him, that Upir hunger he didn't know he had, and for a moment the air between them pulsed, thick and electric, as if the Veil itself was holding its breath.
He kissed her like a man drowning. Her breath was the only thing keeping him alive. His hand gripped her leg, hooking it on him, pressing himself on her. She gasped, not in fear, but in something fierce and startled, and the sound tore through him. It was a sound he knew would haunt him, the kind that made the world tilt and burn.
Her fingers slid into his hair, the silk ribbon long forgotten on the floor, and the static of her power bled into his skin. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t holy. Their teeth grazed, lips bruising, breaths colliding, still, neither of them let go.
His fingers slid up the column of her throat, tracing the warmth there, feeling the pulse that trembled beneath his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, a single tear or maybe sweat glimmering at the edge of her cheek.
When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his.
“You’re still a bastard.”
“I’d be worse without you.” Roman swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. Every instinct screamed to pull her closer; every shred of reason begged him to let go. He could feel the echo of her pulse against his, the rhythm of two beings who had forgotten, for one dangerous second, what they were.
“Good.” she whispered, breath still catching in her chest.
Again, she didn’t remember closing the space between them.
One moment, she was standing on the edge of fury and heartbreak, voice laced with venom, body trembling with restraint.
The next, Roman was in front of her, chest rising unevenly beneath the low flicker of hallway lights. The air between them charged like a storm, thick with all the things they hadn’t said and everything they weren’t supposed to want.
Her breath hitched. His fingers grazed the corner of her jaw. Just enough to make her shiver.
When he finally opened his eyes, she was looking up at him. Pupils blown wide, lips parted, a faint shimmer of gold dusting the edges of her skin where the magic still lingered. He’d seen her furious, he’d seen her afraid, but he’d never seen her like this.
Alive and trembling in his arms, her power tangled with his ruin. In that stolen heartbeat, before the world came rushing back, Roman thought that if this was what damnation felt like, he would never want to be saved.
“Don’t look at me like that.” she whispered. Her voice betrayed her—it wasn’t anger now. It was desire. Hurt. Need.
“I don’t know how else to look at you.”
Then his hand slid to the back of her neck—warm, sure, possessive in a way that made her knees go weak and he kissed her like he’d been starving for it again. Like she was something he could only touch in dreams and nightmares.
It was desperate. It was devastating.
His lips crushed against hers, teeth grazing the softness of her bottom lip as his other hand curled around her waist, dragging her flush against him. She gripped his suit jacket with both fists, grounding herself in the fabric and heat, like if she let go she’d burn alive.
The witch moaned into his mouth before she could stop it, and Roman growled in response—a low, possessive sound, like the Upir in him was clawing toward the surface.
She bit his lip. He gasped.
And then her back was pressed to the cold concrete wall, his thigh slipping between hers this time, anchoring her in place as his tongue slid against hers, teasing, demanding. He kissed like he wanted to ruin her mouth, claim it, leave it swollen with memory.
Her hands moved without thinking—threading into his hair, tugging hard. He hissed against her lips.
“Say it.” She breathed, dizzy from the way his hands were gripping her hips now, tight enough to bruise. “Say you want me.”
“I always want you…” he rasped. “I want you so bad it makes me hate everyone else.” Her pulse thundered in her throat. “You taste like smoke and magic.” He added, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and uneven. “And I’m fucking choking on it.”
Her breath caught. The sound of his voice lodged itself somewhere between her ribs—that raw, fractured confession that felt too human to come from someone not entirely mortal.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together, his breath unsteady, the air thick with the mingling of their power.
She had always known it, of course she had. From the moment she first called the wind, when the world had answered back with the sweetness of rain and old earth. Her magic tasted pure, like air right before a storm, like salt and light, like something born from the bones of the world that still remembered how to love.
But his—His was darker. Ancient. Upir magic didn’t hum; it ached. It was smoke and blood and hunger, a flavor that clung to the back of the tongue, impossible to wash away. Where hers bloomed, his devoured. Where hers healed, his marked. Together, they made something unbearable. A meeting of opposites that should have destroyed one another, and yet somehow didn’t.
The Veil trembled around them, thin as breath. She could feel it bending, the edges of reality warping under their nearness. Every heartbeat felt heavier, denser, like the world itself was struggling to hold them in the same place.
His hands were still on her, but not possessive this time, desperate. Anchoring. His fingers trembled where they touched her skin, as though he was terrified of losing the proof that she was real. The sound of his pulse roared in her ears, a frantic, irregular rhythm that matched her own.
Through it all, the taste of him lingered on her lips… smoke, copper, eucalyptus, peppermint, and something she could only name as him. The taste of every secret he’d never said, every ache he’d buried under arrogance and violence.
She thought she could drown in it. Roman’s mind was no quieter.
Her magic was in his mouth, his lungs, under his skin—sweet and electric, cutting through the rot that had lived inside him for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her taste was too alive, too clean. It burned. It illuminated. It made him aware of every shadow in himself.
He could feel it spilling through him, this purity, threading its way into places his blood couldn’t reach. And it terrified him. Not because it hurt, but because it healed.
He’d fed on desire before, on need, on the easy rhythm of power and surrender; but this was something else entirely. This was unmaking.
Every exhale filled him with the taste of her, honey and rain and ancient, living power. He’d never known anything so holy. He’d never hated himself more for wanting to ruin it.
He wanted to devour her, and yet some broken part of him wanted to fall to his knees instead.
When her magic surged again, wild, luminous, slipping through his fingers like light through smoke he realized it was already too late.
They had crossed the line. Not between witch and upir, he didn't even know his true nature. Not even between love and destruction.
But between hunger and salvation.
And yet… she kissed him again.
Slower this time, deeper. Less rage. More ache. Like goodbye and come back wrapped in the same exhale.
His breath caught, a soft sound breaking between them, and then the world seemed to narrow once again. The snake inside the gym, the shadows around them, all collapsing into the press of her mouth against his. Her lips trembled at first, then steadied, finding a rhythm that felt almost vulnerable. It wasn’t the desperate clash they’d shared before; it was something quieter, sweeter.
A surrender that tasted like sorrow and honey.
Her fingers slid up his neck, tracing the faint line of an old scar, her touch both question and answer. He shivered under it, his pulse thrumming wildly, matching hers in some secret cadence only their bodies could hear.
He cupped her face with a gentleness that betrayed everything monstrous about him; thumb brushing her cheek, his skin cool where hers burned. When he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, time seemed to fold in on itself, stretching endlessly, unbearably tender.
There was no hunger now, no war between them. Only that fragile, trembling sweetness of being seen. The kind of kiss that left an ache behind it, a promise half-made and half-broken.
When they finally parted, the distance between them felt… wrong. As though even the air mourned their separation. Eyes locked. Mouths swollen.
She pressed her hand to his chest, where his heart beat violently beneath her palm. “You’re still a walking disaster.”
“And you still want to burn with me.”
Her fingers curled in his shirt. “…I can't help it.”
She stepped back, lips parted, face flushed but steadier now. The fire between them wasn’t gone. It just flickered low. Controlled. For now.
“Put the snake back in her cage, Roman Godfrey.” she whispered, body trembling. “Then maybe I’ll let you finish what you started.”
Roman swallowed hard and for once, he obeyed.
°•÷°•°•°•°•°•÷°•°•°•°•÷°•°•°•°•÷°•°•°•°•°•°÷°•°•
Et sol niger resurget in carne mundi (And the black sun shall rise in the flesh of the world), Mater mea secunda (My second mother): Latin.
Ah! Che Bello! (Ah! how lovely!): Italian.
💌: under the old moon: @melancuntly @kikibit @bonesofall @vadersangel @voidofsunlight @a-differentbrandof-beans @fathelzzz @mephistoraven @ch404 🕯️🤎
📜✍🏻: THEY KISSED YOUR HONOR!!!
your kindness, your likes, your reposts, your words... mean more than i can ever confess. for now, i take my leave once again, until the shadows call us together again. 🔮🪬
