The night didn’t sleep.
It writhed.
Thunder cracked above the compound, and Alina stood in front of the glass window, naked beneath Nicholas’s oversized shirt, her fingers wrapped tight around a whiskey glass she hadn’t touched.
Behind her, Nicholas stirred, waking with that predator stillness he never lost—even with his arms around her just hours before.
“She’s dying, Nicholas.”
His voice was rough. “I know.”
“I don’t want to be her legacy. I want her to live.”
“You are her legacy,” he said, coming up behind her. His hand slid along her thigh. “And you’re not done writing it.”
She turned to him, raw.
“What if the serum kills her faster? What if Lorelei was right, and I’m not the only one it calls to? What if we’re wrong?”
“Then we fight harder.”
She searched his eyes. “Promise
