Elara wasn't just running—she was straight-up booking it, like if Usain Bolt had a panic attack. Heart smashing around in her chest, lungs burning, every muscle screaming "don't you dare stop or you're toast." That roar echoing out of Galerie Umbra? Still ringing in her skull, like her brain's marinating in pure terror. Damien going full-blown monster? That's a nope from her. She used to think dodging pissed-off bees was as bad as it got. Ha! Bee-dodging is beginner mode compared to haunted-gallery escape speedruns. Life comes at you fast, huh?
Oh, and the air? Absolutely nasty. Electric and burnt, like someone grilled a circuit board over a campfire. If this was Damien's new vibe, she'd rather pass—hard. Zero stars.
And then Isabella just had to go full banshee behind her, shrieking, "You will not escape me, little bee!" Honestly, was Isabella trying out for daytime TV? Elara nearly laughed. Girl probably rehearsed her villain monologues in the shower. Whatever. She had bigger things to worry about—like not dying.
She jerked left, barely missed skewering herself on some disaster of a glass sculpture—seriously, that thing belonged in a "How Not To Decorate" magazine. Swerved around another spiky art nightmare. And then—bam! Some invisible sledgehammer of wind smacked her sideways. Not exactly weather, either—nope, that was her own magic, flipping out. Her mouth tasted like she'd licked a battery. Skin buzzing. Legs all jelly, like if she jumped, she might just…keep going. Later, earth.
She crashed through the doors, nearly faceplanted on the sidewalk. Outside was weirdly empty, like someone pressed pause on the city. Just her, frosty air, and the distant whine of a lonely taxi exhaust. That limo? Gone, obviously. So much for dramatic getaways. Standing there, she had a solid minute of "cool, now what?" Definitely not heading back to the apiary—Isabella would sniff her out before she could even think "honeycomb." Wandering sounded dumb, but what else was there? She was flying blind.
And then, because the universe was feeling spicy—reality went sideways. Streetlights started flickering, stuttering like a bad VHS tape. Galerie Umbra started humming, low and mean, the kind of noise that makes your fillings rattle. Shadow started leaking out the door, all thick and oily, stretching across the pavement. Damien Sterling.
Except—nope. This wasn't her Damien. This was Damien, monster edition. Suit about to explode, hair fried in all directions, eyes straight-up black holes. The scar on his chest was glowing now, throbbing with this sick, red light. Smoke—real, actual smoke—was curling off him, like someone lit a fire inside his bones. He looked like the curse had eaten him alive—and then wanted seconds.
"Elara." If you could call that a voice. It was more like gravel and static, scraping out of his throat, crawling down her spine. There was something off about it—bossy, but also like he was about to crack. Maybe even begging, just a little. It demanded attention—like, you couldn't ignore it if you tried. And her gut? Screaming at her to run, just go, don't look back.
She just—froze. Totally bricked. Like her brain had hit CTRL+ALT+DEL and left her body hanging out to dry. Every nerve in her body was losing its mind—run, run, get the hell out—but her legs? Statues. You ever feel like someone's vibe is so heavy, it's basically got its own gravity? That's what this was. Dude's presence just sucked her in, and not in a fun way. The air felt like someone cranked up the humidity to "suffocate," electricity buzzing under her skin, lungs refusing to cooperate.
And then Isabella exploded out of the gallery, looking like she wanted to set the whole block on fire with her face alone. "Damien!" she shrieked, her voice sharp enough to make dogs in the next zip code wince. "You're out of your mind! You're going to blow this for everyone!" Rage, panic—she was basically a human Molotov cocktail.
But Damien? Nada. Zilch. Guy was locked on Elara, obsessed, those eyes of his way past normal—midnight-black, starving, like he couldn't decide whether to eat her alive or throw her a life preserver. The space between them? It was buzzing, practically crackling, like a live wire begging to bite. Whatever power she usually played with, this was that on steroids—way too much, way too dangerous, like sticking your tongue in a socket and hoping for the best.
"Come here, Elara." His voice was rough, animal. He stepped forward, and the ground practically flinched—cracks spiderwebbing out like the pavement was scared of him, too. And the shadows? Oh, they loved this. Twisting tighter, wrapping around him, hungry for whatever came next.
Isabella saw it, and for a split second, she looked—tiny. Like she realized she'd lost the plot, lost control, maybe never had it in the first place. Damien wasn't listening to her, never was. "She's mine, Damien!" she snapped, but her voice cracked, and damn if that didn't say it all.
Damien finally turned to her, sloooowly, with a look that could sour fresh cream. The shadows pooled and writhed, all teeth and threat. He rumbled out this low growl—it barely made a sound, but that was enough to send Isabella scuttling backward, mouth clamped shut, red lipstick pressed into a line that said "nope." She vanished back into the gallery, ego in shreds. Even she wasn't dumb enough to mess with this flavor of crazy.
So there's Elara, stuck between The Schemestress and The Disaster. The human hand grenade and the force of nature. And Elara? She's the shiny object, the spark, the excuse. Lucky her.
Then, before her brain could even catch up, Damien moved. Not walking, not running—just sliding, like some kind of horror-movie special effect. One blink, he's yards away. Next, he's right there—blocking out the world, the streetlights, everything but him.
Whoa, talk about a cold front—Elara's breath totally glitched, like she'd face-planted into the Arctic. Reflexes? Not her finest moment. She jerked back, but the dude was quicker, snatching her wrist. Not a grab, really—more like a brand. His hand? Freezing and blazing at the same time, like someone jammed jumper cables straight into her bloodstream. Zero tenderness, by the way. There's nothing soft about it—just pure "mine" vibes, as if he'd stuck a flag right in her.
"You're not leaving." His voice, rough enough to sand a table, eyes darker than blackout curtains at 3AM. Shadows oozed off him, snaking around her wrist, like she'd accidentally subscribed to some goth bondage catalog. The air went soupy—forget flirty, this was a straight-up battle. Hunter, hunted, but the prey just grew claws.
Inside, something snapped. Elara's magic punched back, Mira's drills echoing like a halftime pep talk. Healing light shoved at the curse plastered all over Damien, doing its best to keep both of them above water. The air? It started buzzing, city lights warping like she'd slipped into some glitched-out video game.
Damien flinched, like he'd grabbed a cattle prod. For a blink, his eyes weren't just bottomless pits—something flashed there, pain or maybe a memory, but then—gone, like a bad signal.
"You… you're glowing," he rasped, voice chewed up and spit out. His grip clamped down, rough but not cruel. Desperate, more like. Like he could steal a piece of her light if he just held on tight enough.
Elara snapped, voice all shaky edges. "Let me go, Mr. Sterling. You don't get to own me!"
He squeezed tighter. "Don't I? You signed the contract, Elara. Now you're… necessary." Staring at her wrist, like her light might burn a hole through his shadows.
Then—BOOM. Glass shattered behind them. Of course Isabella would lob some shady orb into the mix. It hit the wall, fried itself open, and started choking the room with gnarly smoke. "You'll lose her, Damien!" Isabella crowed, all manic glee. "You'll lose everything!"
Damien spun, shadows boiling off him, a snarl that belonged in some monster movie. The smoke twisted into freakish shapes, lunging for Isabella. The gallery lights spazzed, blue magic flaring as darkness swallowed the rest.
Elara wasn't sticking around for round two. She yanked at her earth magic, focused, and the ground bucked under Damien's feet. He staggered, grip slipping.
She ripped free, bolted. Didn't even look back. Damien's howl chased her—half-beast, half-hurricane, all teeth and hunger. Behind her? Thuds, Isabella's chaos pounding the gallery to bits. Was Elara safe? Not even close.
She ran until her lungs burned, legs wobbling, zero idea where she was headed—just away. Away from Damien, Isabella, and whatever curse circus she'd stumbled into. She ducked into an alley, slammed into icy brick, shaking so bad her teeth rattled, sucking air like maybe this time her lungs would finally explode.
That crash after an adrenaline high? Absolute hell. Like, one second you're a lightning bolt and the next you're just… falling. Elara just stood there, shaking like she'd swallowed a hive of bees. Every inch of her skin remembered Damien's touch—ugh. The dude was ice cold, and not in a "needs a sweater" way, more like "should probably come with a warning label for emotional hypothermia." Those eyes, black holes, just boring right through her. Monster? Totally. But not free—nah, he was trapped, shackled to her in some cosmic joke. And lucky Elara? Apparently, she's the key. Not in a cool, "chosen one" way. More like, "congrats, you're the last piece in his messed-up puzzle." He wanted her, needed her. Needed what was boiling in her veins. That realization? Stomach punch. Scary, yeah, but also kind of a rush? There was this hungry energy in the way he craved her magic. It did weird things to her head, honestly.
Her hands fumbled around in her pocket until she yanked out that busted bone charm—sharp, broken, useless now. Isabella had tried to break her with it, tried to make her kneel, but Elara snapped first. Mira always swore it'd cut the tie, but only once. That was it. Lifeline severed. No do-overs. She was flying solo now, protected by nothing but her own half-wild, barely-tamed magic.
She needed a plan. Fast. Going back to Mira's? Not unless she felt like getting murdered in her sleep. Sterling Manor? Yeah, nope—she'd rather crash a vampire rave. She was on her own, every damn side gunning for her, and Damien—her so-called master—wanted more than just a sidekick. He wanted her magic burning a hole through his veins.
And then—boom. Well, more like a steady drumbeat, way down in her bones, vibrating up through her boots. Not Damien's usual brand of chaos; this was older, deeper, had a rhythm like the world's oldest heartbeat. Her earth sense, still all jumpy, locked onto the thrum crawling up from the pavement. Something was coming. Something was calling her name in a voice only her bones could hear. Bad news? Probably. Or… maybe not? Who even knew anymore.
She dragged herself upright, every muscle complaining, and staggered to the edge of the alley. Peeked out. Empty street, but that humming noise was louder, right between her ears. Not human. Ancient. It was coming for her, zero question.
A shadow unpeeled itself from the far end of the block. Not Damien's flavor of darkness—this was thicker, heavier, moved like those big cats you see on nature shows. Couldn't make out the face in the half-light, but the power leaking off it? Yeah, you could feel that in your teeth. Not Isabella. Not Damien. Something brand new, just for her.
Perfect. Just what she needed—another wildcard. Or, hey, maybe the universe would throw her a bone and send an ally for once? That hope lasted a nanosecond before her brain laughed it off.
The guy got closer, every step saying, "danger, but maybe not the kind you're used to." Tall. Broad shoulders. Cloak straight out of some midnight soap opera. And those eyes—gold, glowing, too damn bright to be normal. He had that authority thing happening, like thunderclouds rolling in, and his presence just… woke up something wild inside her.
He stopped close enough to make her sweat, but not so close she'd bolt. Those gold eyes pinned her in place, like he was digging through her soul for answers. Didn't bother with words. Didn't have to. His vibe was all, "So, who are you, and what's your next move?" Weird flicker of recognition, which made zero sense until Mira's old warnings floated back. Sebastian Wolfe. Alpha. Shifter pack boss. Real alpha energy, not the stuff you fake on Tinder.
Random? Not a chance. He was here on purpose, drawn by the same magical disaster that kept putting Elara in the crosshairs. Totally unpredictable. Maybe dangerous, probably, but definitely not someone you could read like a book.
But Elara? She was done flinching. She was ragged, yeah, but not getting steamrolled again. Her magic was wide awake, ready to bite back if it had to. No more pawn status—she was deep in the game now, whether she liked it or not, and the board just got a new player. Sebastian Wolfe—mystery man with sunrise eyes you don't turn your back on. Whatever he was after, she was sure it tied straight to the magic she couldn't hide. Freedom? Ha. That was starting to look a lot more complicated than she'd ever guessed.