Chapter 8. They Started To Take a Move

(POV Kaelan)

She stared at me for a long time, like she was weighing whether to run.

“Why did he—the man in the raincoat—come to the gallery?”

“Because he sensed something lit in the gallery ever since you started restoring it.” I leaned back. “And because someone wanted this paper to touch your skin.”

“For what?”

“To open something inside that painting.” I shrugged. “To trigger a mechanism that’s been shut off for years.”

“And you don’t want that to happen.”

“I don’t want that to happen with a gun pointed at us.”

Her arms crossed, that beautiful defensive instinct. “You know too much for a hockey team captain. Things no one else even understands.”

“Side talent.” I glanced at the clock. Callum should’ve been on the perimeter by now. “Listen.” I leaned in. “I’ll say this once: whatever you’ve been feeling lately—exploding emotions, weird sensations, wounds healing faster—it’s not because you’re crazy. Your body’s not broken. Your body remembers something that was put to sleep.”

Her face drained. “You—”

“And I’m not gonna force you to remember it tonight.” I cut her off quickly, locking her gaze. “If I force it, you’ll hate me. Not because of the bitter truth, but because of the way it comes.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “So what’s your plan?”

“To keep everyone else away from this paper. To let you decide when and where you’ll put your finger on the first symbol.” I slid the old bundle back toward her. “And when you do, I’ll be there. Not to command. To hold you when its weight hits.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise. A promise I’ve never made to anyone.”

Silence. Outside, the water pipes rattled briefly—maybe the ice machine, maybe the rain changing the pressure. Rhea looked at the paper, then carefully tucked it back into her notebook and slipped it into her bag, her movements as careful as if she were putting a baby to sleep.

“Can you tell me one thing,” she said softly, “that explains why you’re like this? You—” she searched for the word, “you care too much about this. As if—”

“As if you’re mine?” I gave a crooked smile. The grin felt wrong in my mouth, but honest. “You’re not mine, Rhea. No one owns you. Not even me.”

She stared, silent. But in her blue irises, a tremor I’d only seen when someone stood on the edge of a cliff and the wind begged them to jump.

“Then why?” she asked again, softer, almost like a breath.

Because that’s how the world was made for us. Because there’s a whistle only our kind hears when certain blood comes close. Because the scent of your skin wrote my name into my bones without my permission. Because I’ve run long enough to know: if I let you walk away tonight without a line drawn, tomorrow I’ll no longer be able to stop myself from losing it—in front of the cameras, in front of the world. Because as long as that old seal in you keeps pressing down on the thread between us, I’m standing on the edge of madness.

“Because if something takes you,” I finally said, “there’s no space in my body to forgive myself.”

She turned away. The tip of her tongue brushed her lower lip—a tiny habit I had no right to memorize, but I still did. “I still don’t trust you, Kaelan.”

“Good.” I nodded. “Trust is a gift. Don’t be cheap.”

For the first time that night, a flash of softness flickered in her eyes—fast as lightning. She lowered her head, pulling her bag closer. “Do we… have to stay here longer?”

“No.” I stood. “I’ll grab some tea from the service dispenser. Warm tea. Tastes like cardboard, but…”

“I prefer cardboard coffee.” She raised an eyebrow.

I left the room for two minutes, just enough to grab two paper cups and sugar packets that probably expired years ago. The hallway was empty, but I didn’t like the way the silence shifted pitch—like the building was holding its breath too long. I came back, shut the door, locked the bolt.

“Drink a little,” I said, handing her a cup.

She took it. “Thanks.”

We drank the bad drinks together with the solemnity of people who had no other options. Every tiny sound was loud in the room; styrofoam scrape, breathing, the tick of a clock from who-knows-where. I recalculated escape routes, marking them in my head.

Then, my phone buzzed—almost at the same time as a faint crack in the ventilation pipe. I raised a hand, signaling silence, and opened Callum’s message.

[Callum]
Three on the roof. One at the east door. One… missing. You didn’t see him?

I lifted my head. Slowly, I tuned in with the other part of my hearing—our kind’s hearing. Quiet. Too quiet for a place that usually hummed. Narrow rooms like this reflected movements, told you when someone passed. But now… even the rain sounded sucked away.

“Rhea.” My voice was barely audible. “Move your chair behind me. Now.”

Without asking why, she moved—fast and obedient for the first time. Her chair scraped. I stood in front of her, half covering her body. My nails—forced to stay human—twitched under the skin, begging to grow. The pressure in my gums—fangs pleading to push through. I held it back. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of Rhea, who knew nothing.

Something hissed in the vents, cold as iron plunged into water. From the air duct above the tool rack, a thread of smoke slipped down—thin wisps of mist that didn’t belong in a damp corridor. I caught the scent instantly: wolfsbane. Mixed with something wrong—light ammonia, maybe to help it drift better. They wanted to knock out whatever was in this room. They knew the spectrum to hit.

“Down!” I shoved Rhea under the table, kicked the chair away, grabbed a wet cloth from the tool rack—an old rag.

The smoke thickened. I tore the rag, poured leftover water from the dispenser over it, slapped it against the vent, sealing off the poison for now. At the same time, the doorknob rattled—once, twice, with mocking gentleness.

I looked at Rhea under the table. “Phone.” She handed it over without hesitation. My hands moved on their own, shutting it off. “Signal could be bait.”

A dull thud on the door. This time not shy—steel kissing steel. The bolt screws rattled. I scanned the room; the closest things to weapons were a size-24 wrench and a steel bar for tuning the ice machine. I took both—one in each hand.

“Kaelan?” Rhea whispered, her voice tiny.

“It’s fine.” A lie. “If it goes bad, there’s an exit behind the tool rack. I already cut the hinges halfway. If you have to run, you run. To the right, up the emergency stairs two floors, heavy door labeled TECH OBSERVATION. Callum will be there.”

“I won’t—”

“If I say run, you run.”

She shut her mouth. Her eyes were too wide under the table. Terrified. I could hear her heartbeat—its rhythm not mine, but somehow commanding mine too.

The door stopped rattling.

Then a small voice—almost friendly—slipped through the gap.

“Kaelan Viero?”

I shifted half a step, turning to brace myself. “You’re lost,” I replied flatly.

“Of course.” The voice was young, calm, the innocent version of poison. “We’re fans. We want your autograph.”

“Bring a jersey,” I said. “Not wolfsbane.”

A soft laugh. “Interesting. You smelled it.”

“Because you stink.”

Silence, filled with a smile I could picture. People like this always had polite lips when calling murder a job.

“Can we talk?” he asked, polite as a bank receptionist. “We just want the little thing. The paper. You don’t need it, right?”

“I need everything she has.” The words dragged themselves out before I could polish them.

“Yes,” he said, still calm. “That’s the problem.”

Metal clicked on the other side. They were setting something against the lock—a stethoscope tool or a pressure opener. Time melted. I shifted, nudging the table with my boot—making space for Rhea to crawl toward the rack if I told her. Then I tilted my chin at the vent—the smoke had lessened; the wet rag was holding, breaking the effect.

I fired off a single-line text to Callum on the lock screen: Now. Then I killed the phone and shoved it into my pocket.

“Rhea.” I crouched halfway, lowering myself so our eyes met. Hers locked on mine. “You saw the paper? The little symbols—waves, circles, slanting lines?”

She nodded fast.

“If I tell you, where do you press?”

“You don’t want me touching—”

“If I tell you.” My gaze sharpened, forcing her focus. “The tiny circle in the very center. The one that looks the most… blurry. Two seconds. No longer. Got it?”

She bit her lip. “That will—what?”

“Change our position.”

“To hell?”

“Hopefully not.”