36. 35

35

Bastian

I shuffled into the dim room, my gaze fixed on the still form lying on the bed.

Nox and Thorne left to go hunt, and I had asked her cousin to step out and give me a minute alone with her. The silence was thick, save for the occasional creak of the cabin settling into its own skin.

It had been three days. Three long, agonizing days since we watched Serina's life slip away and, in desperation, we bit her, letting our venom seep into her veins.

Time had never meant anything to me before.

I had known Serina only a blink in the existence that awaited me and yet these three days had seemed to stretch on forever.

Maybe we were too late? No, I couldn't let myself think that way.

The only reason we believed there was still a chance was because her body never started decomposing. But I had never heard of someone turning after their heart had already stopped.

My hands clenched into fists, the nails biting into my palms.

She had to come back to us. She just had to.

A memory flickered, uninvited: Serina laughing, her eyes lighting up like stars as we sat in the diner, how she admitted her love for us.

Her look of surprise funneled her admission straight to my soul. She blushed; her skin had been so bright, alive—she had been alive. Her spirit too fierce to be contained. And now, this unnatural quiet that surrounded her seemed like a cruel joke.

I knew what we had done was selfish, but the thought of losing her, the reality of a world without Serina's fire and defiance, was unbearable. Each hour that ticked by stole another piece of hope.

“Please,” I breathed out, my voice barely audible.

The word was a plea to whatever forces governed the line between life and death and everything in between. I held her hand, my thumb running over her knuckles soothingly.

My heart ached with the need to feel her warmth again, to hear her voice.

We hadn't discussed turning her. There had been no talk of eternities together or what our futures might hold.

Maybe she had accepted her mortality, maybe she had made peace with the end in a way we couldn't comprehend. The thought sent a fresh wave of sorrow through me.

Had we been so blinded by our love for her that we ignored her right to choose?

“I’m so sorry, Serina,” I gritted out, the words spilling from my lips raw and heavy. “For the choice we made for you, for not being fast enough to protect you from—” my voice broke off.

Could she hear me? If she woke, would she forgive us?

Would she understand that our actions, however reckless, were borne of love, of an all-consuming need not to lose her?

I sat there, looking down at her, grappling with the weight of our decision. It was then that I made a silent vow. If Serina returned to us, I would spend every moment showing her how much she meant to us—to me.

“Come back, love,” I pleaded quietly to the empty room, my voice breaking as I placed a soft kiss against her forehead. “You can hate me, kill me if you like… just please come back.”

I pushed open the door to the small, wood-paneled bedroom where Serina lay, her chest barely moving with each shallow breath.

She was breathing . The wounds that had marred her flesh were now nothing but ghostly reminders on her otherwise unblemished skin. She was changing, the venom working silently beneath the surface.

Sam sat hunched in a chair beside the bed, her eyes fixed on Serina's still face. Her cousin had been silent and withdrawn since we'd been here. I lingered by the doorway, not wanting to intrude on her quiet thoughts.

I watched Sam's throat work as she swallowed back emotions she couldn't voice, her hands clenched into fists as if holding onto something slipping through her fingers. I understood that grip, that desperate clench; we were all holding onto hope with white-knuckled intensity.

Now we knew she would live… but would she forgive us?

I approached the bed carefully, my gaze never leaving Serina. The room was dark, and curtains covered the windows; the only light was the lamp by the bed casting a warm glow on her peaceful face.

In that moment, bathed in the soft light, she looked more like a slumbering angel than a creature caught between life and death.

On the other side of the bed, Thorne hadn't moved an inch. He might as well have been a statue, if not for the gentle motion of his fingers caressing Serina's knuckles. His eyes never strayed from her face, ignoring everything else swirling around him.

I sat on the floor, my back against the rough wood next to the bed, eyes never leaving Serina's still form.

Doubt haunted me, whispering insidious thoughts. Had she accepted death? Did she ever contemplate the end as anything but inevitable? Did she think of us?

I rubbed my face, trying to erase the weariness etched into my skin.

The love I felt for her was unexplainable. Something I had never felt in all my years on this earth.

Thorne, Nox, Sam—all of us were ensnared by her fierce resilience. Yet none of us had dared dream she might love us enough to forgive what we had done. What we had made of her.

As dusk crept in, I noticed a subtle shift. My head snapped up, and I caught Thorne's eyes, saw the same flicker of hope mirrored in his gaze.

Nox's hand gripped my shoulder, a silent question trembling in his touch.

“Serina?” Thorne breathed her name.

Her eyes opened, and time seemed to stutter to a halt. They were a startling red-black, the markers of our kind, yet those achingly familiar blue eyes lay beneath all the same.

We fell to our knees, each of us reaching out, torn between an urge to embrace her and the fear of what our embrace meant.

Sam rushed over to the bed, and Thorne acted on instinct, pushing her protectively behind him. Serina's gaze seemed a little disoriented. She was still processing.

“Serina,” I said carefully, my voice cracking with the strain of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.

Uncertainty flickered across her features; she undoubtedly knew she shouldn’t have survived what had happened to her. I braced myself for rejection, for the agony of her hatred for what we did.

I could not have borne the look of loathing from her, not after everything.

Not when I loved her more than anything else.

Her eyes roved over our faces, and then it dawned on her. Emotions churned within me, a maelstrom of love and regret, hope and despair, all blending into a desperate plea for forgiveness we had no right to ask for.

She rose abruptly, her chest heaving. Her stare lingered on each of us, piercing and deep, searching our souls as if seeking the truth of what we'd done to her.

Then, as sudden as a storm breaking, tears shimmered in her eyes, spilling over and tracing silvery paths down her cheeks. With a tremor that might have been a sob or a laugh, she pulled us into an embrace that felt like coming home after a lifetime away.

Her touch was gentle, so achingly familiar, yet underscored by the strength of her new existence. It was more than I ever dared to hope for.

I buried my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, a mix of pine from the cabin and something exquisitely her. Tears blurred my vision, emotions I couldn't name cascading inside me. Relief, love, a tinge of sorrow for what she'd lost and what we had gained.

“Gods, Serina,” I managed, my throat tight and my heart aching, “I thought we'd lost you.”

Around me, I heard the choked sounds of Thorne and Nox, their breaths hitching with the weight of their emotions.

None of us had expected forgiveness, least of all acceptance. Yet here she was, holding us, as if to say without words that we were still hers, that this bond between us hadn't been severed by the decision we made for her.

We stayed there, a tangle of limbs and hearts, allowing ourselves to be swallowed by the moment. For now, it was enough that she was alive, that she was with us.

The rest could wait.