Chapter 4 — “The DeSilva Estate”

  Far from New York’s neon heartbeat, Maxximillian DeSilva stood on his study’s private terrace, surveying the home and grounds he’d built over the past several centuries. To any mortal eye, it was a symbol of wealth and quiet dignity. To him and the few who knew its secrets, the place was both a fortress and a sanctuary for beings who no longer belonged to the outside world.

  The DeSilva Estate lay hidden among the rolling hills of northwestern Connecticut, its buildings as strong as the bedrock below. Enclosed by wrought-iron fencing and ancient stone walls bearing protective sigils, it spanned 600 acres of forest, meadow, and riverbank.

  A full moon rose over the mist-veiled countryside, its silvery light flooding the rolling hills, forests, and cobblestone driveway that stretched several miles beneath a canopy of tall oaks. At the main entrance to the house, a grand staircase curved upward to meet two front doors bearing the Blood and Moon seal: a silver circle with twin fangs embracing a crescent moon and a drop of blood.

  Maxx recalled the early 1700s, when he spent months supervising an army of masons, the air heavy with the grating sound of stone-cutting and the acrid scent of mineral dust as they moved and stacked massive blocks of dark gray rock from nearby quarries.

  The completed manor crowned a gentle hill, a three-story structure defined by its dramatic Gothic arches, steep gables, and elegant stone terraces. Ivy climbed its fa?ade like living lace. Though they made small renovations over the centuries, the mansion still held onto its old-world charm.

  With a deep breath, Maxx turned from the metal railing and stepped into the study, the quiet air washing over him. The house seemed to breathe with him, its ancient stones and primitive power settling as he entered the room.

  Inside, the scent of burning oak and aged whiskey permeated the chamber as he sank into his favorite high-backed chair facing the roaring fire. Long shadows stretched and played over shelves filled with old books, their leather covers whispering of forgotten tales. Trophies of bygone eras, including swords, ancient maps, shields, daggers, and helmets, hung on the wall, each a silent testament to battles waged and territories claimed.

  Before him, a worn, polished Roman gladius rested on the low table, reflecting the firelight’s dim glow. It was a relic from another life, when he fought under standards that no longer flew.

  He reached down and picked it up. The sword felt strangely light in his hand, the familiar curve of the blade a phantom echo of countless battles. He traced the intricate designs etched into the pommel, each tiny groove a whisper of forgotten names and vanished loyalties. The chill of the metal did little to soothe his growing unease.

  Maxx laid the weapon back down, and in the flickering light, he recalled the dust-choked plains of Gaul. Beneath the march of his Roman legions, the earth trembled. He could smell sweat and iron; hear the clash of swords and shields. The memory of his first kill: a young Gallic warrior, eyes wide with fear. The thrill of victory was brief, but overshadowed by regret.

  He gained immense power through centuries of conquest, but he also had scars and the crushing weight of guilt. Formerly a prince and the heir to a prestigious house in the Lupine Empire, he had battled countless times against mortals and immortals alike. But the ancient wars had molded him into a beast, hardening his spirit and leaving him scarred physically and emotionally. His legendary cruelty and savagery finally drove him out, and he became a pariah in his own kingdom.

  Now, after a few stolen ages as a husband and father, hope for the future was precarious.

  Graceful, measured footsteps echoed in the corridor behind him, interrupting his reverie. A delicate aroma of night-blooming jasmine mingled with the scent of fresh rain announced whose unmistakable presence it was. The figure stopped short of the doorway, cloaked in the hallway’s shadow.

  “You’re brooding again,” a woman’s smooth and melodic voice said, mild amusement tinting her tone.

  “I don’t brood. I remember.”

  “And remembering is how the past keeps its claws in you.”

  Maxx turned as his wife stepped into the room's dim light. Draped in a silk robe the color of moonlight, Sofia DeReyes crossed the room gracefully, her black hair shimmering in the fire’s glow like starlit raven feathers. She wore it the way he preferred, in loose, effortless waves that cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back.

  Sofia slipped into his lap and nuzzled against him. She draped her long legs over his as she looped a slender arm behind his neck. A tremor ran through him as her hand came to rest over his heart.

  “I’ve missed you, mi amor,” she said, her accent soft and elegant, with a subtle lilt that reminded listeners Spanish was her native language.

  Maxx reached up to trace the edge of her lower lip with his finger. Her mouth, full and expressive, was capable of sharp wit or gentle seduction, depending on her mood. When she smiled, it was never a simple gesture, but an invitation and a warning all at once.

  “I’ve missed you too, mi vida,” he said, pulling and holding her tight.

  Maxx cherished everything about the woman in his arms. Her exotic beauty comforted him like the cool, refreshing aftermath of a summer storm. In tense moments, when his composure slipped, he could count on her to calm him and refocus his efforts with a gentle gesture—a wave of her hand, an approving nod, a subtle grin. Her voice, like velvet over steel, could soothe or wound with just a few well-chosen words.

  The standards she set were beyond what any other lady could hope to match. To others, she appeared calm and peaceful. To him, she embodied chaos wrapped in silk—a gorgeous, timeless vampire whose capacity for love was as fierce as her lethal nature.

  Now, as she looked up, a question flickered in her eyes.

  “You’re thinking about the murders?” Sofia gestured toward the folded newspaper beside his drink. The headline glared up in black ink:

  Mass Killing on New York Subway — Police Baffled by Ritual Signs.

  He nodded once. A dozen times he’d read the words, turning them over in his mind.

  “These were no ordinary killings,” he said. “They were too violent to be the work of humans.”

  “Then you believe it’s one of yours?” She asked. “A Lycan?”

  “It would seem so,” his voice growing deeper.

  “Darling, you worry too much.” She reached up and caressed his cheek. “Besides, any Nightborn or Lycan foolish enough to kill so brazenly and in full view deserves whatever punishment they receive. The Covenant of Silence exists for a reason.”

  “I’m well aware of that, my dear. I’m just not always comfortable with its lack of flexibility.”

  He gazed into the fire, remembering his days as King and pack Alpha when he had to dispense justice after werewolves revealed themselves to mortals. One particular case deeply wounded him when he had to judge his own pack’s Beta. The memory of the hunt and the execution he carried out himself still haunted his dreams. It was just one of many reasons he renounced his royal position and withdrew from their society.

  Sofia buried her face in the crook of his neck. “They protect us from the outside world. And whether or not we agree, we’re bound to follow them. They’re inflexible for a reason.”

  “Yes, they shield us,” he said. “But they can also be used as a weapon. I don’t think—”

  Sofia interrupted, placing a slender finger over his lips. “Shhh,” she whispered, leaning in and softly biting his earlobe, giving it a playful tug.

  “Come,” she said. “You’re restless. Talk to me while I soak before the moon wanes completely.”

  Her gaze was sharp, the concern in her deep brown eyes clear as she slipped from his lap, turned, and walked back toward the doorway.

  “Don’t take too long,” she said over her shoulder. “I believe I have something to offer that will distract you from these concerns.”

  Maxx scoffed and then nodded. “I’ll be along shortly.” He watched as Sofia flashed a coy smile and a playful wink before disappearing into the hallway beyond.

  His mind returned to the subway as he scanned the words one final time before sinking further back into the chair and the comforting embrace of the soft cushions. The actual murders were not his chief concern. Someone would ultimately catch or kill the perpetrator. He focused on how this event could serve as leverage in the political battle between the Nightborn and the Lycans. He had tried to distance himself from their secret world and its politics, but his family remained vulnerable because of his daughter, Seraphine.

  Born of a blood ritual rather than a physical union, she was the first of her kind; a living paradox that challenged the laws of both species. Some considered her an abomination and demanded her death. Others saw her as the next stage in immortal evolution.

  She was neither vampire nor wolf.

  She was both.

  No one was more outspoken in advocating the killing of his child than Sofia’s sire, Stefan. He repeatedly and loudly expressed his opposition to their mating, inter-species relationship, and very existence, making his feelings clear to both councils. Maxx had little doubt that he would try to link the killings to his daughter and, if he could, to Sofia and himself as well. His daughter's safety was paramount. If you wish to harm her, Stefan, his fists clenching, you’ll have to get past us.

  Although his position among the Nightborn and Lycans was fragile at best, his family remained influential. After his abdication, his younger brother Cassian took the throne, and he still maintained the ability to summon a few chosen immortals for help if necessary. He hoped a confrontation wouldn’t come, but if it did, he had resources to draw on.

  As the hour grew late, he wondered what plans Sofia had to distract him. Somewhere in the manor, he could hear a grandfather clock strike three, marking the time for beings who no longer needed it.

  Maybe Sofia was right. A warm bath under a full moon was the answer…at least for now.

  He understood that any peace, even if only for a few hours, would be temporary. Soon, he would need to emerge from the darkness and confront the conflicts. And the time was arriving sooner than he had hoped.

  *   *   *

  As Sofia walked down the corridor toward their suite, the air grew heavy. She was being watched. Portraits of DeSilvas in armor, velvet, and blood-soaked attire lined the ancient hallway, their painted faces bearing silent witness to the family’s long, bloody history. She quickened her pace, their eyes seeming to follow her every step as she passed beneath them.

  In a domain where candlelight and shadow shared equal space, even she, an immortal being, could feel unsettled from time to time by her gothic surroundings. A chill, deeper than autumn air, washed over her as she pressed on, and each step grew more desperate. Her legs felt heavier as she stumbled toward the safety of her bedroom.

  With a final push, she burst into their bedchamber, quickly shutting the door and leaning back against its cold surface, a hand held over her forehead. Ay, madre mia. What the hell was that all about? she wondered as her body began to relax.

  Once she had collected herself, Sofia entered the main bathroom and paused, taking in the spacious room’s elegance. Marble and candlelight reflected in the rippling water. The tub—an antique, carved from black stone in Florence centuries ago—sat beneath a high window that framed the full moon. Dozens of candles surrounded it; their flames bathing Sofia’s skin in a warm amber glow. A small fireplace in the corner added warmth and cast off wisps of smoke from the wood burning within.

  She moved to stand before the tall mirror by her vanity. Outlined in gilded iron, the bath’s rising steam faintly clouded its surface. She untied the belt of her robe and, with a shrug of her shoulder, let it slip to the floor.

  She slowly looked over her naked form, her relaxed muscles and keen eyes taking it all in. Light softly brushed over her body, revealing the gentle curve of her shoulders and the faint lines of her toned physique. After centuries of borrowed nights, was this the woman she’d finally become, standing in the light?

  She turned slightly, tilting her head. Dark hair spilled over one bare shoulder, damp strands clinging to her collarbone. She placed her hands above her waist and slowly traced the gentle curve of her hips, her fingers pausing mid-thigh as she lifted a heel in a playful pose.

  Her skin, like moonlight poured over bronze, was untouched by time or blemish. Candlelight highlighted the faint blue veins beneath, a testament to the ancient power that had preserved her youth for centuries. Her slender body moved with the grace of a cat. Each movement seemed choreographed.

  Sofia turned away from the mirror. She looked over her shoulder, taking in the defined muscles of her shoulders and back. Her full lips parted as she puckered and blew a kiss. For a moment, her seriousness slipped. She almost laughed, surprised by the rare lightness in her solemn composure.

  “Still got it,” she mused. “And still here.”

  Her personal inventory, although to her liking, had exposed a single unmet need. Her reflection in the mirror was fading, likely because she hadn’t fed in a while. Instead of a sharp, clear image, she looked ghostly and translucent. This was the most noticeable effect of her hunger, and the hardest to hide. She could conceal most of her other symptoms from Maxx, but not this one—not indefinitely.

  Sofia knew it could become dangerous for her and everyone around if the veneer of control she maintained shattered, revealing the predator beneath. Already, her cravings were blurring the line between rational thought and overwhelming hunger. Her head throbbed, and she felt lightheaded, like a mortal starved of oxygen. Tonight, she could satisfy it by drawing nourishment from her husband, Maxx, who was the only available source.

  There were potential dangers. Lycan blood, while far more nourishing than that of a human, was potent and volatile, often dangerous to vampires, most of whom could not feed from a werewolf without losing control or suffering harm. It could also be addictive. Each time she fed from him, her cravings had to be balanced against the temptation to take more than needed.

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  Sofia navigated these risks with discipline and restraint. Her unique connection with Maxx let her enjoy this luxury safely, with little risk of inciting a frenzy. Though many Nightborn considered this taboo or reckless, for both of them it strengthened their bond—a private, controlled act that was intimate and powerful, yet also risky. It was a quiet gesture of trust, standing in stark contrast to the violence that often enveloped them.

  She would approach the subject later, perhaps when they shared a tranquil moment together. As her mind drifted, her gaze fell to the silver pendant at her throat — the Blood and Moon crest. It gleamed, as if aware of her thoughts. She unfastened it and set it on the marble counter. Without it, she felt unbound, younger, and more human.

  The bath waited for her, its surface swirling with rose petals. As she stepped closer, her reflection fractured in the water. For a moment, she saw not the eternal lady of the Nightborn but a woman who had loved, fought, and endured.

  She drew a slow breath, with the faintest smile on her lips. Ribbons of steam curled up, carrying the scent of roses and cedarwood. Then, with the grace of a falling shadow, Sofia slipped into the bath, embraced by the water like an old memory.

  Moments later, Maxx appeared in the doorway. He regarded her with a weary look, pausing before stepping inside. He crossed to the chair by Sofia’s vanity and sat, then shed his shoes, socks, and shirt.

  Sofia leaned against the edge of the bathtub, her crimson eyes lifting to meet the man sitting nearby. Maximillian DeSilva—her husband, a prince who gave up his throne and challenged two immortal worlds for the love of a forbidden woman. Her equal, a man who stood by her side, sharing respect, power, wealth, and dreams. He was also her opposite, the head of their family, who, despite her impulsiveness, confronted her with understanding, love, and kindness, balancing her desires.

  As Sofia watched him, she marveled at how, after so long, he could still stir a deep mix of desire and affection. Her body tingled with the anticipation of being held in his arms, of being dominated by his strength as they made love. And when she submitted to him, whether in mundane moments of everyday life or in the bedroom, it did not diminish her. Instead, it caused her to feel even more powerful.

  By now, he had shed his remaining clothes and stood beside the tub. Firelight and candles bathed him in gold and shadow, revealing the physique of a warrior carved by time.

  Her eyes roamed over his well-defined, muscular body. Slowly and seductively, her gaze slid downward, and a passionate fluttering rose at the back of her neck. As he entered the water, she bit her lower lip, trying to suppress her lustful excitement.

  Endurance had shaped him. His chest and shoulders were wide; his abdomen ridged. Scars crossed his skin like forgotten constellations, each a fragment of history she could trace with memory alone. The long, pale slash along his ribs. The faint mark on his shoulder where silver once burned him. None diminished him; they completed him.

  His silhouette, broad and commanding, seemed to be carved from the same stone as the walls. Flames flickered, catching the silver at his temples, a mark of his royal lineage. His skin bore a tone tempered by lifetimes beneath the open sky; his legs, powerful and balanced, hinted at the beast within, the wolf restrained by discipline and will.

  What she admired most were his eyes. Even half-veiled by shadow and softened by intimacy, they held that same storm-grey depth. When their gazes met, she saw a tenderness meant only for her.

  Sofia smiled. “You still carry every century on your skin,” her voice low and rich with desire. “And somehow, you wear them beautifully.”

  Maxx’s lips curled into a smile. “You’ve had plenty of centuries to look.”

  “And I’ve never once tired of it.”

  He closed his eyes and slipped beneath the water. After a moment, he surfaced and eased beside her, aligning his body with hers. She could feel him trace her skin until he located the small of her back. With one swift move, he swept her around to face him. She straddled his lap, lowering herself gracefully, her weight even across his hips.

  “Tell me,” she said. “If I kissed you…would you survive it?”

  He grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

  Leaning in, her lips found his. He responded, devouring her softness as his hands explored the contours of her slim waist. She surrendered to his kiss, arching her body, pressing tighter against him. Her fingers combed through his thick hair as she guided his head down, holding it against her breasts. For a long while, they sat in a silent embrace; the quiet as old and familiar as the centuries they’d shared.

  Sofia turned and leaned against Maxx’s chest, her head just beneath his chin. His pulse, neither loud nor urgent, beat steadily. Werewolf blood always carried that cadence, a rhythm that spoke of earth and endurance, of bodies built to survive what should have killed them. It stirred something old in her, something that predated manners and careful restraint.

  “Darling, I—”

  “Need to feed,” he interrupted.

  She nodded, then looked up and gazed into his eyes as her fingers traced the line of his jaw. Then she leaned in and placed a series of soft kisses on his neck. He tilted his head back slightly, offering her access, a gesture she recognized as trust rather than submission. She felt him acknowledge her presence and noticed the subtle change as his body accepted what was about to occur.

  Her fangs descended with a soft, deliberate click. When she moved in to feed, she did so gently, not out of uncontrolled hunger. Maxx exhaled as though surrendering to sleep. Her bite was slow and precise — a joining rather than an attack. The candles dimmed, their flames bending toward her as if drawn by her breath.

  She listened as Maxx’s breathing quieted, the rhythm of his pulse filling the silence. The wolf did not rise; it rested, watchful yet calm, recognizing her restraint. A thin line of blood traced her lips, dark and glimmering.

  Sofia fed, drawing only the amount needed to ground herself and remind them both of the bond they guarded. But the temptation to drain him of more sustenance lingered. The deliciousness of his essence made her crave more.

  Enough, she told herself. Her fangs retracted, and she slowly withdrew. His wound was already closing, and she licked away the errant drops that escaped before he healed completely. Then, pressing her forehead to his chest, she allowed herself to reorient to the world.

  Moments later, Maxx lifted her chin, looking into her eyes to check if she had taken too much.

  She hadn’t.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He nodded once. The room settled as if nothing had happened, yet everything had. The water had gone still. Only the soft hiss of the dying fire interrupted the silence, along with the occasional drip from the tub’s edge.

  Sofia broke the stillness, her voice deliberate. “Both councils met last night.”

  “I expected as much.”

  “Neither side has claimed responsibility. They blame each other, convinced that their enemies stand to gain the most from the unrest.”

  “It’s a pattern they’ve followed for millennia. There’s no reason to think they’ll change their tactics or strategy now.”

  Sofia turned somewhat to study his face. It showed no emotion.

  “They’re hunting in the dark,” she said. “And when they cannot see the enemy, they’ll start turning on one another. That’s how it begins.”

  Maxx met her eyes. “Then let them. I won’t have our family dragged into their politics again.”

  “You can’t stay neutral forever, my love. The Nightborn see your silence as arrogance. The Lycan elders will call it betrayal. Both sides are watching for any sign to move against us.”

  “They can call it what they wish. I’ve fought their wars and buried their dead. I won’t choose a side when both are blind.”

  Sofia turned toward him. “And what of our side? What of Seraphine? You know how she’s viewed — not fully accepted by either world. If suspicion turns our way, she’ll be the first name whispered.”

  He hesitated, then reached for her hand beneath the water. “Our daughter is safe here. I’ve sealed the estate grounds. The Wardens hold strong.”

  “Wardens can’t stop fear or rumor. You know how quickly truth twists when blood is at stake.”

  Maxx’s grip tightened. “If anyone comes for her, they’ll find more than rumor waiting for them.”

  “Always the warrior,” she said.

  “Always the father,” he corrected.

  For a moment, the tension between them eased. Firelight flickered across their faces. Sofia leaned into him, tracing a faint scar along his shoulder; an old mark from a life he seldom spoke of.

  “The councils are unraveling,” she said. “And should they collapse into chaos, they will come here looking for answers. They always do. We may have to enter this war, regardless.”

  Maxx nodded. “Then we’ll give them none. Not yet. Let them hunt ghosts while we remain neutral.”

  Sofia closed her eyes, resting her head against him again. “Peace. Such a fragile thing for creatures like us.”

  “Fragile, but not impossible.”

  They lay in each other’s arms silently, two predators, weary of war, clinging to the illusion of calm while the world beyond their walls threatened to tear them apart once more.

  As the fire dwindled to embers, the sky shifted from indigo to gray, signaling the approach of dawn. Maxx and Sofia dressed in silence, acutely aware that the gathering storm in the city would soon arrive. They both knew what was coming. The city’s underbelly was stirring. Its secrets were about to spill onto the streets. It was only a matter of time before the shadows they had been desperately avoiding would come and try to consume them both.

  *   *   *

  Seraphine DeSilva lay still in her bed, half-awake but listening. The mansion had its own pulse: the faint hum of the Wardens in their stones, the servants’ whispers, and the rhythmic creak of old beams settling with the dawn.

  As the first light of morning seeped through the heavy drapes, dust motes drifted through the air like slow-falling snow. She could sense the rain from the previous night. It merged with the subtle forest aroma, helping to ground and ease her restlessness.

  She sat up and tossed the sheets aside, hesitating to leave their warmth. You have to get up, she told herself as she fought the urge to crawl back under the covers. Sunlight was beginning to creep up the arched window, bathing her bedroom in a golden glow.

  She slipped off the bed and began her day as she always did, with a series of morning stretches. It was a personal routine she developed herself, combining advanced yoga positions and Tai Chi movements specifically designed to regain balance and re-sync her body, mind, and spirit.

  When she finished, Seraphine headed for the bathroom, passing through a thin beam of sunlight on her way. As the light brushed over her skin, she felt a burning sensation, producing a soft, red glow where it touched her arm. This was a legacy from her mother’s lineage, but softened by her father’s lunar bloodline.

  After a quick shower, Seraphine sat at her vanity, wrapped in a large bath towel, brushing her long, dark hair with slow, deliberate strokes. She didn’t rush; she seldom did. Time held little meaning for her kind. It mattered only when she interacted with the outside world, where being early or late mattered to humans whose time was limited by their mortality.

  She paused briefly to study her reflection in the mirror. By tilting her head just right, she could see both parents within herself: light and shadow, beast and grace. The similarities and differences were unmistakable.

  She inherited from her mother pale, smooth skin with subtle warm undertones. Her facial features exemplified Sofia’s elegance, featuring sharp cheekbones and full, expressive lips that curved naturally and thoughtfully.

  Her gray-green eyes, flecked with gold and reminiscent of her father’s, had a feline quality, as if made for walking in moonlight. The structure of her jaw and the quiet strength that resisted softening by beauty also stemmed from Maxx. She inherited his tone—low, melodic, and edged with authority—but mellowed it with Sofia’s grace.

  She set the brush down and ran her fingers through her hair, wondering, not for the first time, what others saw when they looked at her. An heir? An experiment? Or a reminder that two worlds could meet but never merge?

  Outside the window, the estate’s Wardens’ faint shimmer flickered against the morning haze. She caught herself staring at them through the glass. They pulsed once, as if aware of her watching.

  Still protecting us, she mused.

  She rose from her seat and walked into the cool, dimly lit closet. A few moments later, she emerged, dressed in a plain white blouse and dark slacks. She gave herself a quick, assessing glance in the full-length mirror by the door, then crossed the room barefoot and stood by the window.

  “You’re awake early,” said a soft voice from behind.

  Seraphine turned to see Sofia standing in the doorway. She wore a pale-gray silk robe, her posture relaxed and her face unreadable. Her mother’s eyes held a quiet tension Seraphine had learned to recognize, triggering an instinctive sense of apprehension.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Seraphine said. “The air seems heavy for some reason.”

  Sofia entered the room, closing the door behind her. “There’s been trouble in the city again. More killings. The humans think it’s ritualistic—some nonsense about cults. But the councils believe otherwise.”

  “You mean they think it’s one of us.”

  “Or one of your father’s.”

  Sofia joined her at the window and took her hand. “No one knows for sure. The Nightborn, the vampire courts, whisper of ‘wolves.’ The Lycans, the wolf packs, point at us. Fear is already doing the work of war.”

  Seraphine let out a small, humorless laugh. “So everyone’s accusing everyone, and no one’s asking questions that matter.”

  “That’s politics, darling,” she said, releasing her daughter’s hand and turning away. “It’s also war if they’re not careful.”

  “You think it will reach here?”

  “It always does. The world beyond our walls has a way of finding us, especially when it’s hungry for blood.”

  Seraphine turned to study her mother. “And Father? What does he say?”

  Sofia offered a faint smile. “That he intends to stay neutral. He won’t let this family become involved in their conflicts.”

  Seraphine’s expression darkened. “He thinks neutrality will save us?”

  “He thinks caution will. He’s seen too many wars to believe anything else.”

  Seraphine crossed her arms. “Caution won’t stop them if they decide to blame us. I can hear it in your voice. The councils are already looking for a scapegoat. And you probably think they’ll come after me.”

  Sofia went to the vanity and began arranging her daughter’s jewelry in careful order. Her reflection in the mirror betrayed the tension in her eyes.

  “I think fear makes fools of immortals,” Sofia said finally. “If Stefan stirs them further, they’ll start looking for someone to blame. And your father and I are already convenient targets.”

  “Then we should fight,” Seraphine said, her voice rising, fingers curling into tight fists. “Show them what happens when they come for us. That there’s a price to be paid for threatening a DeSilva.”

  “That’s what they want. Blood to justify more blood.”

  “They’ll see our tolerance as weakness, mother. You know how they think. Father should reconsider.”

  “Listen to me,” Sofia said, her expression and voice hardened; the command beneath it unmistakable. “You are to stay here until we settle this matter. Do not go into the city. Do not meet with anyone—friend, lover, or otherwise. The less they see of you, the safer we remain.”

  Seraphine frowned. “So, you’re locking me in now.”

  “I’m keeping you alive. There’s a difference.”

  “You think I’m a burden,” Seraphine said, turning back to the window.

  Sofia reached down, grasped her hand, and turned her in place to meet her gaze. “Oh no, little moon,” she said, her tone softening. “We’ve never thought that. You are our daughter, and more precious to us than anything in this world. Your father and I want only to keep you safe. If anything ever happened to you, we—” her words faltered, voice cracking as she placed a hand on Seraphine’s cheek. “We’d lose all desire to go on.”

  For a long moment, they stood together, the silence between them both loving and strained. Then Seraphine drew her hand back and turned toward the window.

  “If the world’s going to burn,” she said, “you can’t hide me from the flames forever.”

  “No, my darling, I can’t,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “But I will do whatever is necessary to hold the flames back for as long as I can.”

  The words hung there, heavy and intimate. Seraphine felt the truth in them: a mix of fear and love that left her feeling vulnerable yet protected.

  Sofia reached out, resting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “Your father and I will handle this. Just stay where it’s safe.”

  Seraphine nodded. “And if there’s no such place?”

  Sofia hesitated. “Then we’ll make one,” she said, then turned and left, the door closing behind her.

  By now, the morning mist had lifted, leaving the acrid scent of wet cedar in the air. Seraphine stepped onto her private terrace, the cool flagstones chilling her bare feet. She paused as her gaze swept across the estate grounds; a sense of wonder and pride welled inside her as its majestic beauty unfurled before her.

  From each of the home’s four wings, turret-like structures reminiscent of old-world castles rose. Each evening, their windows glowed with the gentle light within. Beyond the main house stood several guest cottages and a stable, half of which had been converted into a small workshop. A long-forgotten greenhouse lay covered in vines and brush. Marble statues, carved wolves mid-howl, and several Romanesque fountains decorated the weeping gardens, designed in the traditional European style. Beyond stretched the vast and forbidden ancestral woods.

  But it wasn’t their beauty that caught her attention.

  At the edge of the property, where manicured lawns blurred into forest, the air wavered with a subtle, silvery distortion, similar to heat rising above asphalt. To most, it seemed nothing. To her, it was proof that the Wardens were awake.

  Seraphine had felt them since childhood; not seen, but sensed, like one’s awareness of a storm gathering behind closed doors. Back then, she had feared them. But as the years passed, her understanding of their power and purpose eased her fears, and she came to know and accept them as they brushed against her aura in daily greeting.

  She edged closer to the railing, watching as a leaf spiraled into the shimmer and vanished in a crisp, bright spark. The Wardens were strong today. Someone must have refreshed the sigils overnight. Her father’s doing, no doubt.

  Seraphine recalled the memory of several trespassers who had encountered the sentinels years earlier near the forest’s edge. She had watched from the terrace as two men triggered their response. To the unfortunate souls who drew their wrath that day, the invisible forces blocking their path would have felt like stones pressing in from every direction. Once contained, bolts of spiritual energy shot through them, similar to being struck with a cattle prod. They quickly retreated to the safety of the estate’s perimeter, with the Wardens following closely behind.

  Seraphine paused to collect her thoughts. She could feel the wind shift and a quiet hum begin to grow more intense. A sense of unease crept over her as she stepped back, her pulse accelerating. For the first time that day, she felt the estate itself was alive, breathing, watching, and waiting.

  “Keep us safe,” she whispered, unsure if she meant the Wardens, the house, or her parents.

  The hum answered, low and steady, like a heartbeat under the soil. Deep in the woods beyond the manor, a distant howl trembled through the air—a reminder that peace, for the DeSilvas, was already beginning to fray.