PRISCILLA I stared at her, unblinking. “You’re... staying with him?” Davina didn’t flinch. Her hand dropped to her side, fingers curling into a loose fist. “Yes.” My mouth parted, but no words came. I shook my head slowly, as if that would snap her out of it. “Davina, this isn’t funny.” “I’m not joking.” Gabriel stepped forward. “The hell you’re staying with him.” His voice was low now, deadly quiet, and that scared me more than when he was yelling. “You don’t know what he is—” “I know exactly what he is,” Davina snapped, her voice slicing through the air. “And you know what? He told me the truth. More truth than you’ve ever given her.” I felt Gabriel go still beside me. “What are you talking about?” I asked, eyes darting between them. Davina finally turned to me fully, her expression tight, sorrow shadowing her bold features. “Priscilla, I didn’t want you to find out like this. But there are things you need to know. About who you are. About why he wants you—” Gabriel moved
PRISCILLA The moment the door closed behind Gabriel and Davina, the silence in the room grew teeth. I didn’t move. Neither did she. My grandmother—Laura—watched me like I was a ghost she resented for showing up uninvited. I knew that look. It had lived in her face for years. The quiet contempt. The disapproval is so sharp it could skin you without a word. I walked forward slowly, each step across the rug echoing louder than it should have. The fire crackled behind her, casting shadows across the lines of her face, softening nothing. “You’ve grown,” she said finally, as if it were a complaint. “So have you,” I replied, voice low, even. “Into someone colder than I remember.” That earned a flicker of something in her eyes. Not guilt. Not regret. Just… recognition. Laura stood. She still carried herself like she was made of marble and expectation—stiff spine, chin up, eyes that dared you to disappoint her. “I called you because I was told you’d finally awakened,” she said, walki
GABRIEL The car slipped into the Manhattan flow, headlights and streetlamps bleeding through the windows like electric veins. New York pulsed with a kind of old blood—older than most realised. Beneath the concrete and glamour, it breathed with wolves and witches and things that didn’t sleep. Priscilla leaned against the window beside me, one hand resting on her lap, the other pressed to the glass as if trying to steady herself against the city’s energy. I could feel it too—its buzz under my skin. But I wasn’t distracted. I was watching her. She hadn’t said much since we landed, and that silence told me everything I needed to know. Something about this visit was clawing at her, even more than the pressure of returning to the city that turned its back on her. Even more than the grandmother who hated her guts. I reached over and laid my hand over hers, curling my fingers around her cold ones. She didn’t pull away. Davina, across from us, was chewing on her lip, her phone balanced
GABRIEL The moment she stepped into the steam, I stopped breathing. There she was—bare, fierce, broken, and still… impossibly, achingly mine. My pulse slammed against my neck. My muscles tensed with restraint I barely possessed. Water sluiced down her skin like it had fallen in love, every drop chasing her curves as if begging to stay. I’d always known Priscilla was strong. But this? Walking into this shower after what she’d faced, after every raw nerve had been dragged to the surface—this was something else. Something holy. Something dangerous. My Luna. “Mind if I join?” she asked, eyes locked to mine, voice soft—but not uncertain. Fuck me. That voice… the courage in it, the tremble beneath it. She was offering herself. Not just her body—her pain, her past, her scars. I stepped back, just enough to give her room, but never breaking eye contact. And then I pulled her in. All the way in. Her body met mine, skin to skin, water burning between us—but it wasn’t the heat from
PRISCILLA He stood in front of the closed door, like a sentinel—like the only thing keeping the world from crashing in. His arms were at his sides, fists clenched, but not in fury. His eyes, locked on me, were simmering with something deeper.Something fractured.Something furious at the pain between us.I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. My chest was a prison of emotion and sharp edges.He took a step toward me.“I don’t care what you think you are,” he said, low and deliberate. “I care about what’s real.”My breath caught.“Gabriel—”“You didn’t kill your mother.”“You weren’t there.”“No,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ve pieced together enough to know the truth. You were a kid, Priscilla. He was abusing both of you. That man twisted everything—”“The knife,” I whispered, my hands trembling, “was in my hand, Gabriel. It was my hand that went through her stomach. Not his. Mine.”The air between us crackled.He stared at me, unmoving, as though he was seeing me differently—like he’d pe
PRISCILLA I didn’t cry when he said it.I didn’t even flinch.Not at first.I just sat there.On the floor. In the corner. My back pressed to the cold wall like it might hold me together, like the plaster and paint might prop me up when my bones felt too soft, too loose to carry me.The carpet scratched faintly beneath my bare legs, and I curled my arms around my knees, holding myself because no one else could.Because he knew now.He knew.“Murdering your mother.”Those words hadn’t echoed—they had detonated.I wasn’t sure when he left the room. Maybe I blinked and missed it. Maybe I was too frozen to hear the door shut. All I know is one moment he was standing in front of me, his voice a knife, and the next—silence. Just me, my breath, and the way it hitched every time I remembered how he looked at me after he said it.Not disgusted. Not angry.But shaken.Like I’d become something else in his eyes. Something he didn’t know what to do with.A threat.A tragedy.Or worse—something i