Alaska, 1927
The snow whispered across the tundra like it remembered every sin ever buried beneath it.
Outside, the world lay frozen, smothered in alabaster silence. The wind moaned low against the timber walls of the Cullen home—an old hunting lodge refitted with modern secrets. Inside, firelight danced lazily across dark wood floors and leather-bound journals. A home for the unwanted. A cathedral for the immortal.
Esme stood by the window, draped in a cream shawl that had once belonged to someone who mattered. Her gaze was distant, but not empty. There was always something behind her eyes—kindness wrapped around sorrow, as if she'd knitted her grief into something wearable.
Carlisle moved quietly through the library. He always looked like a man halfway through a sermon, with cheekbones sharp enough to slice truth and a voice that could make sin sound like salvation. He paused at a shelf, trailing long fingers over the spine of a French philosophy text.
"Still trying to understand the human condition?" Esme asked without looking.
"Trying," Carlisle murmured. "Failing."
She smiled faintly. "You're not failing. You're just not done."
—
On the velvet loveseat, Hadrian lay sprawled like a languid cat, arms draped along the backrest, one knee pulled up. His eyes—ancient emerald wrapped in immortal youth—were half-lidded, pretending boredom. A lie.
Daenerys was in his lap, straddling his thighs with absolute queenly entitlement, carefully painting his nails black with an antique brush she insisted worked better than any 1920s nonsense. Her silver hair was pinned in a braided crown, loosely falling down her shoulders in curls she had very definitely not styled for him.
"Stop smirking," she warned, not glancing up. "You'll smudge."
"I'm not smirking," Hadrian said. "I'm brooding. Deeply. Darkly. Probably about my tragic past."
"You're smirking," she said, dabbing polish onto his thumb. "Like you just won an argument no one else heard."
"I did. With gravity. I'm winning, barely."
She huffed. "You're insufferable."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper as his fingers ghosted up her side. "Yet you're still on my lap."
"Don't flatter yourself, Peverell," she said, blowing gently on his hand. "You're just warm."
"I'm also devastatingly handsome," he added. "And morally ambiguous. Which we both know is your kink."
Daenerys didn't look up—but her smirk betrayed her. "You had me at 'morally ambiguous.'"
From the stairs, Edward watched them in a quiet storm of silence.
He wasn't jealous. Not exactly. It was more like... displacement. Like someone had redrawn the family map while he wasn't looking, and he was still trying to find where he belonged. Once, he'd been the first. The center. The heir. Now?
Now he was just the echo that followed laughter.
He turned and slipped away.
—
Later That Night
Outside, the cold bit like truth.
Edward stood at the edge of the forest, hands in his coat pockets, the fur-lined collar pulled high. The snow had quieted, but the trees still whispered. Overhead, the sky stretched black and breathless.
The Denali house shimmered faintly in the far distance. Warm light. Warm smiles. Irina had smiled at him earlier. Soft. Sweet. A "maybe someday" kind of smile.
He hadn't smiled back.
The silence crept in, and he let it.
And then, without warning, the thoughts came.
Not his. Theirs.
Ten miles away, the village slumbered—oblivious. Dreams slipped through the dark like thin ribbons of smoke. He reached out with the instinct that wasn't human anymore.
A mother humming a lullaby.
A child dreaming of Christmas.
A man wondering if he left the gas on.
Then—
She flinched again. Maybe I shouldn't've hit her where people could see.
She's only fifteen. But she looked older. That's not my fault.
She said no, but she didn't mean it.
I'll kill her if she tells.
Edward's fists curled.
He hadn't meant to reach this far.
But now that he had…
He couldn't turn it off.
He couldn't unhear them.
Couldn't unsee the darkness under their skin.
He didn't want to hunt them. He needed to.
—
Upstairs
The fire had died to embers. Hadrian now lounged alone, book open but unread. Daenerys had draped herself across the arm of the chair like a silver-limbed goddess, flipping through a fashion magazine she'd mocked earlier but refused to put down.
She yawned. "Why do all these models look like they're being held hostage?"
Hadrian chuckled, flipping a page without looking at it. "Because they are. By bad tailoring."
She hummed in amusement. "You're so lucky I find you amusing. And hot. Mostly hot."
"I live in eternal gratitude," he said. "And existential dread."
Then he froze.
His eyes unfocused.
Magic prickled like frost down his spine.
Daenerys sat up, immediately alert. "What is it?"
Hadrian blinked slowly. "Edward. He's planning something."
She arched a brow. "He always is. He broods harder than Wuthering Heights on cocaine."
Hadrian didn't smile. "No. This is different. This feels like…"
He stood, jaw tight. "It feels like blood."
—
Edward's Room
The map was soft with wear, the paper frayed from a hundred folds.
His finger hovered over a single, circled name.
Columbus, Ohio.
Hadrian's handwriting, looping and neat. Annotated. Underlined.
Charles Evenson—Still Alive.
Edward stared at it like it was a curse.
The man had remarried. No kids, thankfully. Just another life. Untouched. Undeserved.
He told himself this wasn't about revenge.
That it was for Esme.
That monsters deserved no quarter.
But the truth curled under his tongue like rot.
He didn't want to arrest Charles Evenson.
He wanted to look him in the eye.
Wanted him to know.
Wanted him to see the face of justice, carved in marble and cruelty and crimson.
He wanted to taste the fear.
He wanted to be the end.
—
Back in the Library
Hadrian stared into the fire, jaw tight.
Daenerys stepped behind him, sliding her arms around his waist. Her chin rested on his shoulder, silver hair brushing against his cheek.
"Tell me," she whispered.
"He's going after Esme's ex-husband," Hadrian said.
She blinked. "The one who—"
"Yes."
Silence.
Then, softly: "Do we stop him?"
Hadrian closed his eyes. "I don't know."
Daenerys pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Then we go with him."
He turned to face her fully. Their foreheads touched. His hands gripped her hips like an anchor. Her eyes burned violet fire.
"Ride or die?" he whispered.
She smirked. "Oh baby. Always die."
—
The soft clack of Edward's boots echoed off the dark wood as he stalked across the room like a storm brewing behind a fragile mask. Tanya's eyes—bright, predatory—flitted to him with that signature grin that screamed I know exactly what you're hiding, and I want in. The kind of grin that made Edward want to dive under the table and disappear.
Carlisle, forever the picture of composed patience, looked up from his medical journal, voice smooth but firm. "Tanya, maybe dial back the... suggestions. Edward doesn't seem the least bit interested."
"Oh, Carlisle," Tanya teased, one brow arching as if daring him to argue. "That boy's brooding exterior? That's just the cover story. I'm betting he's got a hurricane under there, waiting to blow the roof off."
Edward groaned inside, cheeks heating as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Please don't look at me like that. Please don't look at me like that.
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to speak. "Carlisle. I... I need to leave. For a while. Go nomad."
Carlisle's brow rose, but his tone was gentle, probing. "Nomad? You want to hunt alone?"
Edward's eyes flicked to the heavy oak door where Hadrian and Daenerys's laughter still teased the edges of the quiet. "I need to... clear my head. Get away from all of this. From the house, from the noise."
Carlisle closed the journal with deliberate calm. "You don't owe me your reasons, Edward. But I'm not as blind as you think."
Their shared glance was a quiet battle of wills—Edward's need for distance against Carlisle's steady, knowing presence.
Before either could say more, the door slammed open with a theatrical boom.
Hadrian stepped in, every inch the reluctant prince—the perfect storm of sharp jawline, smoldering eyes, and I-don't-need-you-but-I-want-you energy. Daenerys followed, a silver-limned goddess in motion, hair cascading like moonlight, that devil-may-care grin pinned perfectly on her lips.
Hadrian tossed his coat onto a chair, locking eyes with Edward. "He's going nomad. We're coming with."
Daenerys leaned in, voice honey-laced with poison. "Because watching Edward brood solo? Torture. We need front-row seats to his meltdown."
Edward blinked, disbelief flickering. "You're what?"
Hadrian shrugged, smirking like he'd just revealed the punchline of a cosmic joke. "We're not exactly thrilled with pacing the halls like nervous cats. Someone's gotta babysit the brooding wolf."
Daenerys flicked her silver hair, eyes sparkling. "And I want to see what kind of chaos we can stir up once we're miles away from Esme's 'don't-do-that-you'll-get-hurt' lectures."
Carlisle pinched the bridge of his nose, half amused, half exasperated. "You two really are insufferable."
Daenerys's grin widened, all sharp teeth and sly promises. "And you love it."
Edward shot Hadrian a sideways glare. "You're definitely enabling her."
Hadrian's smirk deepened, a slow, dangerous curve. "Someone's gotta."
Carlisle's gaze cut through the room, calm but warning. "If this nomad life is what you truly need... I won't stop you. But understand—out there, the dark isn't just night. It's something far worse."
Daenerys's eyes glittered with fierce fire. "Good. Because darkness? That's exactly what we're coming for."
Edward's lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "You do realize you're signing up for my brand of chaos, right?"
Hadrian's grin was slow, lethal. "We wouldn't want it any other way."
Daenerys pressed her fingers to Edward's jaw, eyes alight like violet flames. "It's going to be one hell of a ride, lēkia."
Edward sighed, a mix of dread and thrill. "Then maybe it's time we all learned how to run together."
Outside, the snow whispered secrets. Inside the Cullen home, something new—dangerous, electric—was beginning. A family forged not by blood, but by choice, by chaos, by the fire that would burn through the Alaskan night.
—
The storm howled like an old god outside the thick glass window, snow hurling itself against the mansion like it wanted to be let in. Inside, the oil lamp on Edward's desk flickered with a lazy, golden glow, casting long shadows that danced over the shelves lined with dusty journals and half-burnt candles.
Edward stood with his back to the room, face ghosted in the reflection of the window. He looked like something that had forgotten how to live—still beautiful, still composed, but with grief carved into the bones of his posture. He didn't move when the door creaked open and shut with a soft click.
Boots first—polished, expensive, walked with a lazy, infuriating swagger.
Hadrian.
Then the click of silver heels—slow, deliberate, confident enough to make sin jealous.
Daenerys.
"I thought I said I needed space," Edward muttered, jaw tight, eyes still locked on the swirling white outside.
"You did," Hadrian said cheerfully, tossing a leather satchel onto Edward's desk. "So we respectfully ignored your boundaries and broke into your room. Like siblings. Or villains."
"You broke my lock."
"I upgraded your wards," Hadrian said, flashing a grin as he ran a glowing palm over the door. The air shimmered blue. "No sound gets out. Not even to Mama Esme and her suspiciously sensitive ears."
Daenerys, already perched like a queen on the edge of Edward's bed—coat draped over one shoulder, hair a platinum waterfall down her back—smirked. "Honestly, Edward, if you wanted privacy, you should've let Hadrian teach you real magic. Your little anti-snoop spells are tragic."
Edward finally turned, slowly, like movement itself was an effort. "Vampires don't need magic."
Hadrian raised a brow, lips twitching. "Says the vampire who's been trying to teach himself Latin warding from 15th-century Italian manuscripts. You know there's a translation, right?"
Edward's eyes sharpened. "How do you know what I've been reading?"
Daenerys smiled, slow and dangerous. "You're not the only one who can read minds, lēkia."
Edward moved in a blur—vampire-fast, inches from Hadrian's face, fury simmering under his skin. "You've been inside my head?"
Hadrian didn't flinch. "I didn't need to dig. Your thoughts are practically screaming, Ed. You're planning something suicidal. And stupid. And noble, which—honestly—makes it even more annoying."
"I didn't need to tell anyone," Edward said tightly. "It's my choice."
"Columbus, Ohio," Hadrian said, all humor bleeding from his voice. "Charles Evenson. You want to find him. Make him bleed. Make him pay."
Edward froze.
Daenerys stood from the bed, her boots hitting the floor with a soft thud. She crossed the room in three measured steps, face unreadable but her voice trembling with rage. "You think we don't want that? After what he did to Esme?"
"She's our mother," Hadrian said, stepping beside her. "Not by blood. Not by adoption papers. But by every heartbeat that mattered. You think we'd let that monster walk?"
Edward looked away. "It's not your burden."
"The hell it isn't," Daenerys snapped, eyes blazing like blue fire. "You think you're the only one haunted? That you're the only one who lies awake hearing what he did to her? You don't carry this pain alone."
"I wasn't just going to kill him," Edward whispered. "I was going to feed."
The silence hit like a gunshot.
Hadrian was the one to answer. "Then I would've stopped you."
"You don't get it," Edward growled, finally looking at them. "You don't hear them. Men like him. I've touched their thoughts, felt the rot. They laugh while they do it. Laugh while women like Esme beg. If there's anything in this world that deserves to be drained to the last breath, it's him."
"And if you do that," Daenerys said gently, stepping closer, "you stop being Edward. And he wins."
"You drink from him," Hadrian added, his tone steel wrapped in velvet, "and the eyes looking back at you won't be yours anymore."
Edward turned back to the window. "Then tell me. What the hell do I do?"
Hadrian stepped up beside him, laying a warm hand on his shoulder. "You kill him. Clean. No feeding. No soul-damning revenge fantasies. Just justice. Just an ending. And we do it together."
"You'd kill for her?" Edward asked, voice raw.
Hadrian's voice dropped to a whisper. "In a heartbeat."
Daenerys moved behind Edward, resting her hand against his back. "For Esme, I'd burn kingdoms and laugh while they smoldered."
Edward's voice cracked. "And after?"
"We come home," Hadrian said. "We bury the ghost."
"And we go back to pretending we're not monsters," Edward said bitterly.
Daenerys turned him gently, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're not a monster. You're a boy who's been through hell and still tries to be kind."
"Don't romanticize me."
"I don't have to," she murmured, brushing a thumb lightly across his cheek. "You're already the kind of beautiful that breaks hearts."
Hadrian rolled his eyes. "Okay, wow. Can you two stop having forbidden eye sex while I'm trying to stop a murder?"
Daenerys didn't look away. "Jealous?"
Hadrian leaned against the wall, smirking. "Please. I've seen you turned on, khaleesi. You only get like that when I'm shirtless."
Daenerys smirked. "Who says I wasn't picturing that?"
Edward blinked. "Oh gods, you two are exhausting."
"But distracting, right?" Hadrian grinned. "That's the point. You're not alone in this, Ed. You never were."
Edward stared at them both. One fire. One light. One darkness.
And all of them family.
"I must be losing my mind," he murmured. "Because this—this chaos—feels like comfort."
Daenerys leaned in close, breath warm against his ear. "We're your monsters, lēkia. But we only bite when you tell us to."
Hadrian snapped his fingers. "Alright, team vengeance. Do we have a plan?"
Edward nodded, slow and grim. "Columbus. We hunt the bastard. And we come back."
"Together," Daenerys said, clasping his hand.
"Always," Hadrian added, resting a hand over both theirs.
Outside, the storm raged like the fury of gods.
Inside, three souls—tangled in blood, bound by love—promised justice.
And when they came back?
They'd carry new scars.
But they'd still have each other.
—
Columbus, Ohio – Winter, 1927
The train wailed as it pulled into Union Station, its iron lungs exhaling steam like a dying dragon. Frost laced the windows in delicate webs. Snow fell in slow, languid spirals, sugar-coating a city already soaked in bourbon, secrets, and sin.
Edward stepped off first, the heel of his boot kissing the platform with a quiet finality. He was all long limbs, shadowed eyes, and predator silence. His charcoal coat hung like smoke from his shoulders, flat cap low, scarf loose around his pale throat like a noose he'd forgotten to tighten.
Behind him came Hadrian, tall and broad and devastating. His emerald eyes missed nothing, gleaming beneath his dark curls and the brim of his fedora. A crimson scarf was wound once around his neck like a warning. He carried himself like he'd been carved from marble and magic, every movement casual but coiled.
Daenerys descended like a goddess slumming it in the mortal realm. Her platinum curls were tucked under a cloche hat the color of bone, her lips painted a shade of sin. She wore a cream coat with fur at the collar, cinched tight at the waist, and heels that clicked like a clock counting down to someone's end.
She slid her gloved hand through Hadrian's arm and let her head fall dramatically against his shoulder.
"Columbus," she purred, eyes scanning the skyline with an exaggerated sigh. "Smells like sweat and Catholic guilt."
Hadrian smirked, not looking at her. "That's just your perfume."
"Darling, if I wore a scent called Catholic Guilt, the Pope would excommunicate himself."
He chuckled, eyes softening just slightly when they met hers. "Temptation suits you."
"I invented it."
Edward, deadpan: "Could we maybe flirt after we kill someone?"
Daenerys straightened, unrepentant. "Oh, Edward, let them have a little fun before the bloodbath. Besides, it keeps me warm."
"You could light a city on fire and still complain about the cold," Edward muttered, already moving, his coat flaring behind him like wings.
Hadrian watched him go. "He's in a mood."
Daenerys tugged Hadrian toward the street, heels clicking. "He's always in a mood. That's his whole aesthetic."
"I heard that," Edward called over his shoulder.
"Of course you did, darling," she said sweetly. "You're practically a walking eulogy."
They passed jazz clubs pumping music into the night like lifeblood. A saxophone screamed from behind frosted windows, and couples in flapper dresses and pinstripes stumbled out, half-drunk and fully enchanted.
They cut through a narrow alley lit by a single flickering gas lamp. The snow crunched under their feet, dirty now with city grime.
"Feels like we're being watched," Hadrian muttered.
"We are," Edward said without turning around. "Five men across the street. Tommy guns in violin cases. They're not here for us."
Daenerys scoffed. "Gangsters. So quaint. Want me to blow them a kiss and turn their hearts to ash?"
Hadrian grinned. "You say that like it's a threat and not a regular Tuesday."
She winked at him. "Only for you, darling."
Edward stopped suddenly in the middle of the street, his hand going to the wall of a nearby building. His head tilted, like a dog catching a distant sound.
"Hold on," he said quietly.
Daenerys sobered, stepping closer. "Is it him?"
Edward's eyes were far away, pupils dilated. "Voices. So many. This city... it's diseased."
"Yeah, well," Hadrian said, voice low, "we're not here to fix it."
Edward's lips peeled back slightly, not quite a smile. "No. We're here to feed the rot to the flames."
They walked again in silence until they reached a crumbling chapel on the edge of the slums. Snow gathered on its steps like forgotten prayers. The stained glass was shattered, only jagged pieces remaining to catch the light like broken teeth.
Edward stopped at the threshold, head tilting again.
Daenerys stepped beside him, suddenly serious. "You hear something?"
Edward's voice was barely audible. "Not something. Someone."
Hadrian's eyes narrowed. "Is it him?"
Edward stepped forward slowly, like the air was turning thicker with every breath.
"His mind," he said, voice low and venomous, "is rotting. Filthy. Sharp in all the wrong places. But it's him."
Daenerys's breath caught. "Charles Evenson."
Edward nodded. "He's close. North. About four blocks. Basement. I can hear the pipes dripping. I can hear his teeth grind when he talks to himself. He's drunk. Afraid. But he doesn't know why."
"He will," Hadrian said, jaw tightening.
Daenerys reached into her coat and pulled out a compact mirror. She flipped it open, checked her lipstick, and snapped it shut with a crisp click.
"Do I look like vengeance?" she asked.
Hadrian gave her a once-over, and something in his eyes turned molten.
"You look like his last sin," he said.
Daenerys's grin was feral. "Perfect."
Edward pointed down the street, toward the tenements.
"He's in a rat's nest," he said. "Whiskey. Sweat. Broken lightbulbs. He keeps a revolver under his mattress. But he won't get to it in time."
Daenerys tugged her gloves tight. "Then let's not keep the bastard waiting."
Edward turned, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "We hunt tonight."
And somewhere in a rotting basement, Charles Evenson twitched in his sleep—sensing, on some primitive level, that something monstrous had crossed into his city.
He didn't know that three devils had just stepped off a train with his name written in fire.
—
Columbus, Ohio – Later That Night
The alley behind The Scarlet Dove jazz lounge reeked of wet ash and bad decisions. A single neon sign buzzed overhead like a dying mosquito—SCARLET blinking in crimson fits, DOVE dead entirely. Steam curled up from the rusted grate below, thick as spilled secrets. The bricks along the wall wept with snowmelt, their veins running dark like the city itself was hemorrhaging behind closed doors.
Daenerys stood at the mouth of the alley, her cream coat drawn tight like armor spun from moonlight and silk. A single pin held her curls off one shoulder, and her pale throat gleamed like porcelain under the flickering glow. She looked too clean for the gutter. Too divine for the filth. Like a rose blooming in a graveyard.
She was waiting.
And then came him—Charles Evenson.
The back door swung open with a bang, and he stumbled out into the cold like it owed him something. Hair slicked back, tie loosened to the second button, breath fogging from whiskey fumes and cheap cigars. His face looked like it had been carved by a bitter god with dull tools. His eyes zeroed in on Daenerys and gleamed like a raccoon spotting jewelry.
"Well now," he slurred, swaying like the ground had a vendetta. "Ain't you just a goddamn painting."
Daenerys blinked, wide-eyed, voice trembling like a leaf on a piano wire. "I—I think I'm lost," she said, clutching her coat tighter around her. "I came to hear the music, but… my friends, they never came out, and then this man—this awful man—he grabbed me—"
She lifted her glove with a subtle motion, revealing pale skin touched with just the right shade of mottled red, courtesy of Hadrian's magic. It looked like pain. It looked real.
Evenson's smile faded. His lips curled into something sour. "Some prick laid a hand on you?"
Her voice hitched perfectly. "He said… he said I shouldn't be here. That I was 'asking for it'."
The words landed like broken glass in the alley.
He stepped forward, voice lowering to something thick and self-righteous. "You don't deserve that, sweetheart. You're… you're art."
Daenerys looked down demurely. "I just… I need someone to walk me to my car."
"I can do that," Evenson said too quickly. "Hell, I'll do better. I'll walk you anywhere. Keep you warm, too."
She took a small step back, luring him in like a flame calling the moth.
He followed, not noticing the way the shadows shifted behind him.
Didn't notice how the alley grew colder, like it was inhaling.
Didn't notice the flicker—there and gone—of two green eyes behind him.
A heartbeat passed.
And Hadrian was there.
He moved like silence weaponized. One blink he wasn't there, the next—he was in the air, in motion, and Evenson's feet left the ground.
A twist. A rush of air. A thump like thunder in reverse.
Evenson slammed into the wall and slid down like discarded meat.
No wand. No words. Just Hadrian's hand, pulsing with green veins of old magic—feral, silent, surgical.
Daenerys didn't flinch.
She knelt gracefully, like a dancer, beside the crumpled body and opened her compact mirror. She checked her lipstick. Not a smear. Of course not.
"Gentle, darling," she murmured, dabbing at her lips. "We need his teeth intact."
Hadrian crouched beside her. His scarf was crooked from the strike, and he adjusted it with a casualness that bordered on insolent. "Teeth are fine. Skull's got a new dent, though. Think of it as a character upgrade."
Daenerys looked up, her smirk blooming like a slow flame. "Mmm. You're lucky you're handsome."
He tilted his head, deadpan. "You keep saying that like it's news."
"I keep saying it," she said, slipping her mirror back into her coat, "because you keep doing violent things in silk scarves."
"I like this scarf."
Edward stepped out of the dark like a bad memory with good posture. He didn't speak—he never opened with words. His coat flared slightly as he knelt by Evenson, fingers brushing the man's temple with the gentleness of a lover and the intimacy of a predator.
He inhaled slowly, deeply.
His voice, when it came, was a rasp dragged from the crypt. "His dreams are screaming."
"Good," Hadrian muttered. "Let them echo."
Edward's eyes flickered beneath the brim of his cap—cold and glassy. "Even in sleep, he knows we're his end."
With a twitch of Hadrian's fingers, black cords slithered from his sleeves—shimmering, pulsing with low magic. They coiled around Evenson's wrists, his ankles, his throat. Not choking—yet. Just… reminding.
Daenerys stood with a sigh, brushing invisible lint from her coat. "He smells like mustard and men's rights."
"Don't forget cowardice," Hadrian said. "It's his top note."
Edward stood last, lifting Evenson over his shoulder like a sack of regret. No struggle. No sound.
The red neon buzzed once more behind them.
Daenerys turned to Hadrian as they walked down the alley. "Did you charm the car, or are we going to get another angry letter from the Department of Transportation?"
He arched a brow. "She's glamoured, enchanted, and parked under a sign that says 'Reserved for God.'"
"Still not street legal."
"You're not street legal," he shot back, smirking.
She laughed—low, rich, dangerous. "You're lucky I like you in gloves."
He opened the passenger door of the Duesenberg Model X, and she slid in like silk being poured into a glass. The interior was obsidian black and red velvet, the kind of luxury that whispered sin in Italian.
Hadrian got in on the driver's side, tugging his gloves tighter. Edward reached the trunk, opened it without drama, and deposited Evenson inside like expired produce.
"Destination?" Hadrian asked, glancing in the rearview.
Edward slammed the trunk shut.
"South. Abandoned winery. Safehouse."
"Romantic," Daenerys said, lighting a slim cigarette with a flick of her fingers. "Take me somewhere no one screams unless I ask them to."
"You're insatiable."
She exhaled, smoke curling around her lips like a secret. "And you're addicted."
He looked over at her, and for a beat, the noise of the city fell away.
"You look like vengeance," he said softly, "right before it smiles."
She turned to him, eyes glittering under long lashes. "And you look like the man who makes it happen."
The Duesenberg roared to life like a dragon clearing its throat, snow flying behind it as it peeled away from the curb with elegance and hunger.
The city faded in the rearview.
And in the trunk, Charles Evenson stirred—gagged, bound, blind, and trembling—while three predators in fine coats drove him to hell.
—
The winery was a ruin of velvet decay.
Once, it had been a jewel nestled in the hills—gilded banisters, chandeliers like frozen music, the air thick with wine and whispered promises. Now, rot had settled in like an old patron too drunk to leave. The walls peeled like shedding skin. Ivy strangled the stone. And in the cavernous main hall—once a ballroom—Charles Evenson sat tied to a wooden chair beneath the shattered remnants of a crystal chandelier.
His lip was split. His eye swollen shut. Blood trickled from his nose in slow, miserable rhythm.
He was awake now.
And afraid.
"Wakey wakey, Chuck," Hadrian said, standing behind him with sleeves rolled to the forearm, silk scarf tucked into his coat like he was about to host a cocktail party. "Time to play catch-up."
Evenson's voice was wet gravel. "W-What the hell—who are you?"
Hadrian walked around to face him, green eyes gleaming with something too ancient for his age.
"I'm the ghost your sins summoned."
Charles pulled at his bindings—leather soaked in old magic, writhing subtly with Hadrian's will.
"I—I got money. I got people—"
"You had people," Hadrian corrected. "But we had better monsters."
Daenerys sat perched on a baroque settee, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. The flame from a silver lighter hovered an inch above her palm, alive, dancing. She watched it swirl, curl, stretch like a cat waking from a nap. The fire loved her. Always had.
"You remember Esme, don't you?" she said, voice sugar-dipped poison. "Tiny thing. Big smile. She used to hum when she folded laundry."
Evenson paled. "I—You don't—she jumped! It wasn't—!"
"She was pregnant, you piece of shit," Hadrian snapped, voice cracking like thunder held too long. "She jumped because you beat her so badly she thought it was the only way out."
Edward stood in the corner, arms folded like a gargoyle watching confession. The firelight cast shadows across his face, making his sharp features look carved from stormclouds.
He didn't speak.
But his jaw clenched every time Evenson whimpered.
"I didn't—She shouldn't have—she knew what I was like!" Evenson spat, a trace of his old arrogance rising.
Hadrian didn't hesitate.
He raised his hand—and Crucio.
The spell didn't need to be shouted. It poured from him like venom from a broken fang.
Evenson arched in the chair, a scream torn from his throat that no one would hear this far from civilization. His whole body convulsed like a marionette in a hurricane. And then, it stopped—sharp, brutal.
Edward flinched. Just a flicker. His mind was open, attuned to the pain. He felt it through Evenson, like someone dragging barbed wire through his brain. But he said nothing.
Daenerys didn't blink.
Hadrian crouched beside the chair, elbows on his knees. "Let me tell you how this ends, Chuck. You beg for forgiveness. You beg for death. And maybe—if she's feeling generous—Daenerys lets you burn before your heart gives out."
He reached out, brushing Evenson's bloodied cheek like a priest offering absolution. "But I wouldn't bet on generosity."
"Please," Evenson gasped. "Please, I—I didn't mean—"
Crucio.
Another scream. Longer. Harsher. Echoing through the rafters like opera from hell.
Edward shut his eyes, whispering something under his breath in a language older than names.
Daenerys stood, the flame now a molten orb in her hand, swirling and bright as a sun held too close.
"You broke her," she said softly. "Like she was something small. Disposable."
She walked forward, the fire flaring with each step. Her heels clicked like judgment on stone.
"Do you know what Esme said, the night before she jumped?"
Evenson's breath hitched. His tongue was bleeding from where he'd bitten it.
"She said," Daenerys continued, voice thick with velvet rage, "'I hope the fire takes him. I hope it knows.'"
She stopped a foot from the chair.
Looked down at him like he was already ash.
"Dracarys."
The flame didn't explode—it erupted. A cobra striking. A kiss from a sun goddess.
It leapt from her palm like it had been waiting all this time, licking up his legs, his torso, his screams dying under the roar of heat and justice.
Evenson convulsed once. Twice.
And then… silence.
Hadrian turned away first. His expression unreadable. Calm.
Edward opened his eyes, gaze blank as obsidian. "He's gone."
Daenerys exhaled slowly, watching the inferno dance.
When it finally faded, nothing remained but scorched bone and a chair fused to the stone floor.
No ashes. No eulogy.
Just the scent of smoke and the memory of fire.
—
They stood there, the three of them, in the hollow silence of the winery—a triad of vengeance, bound not by blood, but by the woman they'd all loved and lost in different ways.
After a moment, Daenerys slipped her gloves back on.
"Now," she said, voice back to its sultry purr, "who's up for a night out on the town?"
Hadrian cracked a knuckle. "I know a place with terrible music."
Edward tilted his head. "Does it burn?"
Daenerys smiled. "Only if we ask nicely."
And just like that, they walked into the night—three shadows fading into snow and moonlight, while justice smoldered behind them.
---
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