The hour was late.
And Elena had not returned.
The estate, normally cloaked in serene stillness by nightfall, had erupted into quiet chaos. The staff moved briskly through the halls with lanterns and hushed tones, eyes flickering with worry. Doors were opened and closed, guards dispatched, carriages readied. Still, no sign of her.
Seamus stood alone in his study, the fire roaring behind him. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched behind his back. The weight of what happened earlier had settled over him like a suffocating shroud.
Then—a voice like a whip.
"WHY would you keep something like that from her?! Especially if we know she practices magic?!"
Lady Aurora Matteo stormed into the room, her crimson gloves gripped tightly in one hand. She was radiant in her fury, her usually collected demeanor burning with righteous rage.
She slapped Seamus across the face.
Then again. And again.
"Why. Isn't. My daughter. In. Law. Not. Home. Yet?"
Each word punctuated by another strike of her gloved hand.
"You bitter, spiteful man!"
Seamus caught her wrist mid-swing.
Silence fell.
He yanked the gloves from her hand, his voice like stone.
"If you're not going to be helpful, Mother, I suggest you return to your chambers and wait for any news."
And with that, he tossed her gloves into the fire. They sizzled and curled in the flame, the scent of scorched leather filling the study.
Lady Aurora's mouth parted in shock. "You dare—"
But then she saw it.
The look in his eyes.
He wasn't angry. Not exactly.
He was calculating. Cold. Dangerous.
The same look he had when he claimed the estate, when he broke off an engagement for love, when he brought an entire council to its knees.
He turned to the fire, his silhouette flickering against the stone wall.
"Mother," he said, quiet now. "I think it's time I called in that favor."
Aurora froze. All the heat left her face.
"You… you don't mean them."
He didn't look at her. He didn't have to.
"If I reach out, there's no going back," she warned. "You know that, Seamus."
He nodded once, the flames lighting the sharp gleam in his eyes.
"I know."
Elena sat alone on the beach, somewhere between grief and oblivion.
The shoreline was quiet now, the stars hidden behind clouds. She'd wandered for hours after the cathedral, her feet carrying her from dock to alley to a small, hidden smoke shop, tucked beside a tavern. There she'd found cheap rum, strangers with shared sorrows, and smoke thick enough to keep the tears at bay.
She cried anyway.
In halting sobs between long drags of her cigarillo, sips of stale rum, and awkward laughter that quickly turned to shaking.
"Why now? Why remember now?" she'd whispered to no one.
And worst of all—she'd pushed away the only man who stood in her corner.
Her bottle was nearly empty now. She stood, the world swaying beneath her heeled boots, the sand sucking gently at her steps.
She giggled and caught herself on a post.
Then she saw them.
A group of men—moving toward her.
Something in their gait, their silence… it wasn't right.
Elena straightened. She turned to walk away.
That's when she heard it.
"Elena! Elena Rosaria!"
She froze. That wasn't a search. That was a callout.
Panic sobered her instantly. She started running.
And they followed.
Her stomach dropped.