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There are two urinals and a stall in here, as well as a sink with a cracked mirror. A whimper escapes my throat as my body twists toward it, and I fight it. God, do I try to fight it, to claw back the control that has been taken from me. Pain lances through every tendon and ligament, every step a losing battle, my toes flexing in my boots like I’m trying to press invisible brakes.

Now, now, Sunday. This would be so much easier if you just stopped fighting me.

A breath hisses through clenched teeth, saliva filling my mouth. My face contorts with the effort it takes to shove the words through my aching teeth.

“Fuck,” I choke out. “You.”

Breathing becomes near impossible, the corners of my vision softening and falling away at the edges. My feet move toward the mirror, leaden and painful. By some miracle I manage to lift a hand, pushing weakly against the cool porcelain of the sink. It’s a useless attempt, some unseen force bending me in half. I feel every vertebra of my spine crack, the sensation pulling a low, keening sound from my throat.

Look in the mirror.

“No,” I grimace, clenching my fingers around the sink as my vision darkens and pulses once more.

Phantom hands wrench my head back, pulling my hair at the root until I’ve got no choice but to look. Look at this twisted version of myself, eyes a depthless black, dark and glossy like the floor in my nightmares.

The saccharine smile plastered on my face makes bile scrape at the ridges of my back teeth. I can’t move my head to spit it up, forced to choke on it until tears leak out of the corner of my eyes.

Let go.

I don’t want to.

I shouldn’t, but I’m tired.

I’m so very tired. Exhausted—mind, body, and soul. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. I feel like a marionette. But instead of strings, it’s barbed wire that’s digging under the layers of my flesh, burrowing into the marrow of my bones. Making me do this danse macabre until I can’t take it anymore.

I let my eyelids shutter, just for a second. A single moment of rest, just to steel myself and catch my breath. Just to⁠—

let

me

win.

Chapter Forty

Bellamy

“Can’t anyone in your brood help you with regular feeds?”

It’s not meant to be a harsh question, but Séverin’s shoulders shoot to his ears. He turns an incredibly sad look on me, and I feel what he’s about to say before he says it.

“I don’t have one.”

“What about your…sire? Your maker?” He must still be in touch with them. I’m sure it’s frowned upon in the vampire community not to look after your bloodline in the first year of them turning. That’s like leaving a baby to fend for itself.

“He abandoned me.” He ducks his head, looking ashamed. I feel for him. If there’s one person who understands being alone and feeling abandoned, it’s me.

“How long has it been since you were turned?”

“Two, maybe three months, I think. I don’t exactly count the days.” He uses his foot to move his chair from side to side, rocking himself. The bruises on his throat are almost gone already, reduced to a mottled yellow.

Séverin licks his teeth again, poking at the space where his secondary incisors drop from. He’s going to make himself incredibly sick if he keeps going like this. I have no idea how he managed to get hold of vampiric appetite suppressants; they’re pretty taboo from what I understand. Only meant to be taken a week at a time.

I sigh deeply, mentally adding it to the list of paranormal things I’m trying to fix: Find out why my spirit guide has untethered herself from me. Exorcise the demonic parasite from my not-boyfriend. Feed the baby vampire so he doesn’t snap and eat half of my work colleagues.

I just need a wolf shifter to come howling and it will be a full set. Fantastic.

Just as Séverin starts massaging his inflamed gums, Lara bustles into the room looking flustered. Her hair is mussed like she’s been running her hands through it, a light flush creeping through her olive-toned skin.