The mansion wasn't just some random place.
It was his.
His grip tightened around my wrists as he hauled me out of the cramped room. We slipped into another chamber, and the lock clicked behind us, sealing us in.
"This is your house?"
Dreck's jaw tensed. He refused to meet my eyes. "Not anymore. My father thinks I'm in Berlin," he whispered. "If he knew I came back—" His gaze flickered past me, toward something unseen.
That was when I finally took in our surroundings.
The room bore no resemblance to the mansion's gilded halls.
White tiles. The rhythmic beep of machines. And there, suspended in the center—
A woman floating in glass.
My breath hitched. She looked like a statue dipped in gold, her dark hair drifting around her as if caught mid-fall. Tubes snaked from her arms to bags of shimmering violet liquid, pulsing faintly in the sterile light.
"You told me she was dead," I choked out.
Dreck pressed his palm to the glass. "My father buried an empty casket."
"You lied." My vision blurred, heat stinging my eyes. "You knew I loved her like my own mother."
I'd met Cyra the first time I visited Dreck's house—back when it wasn't a mansion. They were wealthy, but not like this.
She'd been a daydream brought to life. Soft. Radiant. Her smile could thaw the coldest heart. Behind round glasses, her eyes held quiet stories, like constellations waiting to be traced. Chestnut waves framed her face, and her oversized hoodie always hinted at comfort, at nostalgia.
She was poetry wrapped in sunlight.
She read books. Planted gardens. Drew, sang, played piano with a skill that left me breathless.
Now, she was a shadow. A blank canvas where colors once bled. Drowning in liquid, tubes tethering her to life, an oxygen mask sealing her fate.
"What happened?" My voice cracked as I fought for air between sobs. "Why is she in there?"
Dreck's eyes glistened, his composure fraying. "We have a lot to catch up on. But you need rest first." He turned toward the door.
"I don't need rest—I need answers!" I snapped.
"Taty, my house. My rules." He stormed out.
"In your fucking dreams." I chased after him.
The halls were eerily empty.
"The servants—" I began.
"Gone. And they weren't servants."
"Then what were they?"
"Watchers. Dad hired them to report if I returned. They called it 'cleaning.'" He strode toward the kitchen.
"Well, I'm not staying. Thanks, but no thanks." I turned toward the exit—
Then the world tilted as he hoisted me onto the kitchen table like a sack of flour.
"What the—?"
He was too close. His eyes—no trace of purple now, just endless green—pinned me in place.
"Be a good girl," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated in my bones. "Don't cause trouble."
My brain short-circuited.
"Good girl," he added, a rough edge to the words.
What the actual fuck.
"Get over yourself." I shoved him and leapt off the table.
He smirked, rummaging through the fridge. "You still hate carrots?"
"You remember that?"
"Of course I do." He rinsed vegetables under the tap. "Shower's upstairs if you want it. Second door on the left."
"Finally, something useful." I headed for the stairs.
"You're welcome," he called after me.
I flipped him off without looking back.
The shower became my second sanctuary.
Hot water lashed my skin, equal parts relief and penance. Steam swallowed the room, fogging the mirrors, blurring the lines between tears and condensation. I braced my forehead against the tiles, trying to drown the chaos in my mind.
Cyra is alive.
The truth coiled around my ribs like a vise.
Alive. And he knew.
When? When he pushed me into the pool? Before he sought me out? Before he whispered "Trust me" like a prayer?
I thought I knew him—the boy who smirked to mask his fear, who cradled my shaking hands like they were sacred.
Now, everything was a question.
Had I fallen for him, or for the way he made me feel less shattered?
Water sluiced down my face, disguising the tears I refused to acknowledge. My tattoos hummed beneath my skin, subdued for once—as if even they were holding their breath.
Why didn't he tell me?
Because he didn't trust me?
Or because he knew I'd break?
The thought of Cyra—trapped, suspended—gnawed at me. What kind of son carries that secret and still stands? What kind of pain twists love into silence?
I should hate him for it.
But all I saw was his exhaustion. The way he pretended not to be afraid when I knew he was.
My reflection had vanished in the steam. Just a smudged outline.
Maybe that's all we were.
Ghosts of who we used to be.
I don't know if I can trust him.
The worst part?
I still want to.
And I don't know what that makes me.
I wiped the mirror. My eyes still held traces of purple—spreading.
Would I end up like Cyra?
Or would I lose myself like Dreck?
"What are you?" I whispered to my reflection.
Then—
Did it just move?
A knock shattered the silence.
"Taty, I left clothes outside." Dreck's voice, muffled through the door.
I cracked it open just enough to snag the fabric. (My mother would murder me if a boy saw even a centimeter of skin.)
He chuckled. "You're wel—"
"Yeah, yeah. Validation seeker." I slammed the door.
I couldn't help it. Trust didn't come easy anymore.
The clothes smelled like him—oversized shirt, sweatpants rolled at the ankles. The kind of intimacy that should've followed passion, not survival.
Yet here we were.
I never imagined Dreck in a kitchen.
Barefoot, sleeves shoved up, scowling at a pot like it had personally offended him. He muttered about "too much salt" and gripped the spoon like a weapon.
It was almost endearing.
Almost.
The scent of caramelized onions and spices wrapped around me, warm and sharp, tugging me into the moment. I leaned against the table, arms crossed, feigning indifference. But his movements—clumsy, deliberate—betrayed him.
This was his language.
The chipped plates. The slightly charred edges. The candle wedged in a mason jar, flame dancing unevenly.
Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
And gods, I needed real.
He glanced at me, our eyes meeting. No purple haze. No shadows. Just him.
The boy who'd dragged me from hell into this fragile pocket of peace.
"Hope you like… whatever this is," he said.
I didn't answer.
But I stepped closer.
And for the first time in days, I let myself believe—
Maybe safety wasn't just an illusion.