18. 17

17

Nox

Flashback…

T he neon sign buzzed overhead, flickering with a lazy persistence as it cast a glow over the kitschy decor of the karaoke bar.

We sat there, Bastian, Thorne, and I, nursing drinks that tasted more like fire than anything else. It was karaoke night, and the air was thick with anticipation and the off-key warbling of amateurs who thought they could sing.

I leaned back against the sticky vinyl stool, trying to look casual, like another patron out for a good time and drinks. But we weren’t. Our eyes were trained on the Velika family huddled around a nearby table with their friends, their laughter reaching us even over the chaos of the drunkard crowd.

“Victor said he’s going to want another full report,” Thorne muttered, his gaze not leaving the family. His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the side of his glass.

“Yeah,” Bastian agreed, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t say much, he seemed lost in thought.

Then she stepped onto the stage, and everything else faded into insignificance. Serina Velika. We had been watching her all this time, from the shadows. Victor wanted intel, sure, but what I had started to feel went beyond orders. There was something about her, something magnetic. Something that demanded attention not just from me, but from all three of us.

She adjusted the mic stand and glanced around the room. For a moment, I averted my gaze, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I noticed Thorne and Bastian do the same.

Then she launched into a song, and God, she was beautiful. Not just her appearance, which was striking, but the way she swayed to the rhythm, her movements fluid and unrestrained, as if dancing to the melody of her own heart. Her voice, though slightly tinged with the effects of a drink or two, carried a raw authenticity that resonated deeply with those gathered around her—singing along with her.

But what truly set her apart was her utter disregard for judgment or inhibition. She was real and hauntingly captivating.

“Damn,” Thorne murmured, and we both chuckled as she confidently made up her own words where she forgot the lyrics. Fucking adorable. She was wicked and adorable.

Bastian was silent beside me, but I caught the way his normally stoic face softened, the way his eyes followed her every movement. The slight smile that curved his lips. He wasn’t just watching; he was absorbing her presence, as if he wanted to remember this moment forever.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew that look. Hell, I probably had the same expression plastered on my face.

As we watched her step down, returning to her family with a flush on her cheeks, I felt something shift inside me. The pull to protect her was growing stronger than the compulsion to obey Victor’s orders.

It was like a war in my chest. The conflict between my rational mind and my emotional core reverberated through the depths of my being. To act against your own desires and convictions… I had never felt so powerless, so out of control. I didn’t want this, but there was nothing I could do, nothing any of us could do, to stop from obeying his command.

The murmur of the crowd faded to a low drone as we caught snippets of John Velika’s conversation. He was speaking in hushed tones, but the name of their next destination carried across to us—Lufkin.

“Time to go,” I whispered, my gaze lingering on Serina for a fraction too long.

The compulsion was already tugging on me to leave. Thorne and Bastian nodded, and we slipped away, our drinks left abandoned on the bar top as we melted into the night.

“We can’t let Victor get to her. She’s…” My voice trailed off because what was she? A stranger? An assignment? No, she was something I doubted any of us understood, drawing us in, and we were all too willing to crash headfirst into it.

“Agreed,” Bastian said firmly, his jaw set in determination. As if he had been thinking the same thing as I had been while watching her. “I think I’ve fingered out a way to stop the compulsion.”

Back at our house, the familiar walls seemed to close in on us. Victor’s orders were a noose around our necks, pulling tighter with every breath.

Bastian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dried flower—vervain. Its petals were a faded purple, a stark contrast to the amber liquid in the shot glasses before us. It was poison to our kind, a weapon wielded against us for centuries. Yet here we were, considering it as our salvation.

This was either incredibly smart or the stupidest thing we’d ever done.

“Vervain can weaken compulsion. If we can endure it, maybe we can break free from Victor’s grip,” Bastian explained, his eyes never leaving the flower in his hand. His skin was already red and irritated where it touched him.

“Are you sure about this?” Thorne asked uneasily, looking at Bastian.

“Of course not, but it’s all we’ve got.” Bastian replied with a grim smile.

Then, without another word, he dropped one of the tiny petals into his glass. Unsure with how much it would take to kill one of us, he was being cautious, only wanting to use a little at a time.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmured, lifting the glass to his lips.

In one swift movement, Bastian downed the shot. The liquid fire coursed through him, and for a moment, he stood still, his expression unreadable. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, fighting the natural urge to expel the toxin.

“Bastian?” Thorne’s voice was laced with concern, his hand holding Bastian’s shoulder, steadying him.

Bastian’s body convulsed with a violent shudder. His face contorted, and he gagged, as if the very essence of his nature revolted against the intrusion of the vervain. He groaned, a guttural sound that spoke volumes of his pain, and braced himself against the kitchen table, knuckles white as he clung to the wood.

“Easy, man,” I murmured, my voice low with concern. Thorne and I flanked him, our arms catching him as his knees buckled beneath him.

Bastian’s eyes, usually so clear and commanding, were now glazed with a sheen of unshed tears as he battled his own physiology. His voice, when it finally broke through the silence, was ragged, each word punctuated by a strained breath.

“I… think… it… did… something,” he choked out, each word sounding like it cost him. “His pull doesn’t feel as strong as it was.”

Thorne exhaled the breath he’d been holding, his relief palpable in the tense air of the kitchen. I nodded, feeling a tightness in my own chest begin to ease.

We were playing a dangerous game, but Bastian’s torment offered a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, we were on the right track.

“Good,” I said softly, allowing myself a small smile for Bastian’s benefit. “That’s good.”

He straightened up slowly, his breathing still heavy. I grabbed the bottle, my fingers brushing against its cool glass surface, and poured the amber liquor into two shot glasses. One for me and Thorne.

The kitchen’s dim light flickered in the liquid’s smooth ripples, casting a warm glow on Thorne’s anxious face. He was watching me, his eyes searching for some kind of assurance I wasn’t sure I could give him.

Thorne finally nodded, his jaw set, resigned to the task before us. I picked up a small petal of vervain, feeling it sting against my skin, the edges crisp and slightly curled. My hands didn’t shake as I dropped two petals into the shots.

The small petals sank, leaving a faint trail in their wake, a visible mark of our defiance.

We threw back the shots, the liquor burning a path down our throats. It was a torment unlike any other; I could feel the vervain infiltrating my very core, attacking with a merciless intensity. The searing heat spread like wildfire, coursing down my throat and into the depths of my being.

My muscles convulsed uncontrollably. My knees gave out from under me. Bastian did his best to hold onto Thorne and me, but he was weak.

The poison coursed through my veins, leaving behind its insidious mark, I found myself engulfed in a haze of weakness. It was as if every fiber of my being had been drained of life, leaving me with limbs heavy as lead and a mind shrouded in fog.

Every movement became a task, I tried to stand up, but each step was a struggle against the weight of my body. Yet other than the pain, the weakness, I felt a subtle shift within me—like the slow thaw of ice melting under the warmth of the sun.

The invisible chains that had bound my will loosened. Allowing small tendrils of clarity to pierce through the fog of control.

I gaped at Thorne and Nox, all of us sharing knowing glances.

“We need to do this until we’re strong enough to completely pull away from his control,” Bastian said with determination. “It might take a while. I doubt we could do this every day; it would probably kill us. But just long enough to get out from under his control.”

Thorne straightened, nodding fiercely. “We’ll need to be careful. Victor can’t suspect anything.”

“Then we’ll play his game,” I said, “until we can flip the board over and end it on our terms.”

It was our only chance.