Celeste's Pov
Gasp.
The taste of smoke was acrid, the metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils. My skin prickled with a thousand phantom cuts. The roar. The roar of gunfire.
My eyes were forced open, but saw only black. A black sedan, smoke coiling, a sickening lurch. Then the faces. Hooded. Merciless. Their guns spitting fire. And then, the sickening thud. The strangled cry.
No. No. No.
My mother's face, contorted in silent agony, her hand reaching. My father's eyes, wide with shock, fixed on me, then stilling. The blossoming crimson on her dress, on his shirt. The chilling silence that followed the shouts.
My muscles locked, a primal scream caught in my throat. My breath hitched, a strangled sob. I was falling, falling into darkness.
"NO!" The sound tore from my chest, raw, guttural. My body thrashed.
"Cel! Hey, Cel, wake up!"
A hand, warm and firm, gripped my shoulder, shaking me. I gasped, sucking in air, my lungs burning. My eyes snapped open, disoriented, the sterile London light filtering through the blinds a cruel contrast to the nightmare.
Jayden's face, etched with concern, hovered above mine. His mischievous blue eyes were soft, reflecting the nearly seven years since that night. I was twenty-four, four months shy of twenty-five, and the past was a monster that still clawed its way from the dark.
He eased back, giving me space, but his presence was a tangible anchor.
"Another one?" he asked, his voice low.
He'd learned to tell from my breathing, the tremor that sometimes ran through me. He was my protector, my confidant, the brother I'd found.
I nodded, pushing myself up, running a shaky hand through my hair. Cold dread settled in my stomach.
Jayden sat on the edge of my bed. "It's the Velan thing, isn't it?" His voice was tight. "Victor Uncle's urgent call. The danger he kept talking about. You're actually going through with this?"
"He said it's crucial, Jayden," I whispered. The threat, he'd stressed, was higher than ever, tied to my upcoming twenty-fifth birthday. He needed me where he could protect me.
"My life depends on it, he said. He sounded... desperate." Jayden scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Desperate? Or manipulative? Think, Cel. He wants to drag you back to the very place that broke you. To the world that took everything! What if it's worse?" His voice rose with familiar passion. "You've built a life here. A safe life. Why risk it?"
"I don't know," I admitted, my gaze sweeping the quiet, familiar confines of my London bedroom. "But I have to. For answers. For… them."
The silver pendant, my mother's last touch, lay cool against my sternum. Ignoring it felt like a betrayal.
Jayden's shoulders sagged, his argument exhausted. He knew me too well. He knew a part of me craved the truth.
"He sent a private jet," he finally said, his voice flat. "From Heathrow. In eight hours."
Eight hours. Not even a full day to dismantle the quiet life I'd painstakingly built. Eight hours until I faced the ghosts of my past.
Morning dawned, grey and unforgiving. I found Jayden still sprawled on the living room couch.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!" I chirped, snatching the book away.
He groaned, blinking against the light. "Five more minutes, your Majesty."
"No can do, my lazy prince. Our private jet awaits. Uncle Victor isn't a man to be kept waiting." I threw a pillow at him. He stretched, then flashed me a tired grin.
"Lead the way, Cel. To the lion's den."
The flight felt endless. As we touched down in Velan, the regional capital closest to Serendia, a knot tightened in my stomach. The air felt heavier, with history.
Uncle Victor was waiting on the tarmac, a solitary, imposing figure. His formidable presence hadn't changed, but there was a subtle weariness in his eyes. He pulled me into a tight embrace.
"Celeste. You're here. Thank God." His grip on Jayden's shoulder was equally firm.
"It's been too long, Uncle," I said, a genuine smile attempting to break through my apprehension. He just nodded, his gaze sweeping over me.
The drive to his mansion in Velan was quiet. The place itself was grand, a sprawling mansion nestled amidst rolling hills.
Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of tension and forced warmth. Casper Ashford, Aron's older brother, greeted us with a polite smile, his face etched with a familiar resemblance. His wife, Elara, a striking woman with a kind smile, immediately embraced me.
"Celeste! It's wonderful to finally meet you. Dad has spoken so much about you."
She then introduced me to their daughter, Nancy, a bright-eyed girl no older than ten, who shyly curtsied. The domesticity felt jarring.
Dinner was a stilted affair. Later, as Elara led me to my room, she offered an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Celeste. The room we had prepared for you, the water supply seems to be malfunctioning tonight. The plumber can't come until morning." She gestured to a door across the hall. "But Aron's room is perfectly fine, and he's away on a business trip. You're more than welcome to use it. He won't be back for days."
My heart gave a weird lurch. Aron's room. Jayden, walking past us, caught my eye, a subtle lift of his brow, a smirk. I felt a blush creep up my neck.
"Thank you, Elara," I managed. "That would be perfect."
The room was unmistakably Aron's. Stark, masculine, imbued with a scent that was uniquely him. I swallowed, a strange mixture of curiosity and unease. I changed into a simple silk nightgown. The weight of the pendant, my mother's last gift, rested against my sternum.
Hours later, the house was silent. The jet lag and emotional toll finally pulled me into a fitful sleep. Then, the familiar chill of a presence next to me. A soft sigh. A warm weight settled, an arm sliding gently over my waist.
Smoke. Guns. Mother's cry. Father's eyes.
My eyes remained closed, trying to push the images away. "Jayden," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep, "I told you, I'm fine. You don't have to keep an eye on me like this. I'm not a child." I sighed, attempting to shrug off the arm, which only tightened. "Honestly, you're getting too clingy."
A sudden, sharp intake of breath next to me. The weight on my waist vanished. A rustle of sheets.
"Who the hell is this?!" A deep, unfamiliar voice exploded next to my ear, laced with shock and furious disbelief.
My eyes snapped open, blazing with startled terror. This wasn't Jayden. The form looming over me in the moonlit darkness was too broad, too tall, too masculine. My heart hammered.
A thief! A damn thief!
"Thief!" I shrieked, scrambling back against the headboard, adrenaline surging.
Before I could unleash a proper scream, he moved. A blur of motion, a large hand clamped over my mouth. He vaulted back onto the bed, his weight pressing me down. We tumbled, a tangle of limbs and sheets, until I was pinned beneath him, his body hovering inches above mine, his face a shadowed silhouette.
Just as I prepared to knee him, the room was flooded with light. The door burst open, revealing Uncle Victor, Casper, and Elara. Jayden stood behind them, his face a mixture of alarm and dawning amusement.
All eyes were on the bed. On us. On Aron Ashford, shirtless and bewildered, hovering over me, his hand still clamped over my mouth, my nightgown askew.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Elara's soft gasp.
Then, Jayden's amused voice, cutting through the shock: "Well, well, well. Some reunion, Cel."
Elara clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with humor. Uncle Victor let out a long, weary huff. The awkward reunion, indeed.