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Nyssa.

I tried to trace the name. Nothing came to mind. She didn’t pull away and the longer we stood there, the more I felt her.

“What is it. I—” London started, then stopped abruptly.

A beat.

Then my name left him in one dangerous exhale. “Alaric.”

I didn’t bother to turn my head.

Didn’t even care about his tone.

The words came before I realized I spoke. “This one.” I demanded. “Comes with me.”

5

NYSSA

Pain flared through my wrist, sharp against the warmth of his hand. Thick, calloused fingers brushed across my knuckles—and stopped.

But he didn’t let go.

Didn’t recoil.

Didn’t loosen his grip like the others always did.

He held on. Still. Unmoving. Like he was trying to understand what he found.

The room shifted around us. Silence crept outward, slow and spreading—like frost settling over glass. The noise dulled. Voices softened. Everything pulled away. Until all I could hear was my heartbeat. Then—somewhere in the room—a glass shattered.

One of the Daughters whispered.

Movement to my right as someone stepped back.

A man deep in conversation stopped instantly. The weight of his stare settled on me.

But the man who held me didn’t seem to notice, or care. His attention narrowed in with a predatory focus. I should be scared. No. I should be terrified. But I didn’t want to pull away. Not from him.

His grip didn’t change. Didn’t ease when he traced the deformed bones in my hand. Bones that’d been broken and refused many times, leaving jutting edges and cruel scars.

His breath was steady.

Those pale unfocused eyes. Not quite finding me—but not quite missing me either.

Why didn’t he recoil?

His chest filled the space. Broad. Immovable. Too close. There was nowhere to step. Nowhere to go. And then—his eyes. Hazy. White. Not looking at me—but still somehow finding me. Like he didn’t need to see. Like he already knew where I was. This wasn’t how it worked. Men took. Men hurt. They didn’t stay still—frozen like he wasn’t real.

Was he real?

My head tilted before I could stop it. My fingers trembled as I lifted my hand—and touched him. Warm. Chiselled. Stony. But alive.

My fingertips brushed the jagged scar along his cheek.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.