Davon had lived in shadows ever since that night. The night Elise died.
He remembered holding what he thought was her lifeless body, the scent of blood thick in the air, the sound of shattering glass and twisted metal echoing in his mind. They told him she hadn't survived, that her soul was gone. And so, he buried himself in grief, feeding on silence, on rage, on the endless nights that seemed to stretch forever.
For six months, Davon carried her ghost inside him. Every crimson moon reminded him of the love he lost and the hunger he could never quench.
Until the night his sister stumbled home—shaken, trembling, fear still clinging to her skin.
"She saved me," his sister whispered, her voice breaking.
Davon's red eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"A girl. A stranger. She fought them off… She had ocean-blue eyes, Davon. Eyes that looked straight through me. And—" she hesitated, as though afraid to say it— "a single white strand of hair."
Davon stilled. The goblet in his hand cracked, blood-red wine spilling like lifeblood across the floor. His chest tightened, his veins burning as if fire had been poured through them.
Ocean-blue eyes. A white strand of hair.
It couldn't be.
It shouldn't be.
Elise was gone.
But if there was even the faintest chance she was alive—
He would find her.
And nothing—not man, not beast, not even death itself—would stand in his way.