MADELINE
I picked my phone up from the floor where I had thrown it earlier and held the power button until the screen came back to life. The glow felt too bright for the gray light leaking in through the curtains, like it was accusing me of being awake when I should not have been. My shoulder protested as I shifted, a deep, pulsing ache that had settled into the muscle and made itself comfortable there.
I scrolled through my contacts without really seeing the names. My thumb slowed when I reached Wilhelm. I hesitated, not because I doubted what I was about to do, but because I knew exactly how this would go. Then I pressed call before I could talk myself out of it.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Madeline." His voice was thick, rough with sleep and irritation. "Do you know what time it is?"
"I need you at the Donlon estate," I said. I did not soften it. I did not explain. I had learned a long time ago that giving Wilhelm too much too early only gave him room to push back.
Silence stretched on the line, just long enough to be deliberate. I could picture him sitting up in bed, probably running a hand through his hair, already smiling bitterly to himself.
"You and Father suddenly need me now?" he said, amusement bleeding into every word. "After years of pretending I didn’t exist unless something went wrong?"
I clenched my jaw and shifted my weight, the movement sending a sharp flare of pain through my shoulder. I sucked in a breath through my nose and kept my voice even. "This is family business."
A soft laugh followed, low and pleased. "My point still stands."
I pressed my free hand against the bruise, feeling the heat under my skin, the tenderness that made me hiss despite myself. I was tired of being in pain, tired of reacting instead of acting, tired of everyone assuming I would fold if they waited long enough.
"If you want to matter to Father," I said, "and to me, then you’ll come. I have something that needs to be delivered to him."
That got his attention. I could hear it in the way his breathing changed, the way the humor thinned out. I crossed the room slowly, my bare feet cold against the floor, and stopped at the antique dresser by the window. The wood was smooth from age and use, cool under my fingers as I pulled open the second drawer.
The vial sat exactly where I had left it, tucked between silk scarves that smelled faintly of old perfume. The blood inside looked almost black in the low light, thick and slow when I tilted the glass. It was starting to cuddle I guess. Just looking at it made my stomach twist, a sick blend of satisfaction and unease curling together in my gut.
"There’s an added incentive," I said lightly, even as my fingers tightened around the edge of the drawer. "Ronan is here. Beta Ronan. And before you ask, yes, he somehow looks even better than the last time you saw him."
Wilhelm did not respond right away. The silence this time was different, weighted, thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice had smoothed out, all sharp edges carefully filed down.
"That won’t work," he said, too quickly to be convincing.
I closed the drawer and leaned back against the dresser, the wood pressing into my spine as I smiled despite myself. "It already has. Call when you are close. "
I ended the call without replying and stood there for a moment, staring at the faint reflection of myself in the darkened window. I did not like the person looking back at me, but I also did not look away.
I ended the call before he could respond. But I made sure to keep the phone powered on. Just in case Father decided to make another appearance. My body couldn’t take being thrown into another wall today.
The vial stayed in the drawer. Hidden. Safe.
I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror across from my bed. Hair tangled from sleep. Eyes still puffy. The bruise on my shoulder was already turning a deep purple, spreading out from the impact point like spilled wine. I turned slightly, examining it. The skin was raised and tender.
It was a shame I couldn’t use my healing spell on myself. The magic didn’t work that way. Never had. I could knit together someone else’s broken bones, close wounds that should have been fatal, but when it came to my own body? Nothing. Just pain and the slow, natural process of healing.
So covering up would have to do. Again.
I stretched my arms above my head, testing the range of motion. Everything hurt, but it was manageable. A hot bath would help. I needed to wash off the night, wash off the conversation with Father, wash off the feeling of his words crawling under my skin.
Guinea pigs. The Strati had given him guinea pigs.
I started toward the bathroom, already thinking about the temperature of the water, when someone knocked on the door.
I froze.
It was early. Too early for housekeeping. Too early for anyone to have business with me.
Another knock came. It was firmer this time.
I crossed the room and pulled open the door.
Grand Luna Morrigan stood in the hallway, and behind her were two sentinels. The guards stood at attention, their expressions blank and professional. Morrigan herself looked immaculate despite the hour. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant braid, and she wore a deep blue dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
I bowed my head quickly. "I’m surprised to see you here."
"Don’t be." Her voice was kind, but there was something underneath it. Something deliberate. "I’m just grateful, and I wanted to talk."
"About what?"
"Can I come in?"
I stepped aside and gestured into the room. "Of course."
Morrigan turned to the sentinels. "Stay outside."
They nodded in unison, and she swept past me into the bedroom. I closed the door and turned to face her, suddenly very aware of how I looked. Rumpled nightclothes. Messy hair. The bruise peeking out from under my sleeve.
I put my hands awkwardly at my sides. "Well..."
"You saved my life." Morrigan’s gaze was steady on mine. "I’m beyond grateful for that. Because truth be told, after the way you and Cian ended things, it wouldn’t be cruel if you were resentful."
"You already thanked me yesterday." I swallowed. The words felt thick in my throat. "Whatever this is about, it’s not about thanks. And I have a feeling I already know what this is about."