Silas:
Lucien always had a way of ruining a good moment.
Twisting it. Poisoning it with that silk-stitched cruelty of his. All teeth and charm and swaggering ego. A storm in leather boots. He’d been that way for centuries—always tearing through places, through people, like beauty was something meant to be broken open and bled dry.
And he almost got to her.
Almost.
But not this time.
Not her.
Not Isadora.
I felt it the second his hunger bloomed—wild and hot and laced with that wicked edge he barely bothered to hide. The graveyard shivered. The wind turned. The trees whispered my name like a warning, or maybe an invocation. Death stirs when something ancient threatens to take what's mine.
And I am death.
I came before the carved gates of this school, before Lucien wore his first ta
