35. 34

34

Bastian

W e burst through the door of Serina's dad's cabin. I watched, heart lodged in my throat, as Thorne laid Sam down on the couch and then quickly joined Nox as he carried Serina's lifeless body to the bathroom, their movements gentle but urgent.

“Careful,” I murmured, more to myself than to them. They didn't need the reminder; she was already gone .

Each step was measured, deliberate, as if they could will her back to life through sheer force of care. Once they disappeared behind the closed door, the sound of running water mingled with the haunting silence that had settled over us since the fire.

I leaned against the wall, letting the coolness seep into my skin, trying to drown out the image of Serina's ashen face from my mind.

Over an hour. That's how long I'd pumped her heart, counting each compression while praying to whatever gods might be listening that it wasn't too late. That somehow, our venom and the relentless rhythm of my hands on her chest would pull her back from death's grasp.

We chose this place for refuge, Serina’s dad’s old cabin shrouded by trees in the woods. Somewhere Victor's goons wouldn't think to look, if they were even looking.

Victor would expect us to come for him knowing Serina died. He knew more than he ever let on.

I slid down to the floor, the weight of exhaustion settling deep into my bones. The cabin's scent, a mix of pine and a hint of vanilla, was a small comfort.

But even that couldn't ease the tightness gripping my chest or the dread curling around my heart like a vice.

“Please, let it have been enough,” I whispered into the empty space.

A part of me wanted to join them, to scrub away the evidence of the night’s horrors from Serina's skin myself. But I’d already claimed too much of her time, and I wasn’t sure I could hold it together in there.

So, I waited as the minutes stretched into eternity.

The only thing I could do was hold onto the sliver of hope that Serina would return to us.

I nursed the glass of liquor in my hands, the burn as it slid down my throat a stark contrast to the icy dread that had settled in my stomach. The red-rimmed reflection in the window above the kitchen sink didn't belong to the man I knew; no, I was lost.

Riding that edge of despair, teetering on this bar stool like it was the only thing keeping me out of an abyss that threatened to swallow me whole.

The cabin around me felt too still, the only sounds being the distant murmurs and sobs from the bedroom where Thorne and Nox were sitting with Serina. I hadn’t gone in there yet.

To see her clean but dead…

No, I wasn’t ready.

Then, a sharp gasp cut through the heavy air like a clap of thunder.

My head snapped toward the couch where Sam had been lying motionless since we arrived. She sprung up, her breaths ragged and desperate, eyes wild with the remnants of a nightmare.

I pushed off the bar stool, drink in hand.

“Hey, it's okay. You're safe,” I assured her, approaching her slowly, hands raised as if I could somehow push away the terrors that haunted her like sinister wisps.

Sam's chest heaved as she searched my face for reassurance, for any sliver of hope that might anchor her back to reality.

“Serina?” she finally managed to choke out between breaths.

I couldn't bring myself to answer, the truth almost too much to bear. Instead, I sat beside her, offering my presence.

“Sam,” I started, my throat tight, words faltering as if language itself had become a foreign concept under the weight of grief. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision blurred by tears. I looked at her then.

“Please… no,” she whispered, the desperation in her tone clawing at the already frayed edges of my composure.

I took a shaky breath, the air feeling too thin, too sharp against my lungs.

“No… No!” Sam's cry shattered the fragile quiet, her anguish pouring out in those two syllables, raw and unfiltered. It reverberated against the walls, making a fresh wave of sorrow flow through my veins.

“Fuck,” I spat out as I stood, the curse tasting bitter on my tongue.

In a swift motion, I threw back the rest of my drink and hurled the glass at the wall. It exploded into a million shards, a glittering burst that mirrored the splintering of whatever semblance of control I thought I had.

Sam flinched back, a small noise escaping her.

I closed my eyes briefly, inhaling a deep breath that did little to steady my racing heart. When I opened them again, she was on her feet, moving toward the kitchen.

Tears continued to stream down her cheeks, carving clean lines through the ash and grime of the day’s horrors.

“Sam,” I started, but what could I say? That everything would be okay?

She didn't respond, just kept walking toward the kitchen, each step heavy with grief. I followed, my own feet dragging.

“Hey,” I tried, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I'm sorry, I—” The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.

She lunged toward the kitchen drawer like a woman possessed, yanking it open with a force that made the contents rattle. Her hand was trembling as she clasped the longest, most wicked-looking kitchen knife I'd ever seen.

“What the fuck,” I breathed, the words slipping out as her breathing turned ragged.

She spun to face me. Her eyes were glazed over with tears, thick streams falling down her face. But the haze that clouded her eyes—it was one I recognized.

Compulsion.

“Sam, no!” I shouted, launching myself across the space between us. My body moved on instinct. Victor was still playing his sick fucking games, even now, using Sam as a pawn to hurt Serina. It all made sense now.

We struggled a moment. My fingers wrapped around her wrist just as the tip of the knife touched the fabric over her chest.

Her eyes—so filled with fear and determination—met mine, and it felt like she was seeing right through me. Sam fought like a wild thing, desperation giving her strength that belied her human fragility.

“Please, stop.” My plea was a graveled whisper in her ear.

But she refused to relent. She was trying to follow through on an order that wasn't hers, a command etched into her mind by a fucking monster who took pleasure in pain.

With one last wrench, I pried the knife from her grip and sent it skidding across the wooden floor.

“Damn you, Victor,” I hissed under my breath, pinning Sam's struggling form against the cold counter with one hand while the other opened the junk drawer for duct tape. “Easy,” I murmured, though my voice trembled with suppressed rage as I maneuvered her to a chair in the dining room, wrapping tape around her to keep her from harming herself—or anyone else.

Nox and Thorne appeared while I was restraining her.

“What the hell is going on?” Nox demanded, rushing over.

“Compulsion,” I growled. “Victor had her compelled to kill herself, and I don’t have any vervain here to give her; it’s back home, so I’m keeping her tied up until we do.”

I finished securing Sam, taking a step back to take a breath.

“Serina… any change?” I dared to ask, my voice barely above a murmur.

Thorne swore under his breath, his hand running through his disheveled hair. Nox's jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in silent fury.

“Nothing, Bastian,” Thorne said, his voice hollow. “She's still…” He blew out deep sigh.

“I need some air… I’ll run to the house and get the vervain. Call me if anything changes,” Nox said without a second glance at us as he rushed toward the door.

“Be quick and be careful,” I replied, nodding curtly, grateful for something proactive to cling to amidst the chaos unfurling.

It took Nox about half an hour before he slipped back into the cabin. He didn't speak, but he didn’t need to. I was sure he had spent some of those minutes away lost in the grief we all felt.

His hand extended, offering the small pouch of vervain.

“Thank you,” I muttered, taking it from him.

Thorne watched silently, his expression grim as he prepared a glass of water. With steady hands, I mixed the herb into the liquid and told Sam to drink it as I put the glass to her lips and tilted it back.

The moment the vervain-laced water touched her lips and trickled down her throat, the transformation was immediate.

Her eyes cleared, the compulsion-induced haze dissipating as if it had never been there. Her breath steadied, and the grip of fear that had clutched at her because of what she was forced to do loosened its hold.

I cut the tape off of her, and she stood on unsteady legs.

“Thank you.” Her words were weak as she looked between the three of us. “Can you take me to her please?” she said, sounding utterly defeated.

Thorne, Nox, and I followed behind as she walked toward the room nodded to. We stepped inside and there she was—Serina, so still and peaceful. She was dressed in a simple white shirt and loose pants, her hair fanned out around her like a dark halo against the pillow.

The blood and ash were gone, but so was the warmth of life that should have radiated from her skin.

Sam made it to the side of the bed and then her knees buckled, her body convulsing with sobs. Her hands wrapped around one of Serina’s.

“Please,” she choked out between cries. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh my God, I killed you. Serina, I’m so sorry…”

I wanted to say something, to offer comfort, but my throat closed up, strangling any words that might have surfaced. Nox and Thorne stood beside me, their faces etched with lines of grief and guilt—a mirror of my own agony.

All we could do now was hope she woke up.