Multiple Settings Crescent Hill ~ IC thread

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE
HUMAN

Defiant

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Rhys Bellz

Click me!

Lydia tugged Leon’s denim jacket tight around her shoulders as the frigid autumn breeze chilled her to her core. She couldn’t get to the side door fast enough, wobbling unsteadily in her heels as she walked, but the second they crossed the threshold into the crowded manor she pulled the door shut behind her, banishing the icy wind outside where it belonged. The smell of alcohol hung heavy in the air, the rhythmic pounding of music thrummed from the other room. Throughout the kitchen there were bottles and bottles of rum, vodka, tequila, you name it. She wondered if this had all been supplied by the hosts or if people were just bringing their own liquor… shit, should she have brought a bottle of something?

She exhaled a sigh of relief as her brother set a bottle of vodka down on the counter, followed by a bottle of Tequila with a bright green label. At least Leon had his head screwed on straight tonight… she kept fidgeting with her hands, like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Lydia had never been a party animal, in fact, she was quite the opposite. She much preferred a night in with a book over loud music and alcoholic beverages with strangers. Parties made her feel weary, restless… like there was some vague danger constantly lurking in the shadows and it would come after her if she wasn’t careful.

“I’m planning to get a taxi home later, so I can always call one if you wanna leave before me,” Leon’s voice cut through the otherwise silent kitchen. She nodded softly - that was an offer she would likely take him up on. “But Lydia, don’t leave without telling me alright?”

“I’ll be fine, Leon.” She offered him a smile that felt thin, “Go have fun, I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” She wanted to hide in the silence of the kitchen just a few moments longer before she ventured into that inevitably suffocating crowd.

“Oh - here.” She shrugged off the denim jacket that had been keeping her warm up until now, handing it back to Leon. “Can’t ruin the ensemble.”

“I’ve got my phone so if you need me just text or something, I’m gonna go find Morgan, wish him a happy birthday.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, sliding her palms over the sequined fabric of her dress… wishing it was just a few inches longer. As Leon headed for the parlor she realized that, for the most part, the kitchen was utterly devoid of life. Which meant that this would be her hiding place until she worked up enough gall to join the rest of the party. She began browsing through the various bottles along the countertops, dragging her finger along the smooth glass of each one that she passed until she landed on a clear bottle with a light pink label, rosé, something she could at least try to stomach.

She began searching for a corkscrew, rummaging through drawers and skimming over the countertops until she finally found one discarded next to a row of empty bottles. The handle was alarmingly sticky. Just as she turned back towards the bottle of rosé her body collided with something solid. She let out a yelp of surprise, the corkscrew clattering to the floor noisily as she tried to regain her bearings.

“I’m so sorry,” She had yet to see the face of the person she collided with, bending down to pick up the corkscrew, fumbling around on the floor until she found it. When she stood upright once more her eyes landed on a face that was all too familiar, and for some reason her heart rate jumped.

“Rhys.” She hadn’t seen him in two weeks, not since that night he had driven her home from the coffee shop. And though normally she would’ve greeted him with a sharp wit, voice edged with sarcasm and ire, she had breathed his name so softly it was almost a whisper.

There was a moment of silence that stretched out between them, and she was suddenly aware of the way his hazel eyes roamed up and down her figure in a way that felt predatory and dangerous. His eyes shamelessly roved across her body, and she squirmed sheepishly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of her dress once more as if that would make the garment longer, long enough to cover what she didn’t want exposed.

“Now that is how you wear a decade. You look like you belong in another time, little bird. Dripping in diamonds, leaving men drowning in your wake… And I’ve got half a mind to let myself sink.”

A sudden heat rose to her cheeks. She was no stranger to Rhys’ reputation as a womanizer, a notorious flirt, a player… but never before had he addressed those antics towards her. Not in this way, not with this intensity. Lydia was nothing more than his friend's little sister… a little bird. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out, instead she just stood there like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Tell me something, little bird,” He took a step closer and Lydia remained stuck in place, not budging an inch, she wouldn’t… or maybe she couldn’t. Either way she was frozen. “Is someone neglecting their duties, or are you really standing here without a drink?”

Her eyes flicked towards the unopened bottle of rosé on the counter, then down towards her hand which was still holding the sticky corkscrew. She didn’t want a drink, not from Rhys. Rhys was horrible and awful and … sexy. She blinked, shaking her head as though she were coming out of a trance. Rhys Arkwright was not sexy, he was an asshole, an entitled, narcissistic, piece of work. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip, willing the blush in her cheeks to disappear.

“Now, that just won’t do. How about I fix that for you? Let me make you something worthy of a woman who looks like she just walked out of a Gatsby party.”

His eyes roamed over her again, and this time she stiffened, taking the slightest step backwards to give herself some room to breath. Two sides of her warred beneath the surface, part of her wanted to give in, to let Rhys pour her a drink and give herself an opportunity to explore that shred of humanity Rhys had showed her when he drove her home, but the other, larger part was convinced that she already knew who Rhys was… Rhys was someone she wanted nothing to do with. Someone who would play with her until he got what he wanted and then leave her there in the dust when a better opportunity presented itself.

“How about a sidecar? Classic. Strong. Suits you.”

“I don’t… know what that is.” Her voice came out meeker than she would’ve preferred. She had no idea what kind of alcohol went into a sidecar, she didn’t particularly want to find out. “And I don’t really-”

Without acknowledging her protests, Rhys began sifting through the various cabinets and cupboards until he found what he was looking for, pouring different liquids into a red solo cup with a suspiciously practiced hand. She was almost mesmerized by his movements. How did he always look like he knew exactly what he was doing? And why did it make her resent him even more?

Rhys handed her the drink he had concocted, and she stared at him blankly for a moment. Why was he being so nice to her? What was he up to? Was this all some ploy to get in her pants? Would she be another tally on his perfect record? Was she his newest target? Her upper lip curled slightly, and yet she took the drink from him. Refusing to shy away from him like the meek little bird he purported her to be.

She tilted her head back, letting the liquid coat her throat and almost instantly regretting it. Pain seared through her mouth, burning her tongue and damn near bringing tears to her eyes, but she swallowed it down, staring back at Rhys with a newfound defiance.

“I’m not interested in becoming your newest conquest.” Her voice was flat, cold. She had seen this tale play out before. She knew the role he wanted her to play and she had no intentions of giving him what he wanted.

She attempted to strut past him, to leave him in the dust where he belonged but as she brushed by she stumbled. Her left ankle gave out underneath her, twisting on her heel which had hit the floor at an angle that nearly sent her keeling over. She winced sharply, bending down to clutch at her throbbing ankle. Crap, had she really just twisted an ankle in these damn heels?

Before Rhys could even move to assist her, or alternatively, make some snide remark about her choice of footwear, she practically hissed. “I’m fine. Go find someone else to seduce.”

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Rhys Arkwright
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ In the Kitchen ~
𖤐 outfit: here / mood: worried 𖤐​

The mark seared into his wrist pulsed wildly, a steady thrum against his skin, as if warning him of the supernatural forces lurking in every shadow of this house of horrors. But Rhys found it difficult to care when his gaze lingered on Lydia—her defiant expression warring against the way she struggled to handle the drink he’d made her. It was adorable, really. Did she have any idea how devastatingly cute she looked when she was trying not to let him win?

I’m not interested in becoming your newest conquest. Her voice was cold, flat. Rhys smirked, the usual sharpness of his wit dulled by the sickly-sweet haze whatever spell she had him under. "Conquest? Darling, if anyone's been conquered here, it’s me. And I’m not even putting up a fight." He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers as she turned to strut past him.

Then she stumbled.

His glass hit the counter with a sharp clatter, forgotten the second he moved—faster than a human, slower than most supernatural creatures, at her side in an instant. Lydia hissed at him to back off, snapping that she was fine and he could go find someone else to seduce.

And before she could argue further, his arm hooked beneath her knees, sweeping her up with practiced ease—the way a knight might carry a princess, though Rhys had never fancied himself the hero. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, "I promise I’ll endure all of your fiery remarks if you’d humor me just enough to let me look at your ankle." Rhys set Lydia on the counter with an effortless sort of grace, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. His eyes caught hers, intense and searching, before he slowly sank to his knees in front of her.

A smirk tugged at his lips—this wasn’t exactly the way he imagined dropping to his knees for a woman, but here they were. God, she had the prettiest eyes. The kind that could bring a man to ruin if he wasn’t careful. His gaze drifted lower—trailing the elegant curve of her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone—before he forcibly reminded himself that he was supposed to be looking at her ankle. Clearing his throat, he forced a crooked smile.

"Well, I can tell you right now, we won’t have to amputate.” He shot her a wink, his fingers ghosting just above the swelling. "Not that it would make you any less gorgeous.” But as he studied the injury, his smirk faltered just a touch. He exhaled, voice dropping into something low and velvety. "I’m going to take your shoe off, alright? Need to make sure there’s no fracture.”

Rhys worked with practiced precision, his touch delicate as he undid the strap of her heel. Every so often, his gaze flicked up to hers, watching for any flicker of pain as he slid the shoe off. His fingers brushed against bare skin—soft, smooth, distracting. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

No bruising. That was good. His hands traced along her ankle, then just a bit higher—his touch featherlight, his mind anything but. Stop it. His fingers skimmed the lower curve of her calf, looking for more bruising, and a part of him wondering how that same skin would feel beneath his lips.

What the fuck.

Rhys wrenched his thoughts back to reality, dragging his hazel eyes away and meeting hers with an easy, if slightly forced, smile. "No bruising, no major swelling up the leg… all signs point to a sprain, little bird.” He pushed himself to his feet, eyes sweeping her face for any trace of pain. The thought of her hurting, even from something as trivial as this, made something unfamiliar twist in his chest. He hated it.

"If I were a gambling man, I’d say you’ll live," he murmured, though there was an edge of concern beneath the teasing. Turning away, Rhys prowled toward the fridge, moving with that lethal grace of his—as if retrieving ice was a matter of life or death. He yanked open the freezer, eyes scanning for anything useful.

"You should ditch the heels,” he mused, grabbing a handful of ice. "My mother was the same way, you know?” He smirked, rummaging through drawers until he found a Ziploc bag. “A woman of beauty and grace—heels were her sworn enemy. Eventually, she just started wearing flats to every one of our god-awful family parties. Never took away from her beauty, and my father and I didn’t have to worry about her taking a tumble down the stairs again.”

He filled the bag, grabbed a dish towel, and turned back to Lydia with a roguish smile, holding the ice out to her. "Your ice, little bird.” Rhys tapped the empty space beside her. "Put your foot up—elevation helps. Plus, this way, you don’t have to hold the ice yourself.” He watched as she settled, then retrieved his abandoned drink, leaning back against the counter, studying her. His head tilted slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "See? I can be useful for more than just seduction.” A slow smirk curved his lips.
with: Little Injured Bird WanderLust.

 

[WanderLust.]

WREN DEVEREAU
WITCH

Playful

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Leon

Click Me!

“You’re sure this can’t be traced back to you?”

“Please, that boy wouldn’t know witch magic if it bit him in the ass.” Wren rolled her eyes before she took another sip of the orange liquid in her red solo cup, which was more rum than juice. She didn’t flinch when the burn hit the back of her throat.

In a heartbeat, Helena’s face darkened, a coldness resembling dread washed over the brunette’s features. It sent a chill down Wren’s spine. There were not many things in this world that warranted such a visceral reaction from her godmother. Helena didn’t scare easily. Wren paused for a beat, attempting to assess her godmother further before she reached out for her but the sharp, distinct sound of broken glass clattering to the floor interrupted her thought.

“Shit… I need to handle that. If anything happens, call for me.”

Wren’s gaze remained fixed on Helena, unwavering and scrutinous, as if to say “what aren’t you telling me?” but the silence between them remained unbroken.

“Now, go enjoy the party.”

Without another word, Helena disappeared in a flurry down the stairs, rounding the corner and dissipating into the crowd. It occurred to Wren at that point that she should probably go and check in on Rhys, to see how her master plan had unfolded. She wondered if Theo had already caught wind of the situation, perhaps he had already torn Rhys to shreds.

With a sigh, and another sip of her drink, Wren stepped out of the bedroom and attempted to make a beeline for the stairs but something… or rather someone… got in her way. Willard Hugh Godfrey Hartwell … the third. She internally cringed at all nine syllables of his obnoxiously long name, a name he had always made sure everyone within hearing distance knew. And god forbid any poor, unfortunate soul forgot to tack on ‘the third’ at the end.

“Wren Devereau…” Will smiled at her in a way that felt sharp and predatory.

“Will…” her nose wrinkled slightly, not quite able to bring herself to say -

“Willard Hugh Godfrey Hartwell III” There was an edge to his tone as he corrected her.

Barf.

Wren stared at him blankly, her features bleeding with impatience as she took another sip of her drink. “Did you need something or…?”

“I went to school with your older brother, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced -”

“No introduction needed. Your reputation precedes you.” She could tell he didn’t like being interrupted. Perhaps that was what provoked her to speak over him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need to-” She attempted to brush past him, but Will fancied himself a wall, creating a barrier between Wren and the stairway.

“You look gorgeous by the way, the 70s suit you. So very… carefree.” his grin curled into something devious, Wren didn’t even attempt to hide the disinterest on her face.

“Ya well,” Her gaze roamed over his tacky looking suit. The fabric was dated and the sleeves were about two inches too long on him yet still tight in the shoulders which created a rather underwhelming fit. She struggled to think of something pleasant to say hoping praise would appease him long enough for her to escape, but she genuinely couldn’t think of a single thing about his ensemble to compliment. “Men’s fashion hasn’t changed much has it?”

“I got it at an auction, actually. It was $21,000, in the end. Used to belong to Jean Hersholt.”

“I don’t know who that is.” Wren began examining her cuticle beds, tsking her tongue at how badly she needed a manicure, but Willard wouldn’t shut the fu-

“this exact one that I’m wearing now - who wore this to the Oscars when he presented Audrey Hepburn with the best actress award. You know, I think if you cut your hair, you’d look a lot like her…”

Wren peaked past his shoulder with a singular eyebrow arched upwards as three of the helium balloons Helena had strung up earlier started floating closer towards them. She didn’t even realize that Will was reaching for her hair until he was practically touching her.

“Except, well, being slimmer than you meant she wasn’t nearly as bust-”

Before Wren could move to swat his hand away, sound exploded around them. Three consecutive pops one after the other, so loud they left her ears ringing. Will, on the other hand, clapped his hands over his ears, letting out a yelp so feminine Wren was sure onlookers thought the noise had come from her.

One such onlooker came forward, a face Wren recognized… it was hard to forget those baby blue eyes.

“Oh no, your suit”

Wren stifled a giggle behind her hand. Had Leon Sinclaire just popped those balloons? She searched his hands for any sort of sharp object he might’ve used to abruptly deflate them but to no avail. Maybe Will just had shit luck.

Willard’s caterwauling continued as he clutched onto his ears. Wren again resisted the urge to laugh at the horribly comedic incident. “Maybe you can find another Jean Hershey suit?”

“Hersholt!” Willard hissed. This time Wren actually did laugh, exchanging a flabbergasted look with Leon.

“Yeah, you don’t look so good, Will. I knew someone who burst an eardrum once and they got a brain bleed and went into a coma. You should probably go while you still can.”

Wren could hardly contain her giggles as Will skittered down the stairs in frenzied panic.

“I hope he doesn't try to sue Morgan for that,” Wren turned her gaze towards Leon, remembering all the unremarkable men she’d been met with that night. She did a quick calculation in her head, deciding that, much like Theo and Rhys, Leon was a ten.

“So, you doing okay, Wren? Is that ceiling staying dry?”

“I’m lovely,” the last of her giggles escaped her system as she watch Will dash out the front door. “Better, now. Ceiling’s dry as a desert. Thank you, again.”

Leon had been quick to arrive on the scene once Asher had finally placed the call for a handyman. And once he had patched the leak causing the water, he had accepted the most miniscule of payments… far less than what his work was actually worth. “Which reminds me… I owe you for that.”

She sifted through the contents of her purse, her hands latching around her handy dandy deck of tarot cards that she always carried with her at social gatherings. If nothing else, her readings were at least a fun party trick.

“Maybe I could give you a reading? Any burning questions that need answering?” She dangled the cards in front of him playfully, grabbing his wrist and leading him towards one of the secluded rooms upstairs. She had found that it was usually 50/50 whether or not a human bought into her whole 'seeing the future' thing. Despite the actual validity of the cards, some humans preferred to dismiss what they couldn't understand as nonsense. Some people preferred to leave the future unknown, she didn't necessarily blame them. What good was the knowledge of a foreboding future when there was nothing you could do to escape it? Maybe ignorance really was bliss... but Wren had to admit that even she was curious about what gems lay hidden in the future of Leon Sinclaire.

coded by natasha.

 

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE
HUMAN

Bitter

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Rhys Bellz

Click me!

In an instant the world was swept out from underneath her, Rhys’ arms hooking beneath her knees to bring her close to his chest. He lifted her like she was weightless, and she suddenly became acutely aware of the feeling of his breath against her ear. Her hissed protests went ignored.

"I promise I’ll endure all of your fiery remarks if you’d humor me just enough to let me look at your ankle."

The granite countertop he set her down on was cold to the touch, the chill against her bare legs a refreshing reminder not to let herself get swept up by Rhys and his antics, figuratively or literally. Her gaze remained fixated on him, skeptical and mistrustful. And then he dropped to his knees. Lydia’s eyes widened for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest like a caged bird flapping its wings. She immediately crossed her legs, remembering just how unfortunately short her dress was. She didn’t want Rhys seeing anything he shouldn’t from his new chosen angle.

“Well, I can tell you right now, we won’t have to amputate. Not that it would make you any less gorgeous.”

Lydia peaked past her own knees, peering down at Rhys. His dark hair almost completely shrouded his eyes as he inspected her ankle. “Ha ha very funny.” Why was she letting Rhys examine her ankle? She was the one studying pre med. She knew it was nothing more than a sprain. So why was she letting him play doctor? And why was she chewing on her lower lip like it was a stick of bubble gum?

“I’m going to take your shoe off, alright? Need to make sure there’s no fracture.”

“No, Rhys, seriously -” her protests died in her throat as his feather light touch brushed against her bareskin. It sent goosebumps shivering down her legs and she almost kicked him away for fear that he would notice. Why did he keep looking up at her like that? Was that concern or lust?

His touch crept higher, and higher, her heartbeat pounded like a drum. Her breath hitched in her throat, audible and telling. Shit. Her pale blue irises watched him with an intensity that she wouldn’t have been able to explain if pressed on the matter, but all he was looking at was her leg. Like he was a starving man who had just found a little bird on a platter.

"No bruising, no major swelling up the leg… all signs point to a sprain, little bird.”

She could’ve told him that. In fact, she had tried to. And yet she had let him inspect her like merchandise, for what? She mentally chastised herself, feeling stupid for letting herself get caught up in the moment. Rhys’ phantom touch still lingered, despite her best efforts not to think about what had just happened.

“If I were a gambling man, I’d say you’ll live.”

“You are a gambling man.” She bit back. It was easier to loathe him now that he wasn’t in such close proximity. She watched as he rummaged through the fridge, ostensibly to pour himself another drink, and found herself reaching for her own, which she had set down next to herself on the counter.

The burn was arguably worse the second time, and she again forced herself to swallow the contents of her cup. What was it Rhys had called this again? A sidecar? Her eyes flicked back to where he was reaching for something in the freezer, she hated that she noticed the way his back muscles coiled beneath his shirt. What business did Rhys Arkwright have looking like that? No wonder he had picked her up with such ease.

"You should ditch the heels. My mother was the same way, you know? A woman of beauty and grace—heels were her sworn enemy. Eventually, she just started wearing flats to every one of our god-awful family parties. Never took away from her beauty, and my father and I didn’t have to worry about her taking a tumble down the stairs again.”

“I appreciate the input on my choice of footwear, Arkwright, but I’m fine.” She vaguely remembered Mrs. Arkwright, remembered seeing her dressed lavishly from head to toe at every founder's ball and town hall meeting. But come to think of it… she had never thought to inspect her shoes. She hated that Rhys was right.

"Your ice, little bird.” Rhys tapped the space beside her, and Lydia cocked an eyebrow at him. “Put your foot up—elevation helps. Plus, this way, you don’t have to hold the ice yourself. See? I can be useful for more than just seduction.”

She wouldn’t be putting her foot up, if only because she wasn’t quite sure she could without her dress riding up. But she’d be damned if she let Rhys know that. “I told you, I’m fine. I don’t need any ice.”

Lydia struggled to get to her feet, sliding down from the counter and wincing minutely as she put pressure on her left foot. “And you weren’t seducing me.”

Her words were all venom yet she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Bending over to fiddle with the strap of her other shoe, she reluctantly took Rhys’ advice, slipping off the other heel before she could injure herself further.

“Is this some kind of game for you? Do you go around tending to wounded women until one of them agrees to sleep with you? Is that what this is?”

Why was she so angry? Why had she let him get under skin like this? The answer was just as bitter as the question, because it stung. It hit her like a slap in the face to know that while Lydia had pined after Rhys for years, all she had ever been to him was a side quest. And now, once she had finally buried that stupid little girlish crush, he decided to come sweep her away?

No. She had put those feelings to rest long ago. She had banished him from her mind, exiled him from her fantasies and locked the door. He didn’t get to just waltz in now, pour her drink, and expect her to melt like that stupid ice he had left on the counter. She seethed internally, wanting nothing more in that moment than to leave the stupid kitchen and tell Rhys to get lost.

Reaching for her cup, she took another long, labored sip to quell her nerves, finishing off the contents and swallowing it like cough syrup. She coughed slightly as the liquid singed the back of her throat. She padded over towards the other side of the kitchen in bare feet, the faintest hint of a limp haunting her gate.

Reaching for the rosé she had been eyeing earlier, she poured herself a tall glass, much more wine that she should’ve indulged in, but she didn’t care. She needed to stop thinking about Rhys. She took another long sip, beginning to feel the effects from the sidecar she had downed earlier. With a heavy sigh, Lydia propped herself up against the wall, her eyes straying through the window towards the empty, moonlit yard.

"I used to have the biggest crush on you..." Lydia laughed. A dry, humorless sound and yet there was a pain hidden in her voice. Her gaze remained fixed on the contents of her cup. "You were this handsome, smart, tortured enigma... you had the world eating out of the palm of your hand and you never even took a second glance at me, not once." It was less a confession, more so an observation. Nothing had changed, Rhys was still handsome and mysterious and tragic, and Lydia had stayed stuck in the same place he left her, a golden bird cage with the latch securely fastened. So why now was he staking a claim? Why had he decided to leave his fingerprints on her like damning evidence of a sin yet to be committed? Her brows furrowed as her thoughts spiraled further.

coded by natasha.

 

[CapellaStargaze]

location

Crayne/Murphy Residence- Parlor

mood

Nervous

outfit

Asher's Outfit

mentions

Bellz Jackie

Asher Devereau

Asher leaned against the bar, chatting with Morgan. He had ditched his beer and took Morgan’s offer of something stronger. His effortless smile faltered for a moment when he saw the all too familiar gaze that was locked in on him and Morgan. Her dark hair pinned to her head, swaying in a stunning red dress. Red was always his favorite color on her. He heard her call his name and he threw his drink back to prepare, the warm burn of the whiskey hoping to seep some courage into him as he embraced his new found company. Asher glanced at Morgan who lazily smiled her way, giving Asher a raised eyebrow.

“Good to see you, though. And at a party like this of all places! Didn’t take you for the type.” Asher inwardly rolled his eyes at that remark. Jackie was always more outgoing than he was but he still knew how to have fun from time to time. Before he could even think about what to say, Morgan sat his drink down on the counter, his legs swinging as he sat on the bar.

“He only comes when I’m involved,” Morgan grinned. “What brings you to my birthday? Not crashing are we?”

Morgan grabbed her held out joint and took a hard hit before sighing contently. “Seems like you two have some catching up to do. I’ll be around,” he said as he downed his drink and grabbed the bottle off the counter. “Enjoy the party, party crasher.” And he was off, moving deeper into the house, leaving Asher alone with Jackie.

Asher looked at the joint extended in her hand and sighed, shaking his head. “I didn’t know you were back in town, Jack.”

Jackie Sanchez waltzing back into Asher’s life was not on his 1994 Bingo card and at Morgan’s Birthday party nonetheless. The last time he saw her, she was breaking up with him for being secretive and distant. Coming into his powers, figuring out this warlock stuff, and his father dying was not the best combination in the relationship especially since he couldn’t tell her any of it.

Asher shook the past from his mind. He didn’t want his unresolved past to come back at the moment. He took her appearance in and gave a small smile, breathing for the first time since he locked eyes on her. “How’s your life treating you? Still trying to save lives?”

Small talk was not Asher’s strong suit but he didn’t know what to talk to her about anymore. They were two different people when they were kids. She brought out the extrovert in him, the fun side, the confidence but now that she was back and in his face, it was as if she taking that confidence hostage.

coded by natasha.

 

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ The Crayne and Murphy Residence, Black Hollow Woods ~​

As soon as the phone rang, August’s attention naturally slipped away. It was a relief to have his mother focus on something other than him - he didn't have to concentrate, or think, or speak, and yet, he still had the comfort of her company. Being at home alone all day made him restless - ever the extrovert, August thrived off the company of others and couldn't stand being cooped up at home for too long. He had grown bored of television, for the dialogue was often too hard to comprehend and the plots difficult to follow. Even Die Hard or Terminator, films that he knew all the words to, gave him a headache from all the explosions. He had tried to pass the time playing Mortal Kombat II, but the nausea and fatigue had taken the fight out of him, and with his reflexes slowing down, it was too easy to get frustrated and quit. Then there was art - sketching, doodling, drawing - but his creativity was falling out of reach, blocked by the growing pain in his head, and the act of creating only made him sleepy, sometimes before he could even think of what to draw, and he would soon give up on that, too.

As restless as he was for spending every day at home on his own, having company at the end of the day never brought as much comfort as he expected, because it was getting to the point where sitting together in silence was all he could handle. August understood he wasn’t well, but he was doing his best to get back to normal, and so it annoyed him that he couldn’t even have normal conversations with his mother without her outwardly worrying. Even now, as she spoke on the phone, he could see out of the corner of his eye the way she was looking at him: concerned, anxious. Losing Daphne had done that to her; Barbara-Jean had always been loving, caring and protective towards her children, especially with their father having been such a loose cannon, but the loss of her daughter changed the way she viewed her son.

After a minute or two of mindless chewing and vacant stares, August’s attention was pulled back to his mother. Barbara-Jean was kneeling beside him, her gaze fixed firmly on him with such purpose that he couldn’t look away. Stay in. Don’t…don’t…want someone - just stay inside. Emergency, pick up…Blaine.

“Okay,” he uttered. She kept talking, and the urgency in her tone made it harder still to catch her words. Had something happened to his uncle? He did his best to catch what she was saying, but his grip was loose and unsteady and as quickly as he grasped the meaning it would fall away again. Every time she said the word ‘okay’ he would repeat it back to her, an easy call and response that he hoped would pass as genuine understanding.

Perhaps it was for his mother’s flitting about the room, the concern in her voice, or the overwhelming amount of words he felt pressured to understand, but anxiety was beginning to take hold within him, returning the tremor to his right hand. He tried to pick up the pills his mother had set out for him, but they rolled off his fingertips before even reaching his mouth and fell somewhere out of sight. It scared him that he had failed to do something that seemed important. “M…Mom?” he stammered, standing up first to look for the pills and then instead to follow her to the front door. Hearing her own voice waver, and her emotional words to him that somehow sounded so final, August had a feeling that something really bad was happening. Whatever she was asking of him, he knew there was only one answer, so he nodded and said, “Okay.”

As soon as she was out of the door, however, a wave of anxiety flooded his chest. If he had understood any of his mother's explanation as to why she was leaving so suddenly, he had already forgotten it - but she had made it quite clear that something bad was happening, and that had left a fear in him, a fear that he couldn't even understand. His right arm was beginning to twitch, and he placed a hand over his chest while taking some deep, steady breaths. Having expected to have his mother's company for the evening, he already would have been disappointed about being left on his own again, but now there was an added desperation. He really did not want to be alone.

Giving no further thought to the meal he had abandoned, August made his way to the phone and dialled the number for Helena's and Morgan's house. Maybe one of them would be free to come and watch a movie with him, or at least hang out at his place while he rested. The phone rang four times before someone picked up. Whoever it was, it was neither Helena nor Morgan - and there was loud music oscillating in the background.

“Mr Murphy's office, this is his butler speaking,” said a voice, in a terrible attempt at a posh English accent. August heard some collective sniggering. “May I take your name?”

“Hel…Helena?”

The sniggering turned into a gaggle of boyish laughter.

“You don't sound like a Helena to me,” came the plummy voice. “Unless she's grown a -”

“Is Helena there?” August asked, but he went unheard as the phone crackled and thumped, while a woman on the other end berated her friends.

“Who's this?” she asked.

“August.”

“You a friend of Morgan's, August?”

“Yeah.”

“You do drugs? You got booze?”

“Dani, it's your turn!” came a male voice from the background.

“Yeah,” August said, nodding as if they could hear him. “Is Helena there?”

“Somewhere,” Dani answered. “Whatever. Just bring booze.”

The phone went dead. August had no idea who he had just spoken to, but he figured that if someone had answered the phone then Morgan and Helena should be at home, and he was set on finding his friends. So, still in his sweatpants and the long sleeve t-shirt he had picked up from his bedroom floor, August slid into his trainers and pulled a jacket on before slipping out of the front door.

“I gotta go 'cause I got me a drop-top
and if I hit the switch, I can make the aaaaass drop
Had to stop at a red light
Lookin' in my mirror, not a jacker in sight
And everything is alright…”

Hearing one of his favourite Ice Cube tracks on the car radio did so much to lift his mood that he was practically pulled out of reality altogether. He didn’t even realise he was wearing his mother’s jacket, nor did he notice that the lyrics were rolling off his tongue without a single hesitation or stutter. He was just happily driving along, nodding his head to the beat, anticipation growing with each turn that brought him closer to Helena’s house.

Except, upon arrival, he realised it was more of a grand manor than a house. He knew that she and Morgan had inherited the place that had been in the family for generations, so naturally he expected more than some two-bit shack. But this…this was far more grand. If his first visit had fallen on an ordinary day, August would have taken time to admire the interior, too, in want of a full house tour. Instead, the place was full of bustling people in strange outfits, music soaring over their heads, so loud amongst the chatter and laughter and clumsy footsteps that from the moment August entered the house he couldn’t give any energy to admiring it at all. The air was so dense with noise that he found it suddenly harder to breathe without conscious effort. The jarring blend of sounds began to distort and August all of a sudden felt drunk. Unable to think straight, he stumbled ahead, never quite sure what room he was in but not really caring. Then, his periphery started to warp. The walls were bending around him, people were floating in and out of focus, and eventually he had to stop. Reaching out blindly, his hands found a door frame and took it in a firm grip, holding himself steady until the room stopped spinning.

When at last August opened his eyes, he let them refocus somewhere above the sea of dancers and drinkers, where he could let them rest. And that’s when he saw her. Through the crowd, on the far side of the large room he had just come through, there was Helena. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress in emerald green and black that looked like, to August’s untrained eye, some kind of Victorian ball gown. Her hair was curled and pinned, but it was still her. August made his way over to her with stumbling steps, driven by relief upon finally finding her. She was standing over someone, a man who was seated in a chair. He couldn’t see who the man was, but even from a distance, even through his distorting vision, August could have sworn he could see fire in her eyes. She moved to crouch down beside him, and the last thing he saw was her grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and yanking his head back, before a group of women suddenly knocked into him, blocking his view. He waited for them to bustle past him, too slow to really register the impact, and then carried on making his way towards Helena. Except, now, she was no longer there. Neither was the man, or the chair he had been sitting on. It had all vanished, as if into thin air.

Without Helena, August no longer had reason to keep going. His body understood this, as it suddenly let back in the suffocating music, distorted noise and bending walls. First he felt a rhythmic throbbing in his head, and then came the pain - like an earthquake inside his head, crushing his brain and hammering against his skull. With an agonised groan, he caught his head in his hands and sank to the floor. There was no way he could get back across the room, now. All he could do was wait - but for what, he did not know.

 

[Bellz]

Rhys Arkwright
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ In the Kitchen ~
𖤐 outfit: here / mood: bitter 𖤐​

Rhys' brows knitted together, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides as confusion settled deep in his chest. He couldn’t understand why Lydia was so upset with him. After all, he was only trying to help. But the way she looked at him—eyes burning with barely restrained fury, lips pressed together like she was holding back a storm—made his breath catch. His pulse stuttered. And the strangest sensation stirred in his gut…light, fleeting, a flutter he’d never felt before.

She should have stormed off by now, leaving him to piece together his mistakes alone. He half expected it. But instead, his little bird didn’t fly away. Lydia moved across the kitchen with a quiet grace, reaching for a bottle of rosé and pouring herself a tall glass. The delicate clink of glass against the counter filled the silence before she turned, leaning a shoulder against the wall, gaze drifting to the darkened window as if searching for something beyond it.

Rhys swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Part of him wished he had the ability to draw, to paint, to do something—anything—to capture the quiet beauty standing before him. But even if he could, he knew his hands would never do her justice. The moonlight streamed in through the window, catching the strands of her hair, weaving a halo of silver through the dark waves. An angel. His fingers flexed at his sides before curling into loose fists.

I used to have the biggest crush on you.

Rhys stilled. Blinked once. Then twice. The words slipped through his mind, slow and weighted, sinking deep. Such information handed over so freely to him—to Rhys Arkwright—was like placing military secrets into enemy hands. Something that could be used, dissected, even weaponized. Or at least…it used to be.

There was laughter in her voice, but no humor to be found in it. It rang hollow, a sound that twisted something in his chest. And then, as if confessing in a church pew rather than standing in a kitchen, Lydia gave him something he didn’t know what to do with.

…you had the world eating out of the palm of your hand and you never even took a second glance at me, not once.

His hazel eyes remained transfixed on her, unblinking, —afraid that if he so much as looked away, she’d vanish into the moonlight, fading from his life like everything and everyone else had.

…not once. Her words repeated in Rhys’s head. The words echoed in his head, threading through the memories he’d long buried. Lydia Sinclaire had always been untouchable. A line he was never meant to cross—not only because she was Leon’s little sister, but because she was everything he was not. Loved. Pure. Whole. A lot like his mother had been.

And look what happened to her in the end?

Revenge and death didn’t discriminate.

"I’ve been told it’s unhealthy to stare at the sun for too long, you know."

Rhys' voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, as his hazel eyes finally flickered downward, tracing the space between their feet. His fingers twitched before slipping into his pockets, a boyish smile tugging at his lips as if he were suddenly shy. "As handsome, smart, and—well—tortured as you seem to think I am…" He exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head slightly before stealing a glance at her. "You shine brighter than anyone I’ve ever met. Blinding, really."

A strange warmth crept up his neck, settling into his cheeks. Rhys ducked his head further, scuffing the heel of his boot against the floor as if the movement might steady him. What the hell was this feeling? It was foreign, disarming—dangerous. And just as quickly as that boyish grin had appeared, it faded. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by something colder, something familiar.

"I am tortured," Rhys said, his voice lower now, rougher. His fingers curled inside his pockets. "I’m also selfish, I’m reckless. I drink too much. I fight too often. I push people away before they get the chance to leave first. I ruin good things before they even have a chance to exist and to top it all off—I’m an orphan." His gaze lifted then, the flicker of something hardened settling back into his hazel eyes, as though he’d just pulled himself from the edge of something soft and dangerous.

"But don’t think for one damn minute that I didn’t take a second or even third glance your way."

The shift was palpable—his tone sharper, his stare unrelenting. A darkness curled into his voice, something almost possessive. His shoulders tensed as he took a slow breath, reining it in. "I know what’s best for you," Rhys said, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

"People like me…we suck the life out of people like you. We take that sunshine in your eyes and turn it into nothing but vacant stares." His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. Was he trying to scare her away now after so obviously trying to pull her in?

A pause.

"But don’t think I didn’t notice you." His eyes softened, just a fraction, as Rhys looked at her. "You’re too bright not to notice, little bird."

His fingers twitched at his sides before he curled them into fists, as if physically restraining himself from reaching for her. But then he unclenched them, widening the space between them further. "People like me don’t get to have people like you." he said, quieter now.
with: Lydia WanderLust.

 

[Bellz]

Jackie Sanchez
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Parlor ~
outfit: here/mood: amused​

"Hate to break it to you, doll, but it looks like half the town is crashing this killer soiree." Jackie’s smile was as sweet as honey, but there was a bite beneath it, a sharpened edge to her words as she glanced at Morgan. Confidence dripped from her voice like second nature—practiced, polished, and perfectly placed. "Not that I mind, of course. I’ve always been a fan of a good party crash." She hummed, watching him take the joint she handed over, her fingers lingering just a second too long. When he sighed in satisfaction, she felt a quiet surge of pride. Good roll, good weed—birthday boy approved. A small victory, but one she’d take.

Her grin turned sharper as Morgan teased about her and Asher having some catching up to do. Cute and observant? Now that was a dangerous combination. "Happy birthday, birthday boy," she tossed over her shoulder, her laughter painting the air between them as he called her party crasher. And funny, too? Someone was definitely getting their heart broken over him. But that wasn’t her concern. No, her concern lay elsewhere—with the real heartbreaker in the room.

Her gaze slid away from Morgan and landed on Asher, the man who once had her heart in a chokehold and, if she was being honest with herself, might still have a grip on it in some unspoken, unwanted way. He declined her offer to smoke, and for some reason, that irked her more than it should. Letting her hand fall to her side, she watched the joint burn from the corner of her eye, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something—anything—from him.

"A new development," she mused, bringing the joint to her lips and taking a slow, deliberate hit. The smoke curled around her as she studied him, the weight of familiarity settling in her chest like a stone. Asher looked good. But that had never been the problem, had it? No, Asher Devereau had always looked good. Too good. And she hated that it still got to her. But looks had never been enough for her. Honesty. Intimacy. The ability to just spit out whatever the hell was gnawing at you instead of burying it beneath charm and half-truths—that was what mattered. That was what she had needed from him. And that was exactly what he couldn’t give her.

Yet, standing here now, with the past pressing in from all sides, Jackie felt the cracks in her own conviction. Had she made a mistake back then? Had she been too young, too reckless, too impatient to let things unfold the way they were meant to? Maybe she had been right to walk away, or maybe she had been a damn fool.

Or maybe, she thought, narrowing her eyes at Asher, this was just the weed talking. Dumbass.

That small smile Asher gave her was hard to ignore. Infuriating, really. It had no business making her chest feel tight, no right to stir something long-buried and better off forgotten. He was nervous. As. He. Should. Be.

Jackie’s gaze flickered to one of the many half-empty glasses sitting beside him, the amber liquid catching the dim light. The weed probably wasn’t going to help her through this conversation anymore—it had already made her too soft, too contemplative. Without hesitation, she flicked the joint into the nearest glass, watching as the embers hissed out in a swirl of smoke and cheap liquor.

"Complicated as always," she finally answered, her voice smooth but lacking the usual edge. It was honest enough. Half truths, remember? That was their thing. Not like she was about to give him the full rundown of her life’s latest disasters. Which had really been the same since they’d broken up.

Her mother drinking herself into oblivion while the rent for their gift shop and apartment continued to pile up? Yeah, that wasn’t exactly casual party conversation. The weight of responsibility pressed against her spine like an old wound, but she had gotten good at carrying it. At pretending. Still, something about standing in front of him again—hearing his voice, seeing the way he still had that same way about him—made her feel like she was right back in high school again, reckless and stupid and too hopeful for her own good. She wanted to believe she had outgrown this. Him. She forced herself to focus, to let the old feelings wash over her and drain away just as quickly.

A genuine smile ghosted across her red painted lips at the mention of saving lives. "As many as I can manage," she admitted, letting some pride slip into her tone. "The hospital hired me on as an ER nurse—that’s why I’m back." She took a step closer, studying his face, waiting for the weight of that to settle between them. "Pay was good, and hey, Crescent Hill’s never been boring. More than your run-of-the-mill freak accidents, hmm?" One brow arched as she tilted her head.

Her words hung between them, teasing, but there was a thread of something else—something unspoken. Jackie had seen her fair share of strange injuries already, things that didn’t add up, but she wasn’t about to say that out loud. Not yet. She shifted her weight, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. "What about you, Mr. Writer? Ever find your muse?" There was an unmistakable challenge in her voice, a smirk curling at the edge of her lips. "I have to say, if you’re looking for it in cheap liquor and cigarette smoke…Hemingway would be proud."

The words came out lighter than she intended, more teasing than cruel. Truth was, Jackie couldn’t bring herself to mock the things he was passionate about, not fully. He had always been the dreamer between them, and no matter how much fire she packed into her words, she had envied that about him. The ability to lose himself in something other than survival, to believe in things bigger than the next bill, the next shift, the next problem to fix.

But she also knew that dreams had a way of crumbling under reality. And Asher? He had always been good at running from reality. She watched his expression closely, looking for any hint of the old Asher beneath the man standing in front of her now. Did he still carry the same secrets he’d never share? Did he regret anything at all?

Jackie then glanced around the party, the familiar haze of alcohol and sweat thick in the air. This wasn’t really her scene anymore. Not like it used to be. And yet, here she was. Here they both were. Her voice softened slightly as she changed the subject. "How’s your sister?"

She had spotted Wren earlier but hadn’t dared to say hello. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was just easier to avoid another ghost from her past. But Asher had always been close to his sister, and no matter what history sat between them, Jackie still cared. She just wasn’t sure if she had the right to.
with: Asher CapellaStargaze

 

[Bellz]

Helena Crayne
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill ~
outfit: here / mood: concerned ​

Lying to Wren was proving to be more and more difficult these days and Helena felt more guilty about it the further she grew connected to her goddaughter. But she feared what the girl would think of her if she knew what was truly going on inside of her mind. The whispers which grew more violent in their demands, tugging on her bloodlust like a rope. There was only so much forgiveness Helena felt a person or a family could bestow upon someone like her before it ran dry. No matter how deep love ran.

The stoners in the study had made an absolute mess of it. Two antique vases were destroyed in what they called a "great experiment" with gravity and after they were convinced they had somehow summoned Helena into the room after breaking them, she’d made quick work of scaring them. No fangs or shadows needed. All it took was convincing them the cops showed up and they were bounding out of the room like startled deer. Cleaning up the broken glass had steadied her nerves, and being in a quiet room allowed for a moment of reprieve. When it was all done, she made sure to grab the key from the desk in the top drawer to lock the french doors.

Locked and secure. Helena turned back toward the party, dropping the key into her bra for safekeeping when — A jagged cry ripped from her throat as searing pain detonated behind her eyes. A hot blade slicing through her skull. Her hands flew up, clutching at her head, fingers digging into her scalp as if she could claw the agony away. Someone hit her. Someone hit her. The thought pounded through her mind in sync with the blinding pressure. She staggered, reaching for the wound, for blood, for proof— But there was nothing. No gash. No impact. No attacker.

Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as she frantically scanned her trembling hands. They were clean. No crimson streaks, no sign that her skull had just cracked open from the inside out. Confusion numbed her—until another wave of agony surged through her, splitting her thoughts apart like a hammer to glass. This time, it didn’t recede. It throbbed, a cruel rhythm that warped the edges of her vision, twisting the warm glow of the chandeliers into something jagged and sinister. The music, the laughter, the chatter—all of it twisted into a garbled mess, distorted by the sharp, pulsing pain radiating through her skull. The room had eyes now. Guests—once too absorbed in their own revelry—were staring. Their faces blurred at the edges, their voices reduced to muffled echoes beneath the overwhelming roar inside her head.

She lurched away from the center of the room, shoving through bodies with more force than necessary. She barely registered when she hit the wall, the impact rattling the frame, her shoulders slamming into solid wood. Another wave of pain flared—red, hot, consuming.

Closer—closer—
Burning, breaking—
Closer—no, too close—

The layered whispers faded, growing more distant with each passing second. Shadows trembled around her fingers, flickering to life in frantic bursts before recoiling as if wounded. They writhed, stretching toward the floor, toward the nearest patch of darkness, only to dissolve into jagged, erratic shapes. One lingering tendril coiled up her leg, a whisper against her skin—uncertain, pleading. Then, it too was gone. Vanished. Snuffed out. Like a television flicked off—silence. Helena braced herself against the wall, one hand splayed against its cool surface, the other clutching her skull as cold realization settled deep into her bones. A sickening weight coiled in her gut. There was only one explanation for this. And he wasn’t supposed to be here. She clenched her teeth, grinding them together as she forced herself upright, every movement a battle against the sharp, unrelenting pain that clawed through her skull. It wasn’t the usual kind—the ache of exhaustion, the strain of hunger. No, this was different. Raw. Untamed. A force that did not belong to her but had buried itself beneath her skin all the same.

Helena tried to will it away, to shove it down, to sever her senses from it—but it refused to be ignored. Perhaps the shadows were finally exacting their revenge, punishing her for resisting their whispered demands. But that didn’t make sense. They were gone. Vanished. If they had caused this, wouldn’t their absence have erased it? No. Helena had felt this before—at the inn, when August had stood before her, feigning composure. Back then, the pain had been distant, like catching the scent of something burning from a room away. Now? Now it wrapped around her like smoke, suffocating, inescapable. This wasn't her pain.

She inhaled sharply and pushed off the wall, surprised to find that it actually helped—steadying her, sharpening her focus. Good. Breathing, Helena. You can do that. How positively human of you. Her breaths came shallow and quick as she forced her spine straight, her muscles rigid beneath her skin. The pain shifted, curling into something more tangible—something she could smell. Her stomach turned as recognition slammed into her. She knew this scent. The same scent that had tangled with August’s at the inn. He’s close. Helena’s gaze swept the room, searching, scanning—then there.

A sharp pulse of urgency shot through her, and she didn’t hesitate, shoving past drunken guests, no longer interested in maintaining the fragile illusion of the gracious hostess. “Hey! What the hell—?” a girl yelped as Helena clipped her shoulder, sending a cup of what smelled like 99% tequila sloshing onto the nearest unlucky bystander. The man cursed, arms flailing, but she didn’t care. She barely noticed.

Her sights were locked on August. Until a hand clamped around her wrist. “What the fuck is your problem?” Black. That was all she saw as she turned, barely registering the man’s face before instinct took over. A growl curled in her throat as she wrenched her arm free and slammed her palm into his chest. Too hard. Sloppy. His feet flew out from under him, his body crashing into his friends like a set of bowling pins. For a fleeting second, she should have stopped—should have thought about what she had just done. But the pain in her skull was a relentless, pounding thing, tethering her to the only thought that mattered. He needed her.

The man groaned on the floor, stunned, but Helena only spared him a single glance as she moved. Her body humming with the residual urge to let her instincts take over—to unleash. “I suggest you stay down,” she warned, her voice low, edged with something dark and sharp. Then—“What the fuck—” The man’s ragged gasp cut through the noise as he scrambled back on his hands, his bloodshot eyes wide and locked onto her face. Her stomach twisted. Oh no, had she gone full vampire? She couldn’t feel her fangs poking through but — “Your—your eyes,” he stammered, voice shaking. “They’re purple.” Before she could react, he lurched to his feet, nearly tripping over himself in his desperation to put distance between them. “Freak,” he spat, eyes still wild with fear, before vanishing into the crowd.

Helena stood there, frozen.

The pain in her skull sharpened again, dragging her back to what mattered. August. Six strides. That was all it took before she was in front of him. Helena’s head still throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing against her ribs. She wanted—needed—to blame the emotions on the shadows. That would be easier. More explainable. But they weren’t here. They never were when August was near. Which meant everything she’d just done—all that rage, all that violence—had come from her. Purple. That man had seen something—had flinched at something. A chill skated down her spine. Helena swallowed hard as she dropped to her knees before him, the cool tile biting into her skin. Later. Worry about it later.

Right now, he needed her.

Reaching out, Helena brushed a hand over one of his where it clutched his head. “August?” Her voice was soft but insistent, pushing through the noise around them. His presence usually steadied her. Always had. His bizarre ability to block her own was freeing most days. But now, all she felt was unease gnawing at the edges of her mind. On top of the pain in her head. “What are you doing here?” Concern bled into her words before she forced a small, wry smile. “Not that I’m not so happy to see you.” But the moment flickered, worry creeping back in. “Is your head hurting?” I already know the answer. Her gaze darted past the guests, scanning for a way out, somewhere quieter. The study was now clear. There was alway upstairs…but he looked like he wouldn’t make it two steps that way. Helena gave his hand a small squeeze, attempting to ground them both. “Would you like to go somewhere quieter?” And, though she didn’t say it, another thought whispered beneath her words—before you look at me too closely.
with: August Pyroclast

 

[Bellz]

Black Hollow Woods
~ About 1,000 Yards from back of Crayne & Murphy Home ~

The Black Hollow Woods stretched out in tangled shadows, thick with the scent damp earth and the distant pulse of life. Two figures moved through the undergrowth like wraiths, their footsteps light, their senses tuned to the rhythmic thrum of mortal hearts not far from where the decades party was in full swing. "I fucking hate these woods, man." muttered the shorter of the two, a wiry vampire with sharp features and a nervous tic of licking his lips, who went by Cal. "You remember what happened to Milo?"

"Yeah, yeah, he got shredded. Torn up like some cheap steak," replied the taller one, a broad-shouldered vampire with a permanently unimpressed expression. He went by Jace. "Serves him right. Moron thought he was untouchable."

"Because he was in a coven."

"A weak one."

Cal shot him a look. "We ain’t exactly in a position to be judging, Jace. We’re rogues now, man." Jace huffed a quiet laugh. "Rogue or not, we gotta eat." They moved deeper into the forest, with Cal casting wary glances at the silohuette of the large estate not too far off in the distance. "Human for your thoughts, Cal, ol’ boy," Jace drawled, sarcasm dripping from his lips.

"You think it’s true? That she did that to Milo? The Shadow one?" His voice dropped to a hush, his gaze flicking between Jace and the house as if it might hear him. Jace just laughed. "What? Scared of the dark, Cal? Jesus, those stories really messed you up." They walked on, Jace’s laughter lingering in the air, grating against Cal’s nerves. "It’s not funny! We’re in their territory," Cal snapped, licking his lips again. "Oooo, I’m sooo scared." Jace pulled his hands from his pockets, wiggling his fingers mockingly. Cal scowled and shoved him. "Milo’s cousin told me before she got herself killed—said she don’t even need to touch you to mess you up. The shadows just do it for her." In the moonlight, Cal could see Jace roll his eyes. "Oh, please. Vampires don’t even have their own shadows, and this bitch is besties enough with them to control ‘em? You’re too damn gullible, Cal."

"I am not!" Cal snapped. "And fine—if you’re not scared of her, maybe you’ll be afraid of her ripper roommate." He crossed his arms with a scowl, only for it to shift into a smirk when he caught Jace hesitating mid-step. "Ha!"

"No ‘ha’, he’s a former ripper. Probably a vegan doing yoga these days." Jace’s face twisted into that rare look of irritation and Cal continue on. "Former or not, I heard he used to kill entire villages back in the day. Tore people apart like he was unwrapping presents." Jace shot him a look, eyes narrowing. "And now he’s shacking up with a shadow-wielding freak, playing house. They are throwing a house party as we speak. Real terrifying. " He scoffed. "Nothing to worry about, you big vampire baby."

"What about the werewolves?"

"I hear the Alpha’s a total bastard—unreliable as hell. Doubt he’ll even notice we’re here. This isn’t their side of town, anyway. No chance he’s wasting his time at this little freak show. And even if he was… I’m not scared of a few mutts."

"Witches?"

"Still breathing, somehow."

"I hate witches."

"Backstabbing sluts, all of them. Remember when that one from the coven in our territory hexed me and I couldn't keep blood down for 2 whole months?" Jace grumbled. Cal smirked, "The fact that you can't even remember her name now tells me all I need to know about why she hexed you, man." A twig snapped behind them. Instantly, they stiffened, eyes flashing in the dim moonlight. A young man staggered into view, dressed in an immaculate 1950s-style suit, complete with polished shoes that had no business being in the woods. "See?" Jace murmured, just loud enough for Cal to hear, but not their unexpected guest. "Nothing to worry about. And dinner came to us."

"Uh—" The man said, his voice a little too high-pitched to sound casual. Willard Hugh Godfrey Hartwell the Third had not expected company. "Didn’t mean to interrupt your, uh… nature walk. Just got lost. You know how it is." The vampires exchanged a glance, tension melting into something far more sinister as they realized their prey was alone. Lost. And about to be the easiest goddamn meal. “Well, well,” Jace mused, stepping forward. “Look at you, all dolled up. Got somewhere important to be, slick?” The young man let out a nervous chuckle. They could smell the fear rolling off him, hear the frantic stutter of his pulse. But they didn’t lunge—not yet.

"Yeah, actually. There’s a big party just down the path. Decades-themed. I was going for that, uh, ‘dashing leading man’ look." Jace smirked, circling him. "Well, I’d say you nailed it. What say you, Cal?" Cal mirrored him, moving in the opposite direction, making it harder for their guest to keep track of them. He hummed, tilting his head. "Mmm, I dunno, Jace. Thought the ‘50s had a lot of color." His smirk sharpened. "That suit’s looking a little… plain to me." Jace hummed, tilting his head before locking eyes with the human. He paused his circling, just for a moment. “Got a name, leading man?”

“Willard Hugh Godfrey Hartwell the Third.”

Jace burst into a fit of laughter the moment he heard the name and Cal followed suit, returning to their circling. “Fucking Hell, man, that’s a mouthful! And Willard! Your parents must have hated you if you just enough to give you that name, let alone allowing you to be the THIRD in your bloodline with that god awful name.” Willard as this pathetic human was called, was now scrunching up his face in the ugliest way possible a mix of indignation and barely-contained fear. The vampires could hear it in the way his pulse thrummed—erratic, thick with adrenaline. Delicious.

“I’ll have you know my family is very important in this town,” he huffed, some semblance of courage creeping into his voice. Impressive. Pointless, but impressive.

Jace feigned surprise. “Oh, my mistake, Willard. Didn’t realize we were dealing with the King of the Hicks.” He snickered before stopping right in front of him, Cal mirroring the movement. “Jokes aside, man, don’t you know it’s dangerous out here?”

“Thanks for your concern, asshole, but I think I can handle myself just fine.” Willard’s words were sharp, aggressive — and oh how his pulse continued to fly. How delicious. “No need to get so testy, Will.” Cal finally spoke, his tone smooth, but his stare hungry. Jace saw it—recognized that look well. “We’re just trying to be helpful.” Jace grinned, his fangs flashing in the moonlight. "Wouldn’t want to run into any vampires out here.”

“Vampires? What are you, ten? There’s no such thing as—” Willard never got to finish. Jace moved before his teeny, tiny, human brain could even process what was happening. One second, he was standing. The next, Jace’s hand was around his throat, lifting him clean off the ground. “What was that, Will?” Jace mused, tilting his head. “Didn’t quite hear you.” Willard’s eyes bulged, his body trembling, hands clawing uselessly at Jace’s wrist. Now he understood. “Come on, Jace,” Cal drawled, amused. “Let’s not play with our food.” Jace pouted, glancing between his struggling prey and his friend. “I guess you’re right.” He let go. Willard crumpled to the ground, gasping, a scream building in his throat—

Crack. The sound was sharp. Sudden. His body stilled instantly. Jace exhaled, flexing his fingers as he looked down at the lifeless heap. “I usually prefer them alive, but seeing as how this bastard wasn’t going to make it easy… figured I’d do him a favor.” Cal chuckled, fangs glinting. “I think we did the world a favor.” Jace smirked as he grabbed Willard’s body, holding him steady. “You know what, Cal? I think we did.”

“Here’s to never having to hear the name Willard ever again.” He lowered his head, fangs sinking deep.

-----
FATALITY.

 

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ The Crayne and Murphy Residence, Black Hollow Woods ~
​

A nightmare. That’s what it felt like. The very peak of a nightmare, where any power or autonomy is lost to vulnerability and helplessness and fear and pain. He is trapped, immobilised, drowning in the tempestuous noise that crashes over his head. He could not bear it, and yet, could do nothing to escape. He could not stand, could not even move. The all-consuming pain in his head was so overpowering that it pinned him to the spot.

Each breath that August took caught in his throat and his eyes began to water from the exertion of fighting through the agony. A soft hand brushed over his but he didn’t have enough energy to react. It came as a comfort, however, in knowing that he wasn’t alone. Helena’s gentle voice pierced through the cacophonous music and chatter and chinking of glasses, and he reached out a trembling hand, until it found hers. He held it tight, only grateful that she was here.

Perhaps it was her comforting presence or the softness of her voice, but somehow he was able to process enough of the words she spoke to understand her. Still, it was hard to give much in the way of a response. “F-find you,” he uttered between fractured breaths. It was the only explanation he could think of as to why he had come to her house. Another surge of pain coursed through his head and he stifled a groan behind gritted teeth. “Helna…”

Helena’s hand gripped his and he did the same, as if it would help draw some of the pain away. “Please,” he whispered. His senses were drowning in the agony that consumed him and the violent noise had become utterly disorientating to the point that he didn’t even know where he was anymore. All he knew was that he wanted to be anywhere else. The peak of a nightmare that he was waiting to wake up from.

Arms, soft and gentle, wrapped around him. Her scent was so delicate and calming against the raucous atmosphere of the room that he leaned all his weight into her just to get more of it. At first he thought Helena was just holding him, but then he realised she was pulling him to his feet. He didn’t make it easy for her - he tried to keep up with the movement, but breathing through the pain was taking all of his attention such that he couldn’t keep his balance even slightly. Helena hooked his arm around her shoulders and began to walk him, step by careful step, through the room again. He held onto her and moved forward as steadily as he could, until, after what felt like a marathon, they were enclosed in a quieter space. She turned the lights off and set him down on the floor where he rested his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest.

Though the music still pulsed behind the walls and shrieks of drunken laughter could still be heard, it was muffled enough that, after a few minutes, the pain in his head began to ease and his breathing grew slower and steadier. “Sorry,” he whispered, finally looking over at her. He had been so blinded by the pain that he hadn’t actually been able to look at her until now. Her appearance was confusing to him…and it took him a moment, but finally he realised why. “You were in…” He pointed at her black and white mini dress. “G-gr…grass.” His brows were knitted together. She had been wearing green, a long, green dress embellished with black lace and ribbon, the skirt filled out by a heavily structured petticoat. “And the…” He pointed at her hair, now, no longer pinned up in tight curls, but instead held back by a headband, and cascading in waves down her back. “Not like that, but…twirls.”

Interactions
Bellz Helna

 

[WanderLust.]

THEODORE WEST
ALPHA WEREWOLF

Protective

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Summer Bellz

Click Me

To Theo’s great dismay, Summer rose to his challenge with a glint of defiance in her ocean colored eyes. She turned on her heel and in one swift, fluid motion had tossed her drink into a nearby trash bin, returning with a renewed sense of vigor that Theo found oddly impressive.

“Games, huh? Well that would make things more interesting.” Theo cocked a singular eyebrow in response, admittedly surprised that she hadn’t chosen to bow out. Part of him wished that she had. That the blonde had simply said ‘enough is enough’ and let him be rid of her. But a small part of him, the part that he kept tucked away and buried under a much harder, colder exterior, was glad she had chosen to stay. “Lead the way, Leathers.”

“Name’s Lacy.” The redhead mused, wrapping her fingers around Theo’s forearm as she began leading him towards another section of the house. His eyes flicked back towards Summer to ensure she was close in tow, but the siren’s gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. His eyes narrowed minutely as he wondered why she refused to meet his gaze, but his attention was called back by Lacy, who was intent on displaying her newfound participants to a room full of drunk, high, or just downright delirious party goers.

There were a few muttered introductions, though not much of it was coherent. The smell of marijuana overwhelmed Theo’s senses briefly, he had to stifle a cough from the odor. There were people seated on the floor in a large circle, all of whom began scooching and sliding to make way for Summer, Theo and Lacy to sit down.

“So was this your brilliant idea then?” There was an undeniable edge to Summer’s voice as she spoke to Lacy. It piqued Theo’s interest. They had known the redhead all of ten seconds. What had she done to provoke Summer’s ire already? And then she directed her attention towards Theo. “I thought we left this game back in middle school, where it belonged.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a stick in the mud, blondie.” A knowing smile tugged at the edges of Theo’s lips. He had called her bluff. She had gone along with the initial invitation to save face, but any second now, Summer was going to back out and prove once and for all that he had been right in his assumptions about her.

An eruption of laughter exploded to Theo’s left. The guy sitting next to summer, covered head to toe in aggressively colored spandex, leaned in so close Theo could smell the alcohol on his breath from where he was sitting. “God, you’re hilarious… and fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

Something twisted in Theo’s chest, something sharp and primal, simmering just below the surface as he cut an icy glare towards the 80s enthusiast that was chatting Summer up. Theo was vaguely aware that, to his right, Lacy had begun spinning the empty beer bottle, but his attention remained fixated on Summer, despite the fact that his eyes were elsewhere. He was acutely aware of the way Summer’s heart rate had spiked, her pulse thundering in his ears, reminding him of that doe they had almost crashed into on Silvercrest Highway.

"You know, I’d be flattered—if you didn’t smell like a frat house carpet after a homecoming game."

A sharp intake of breath. His eyes were fixed on the rotating bottle but his focus was on the interaction occurring to his left. “God, and you’re so soft.” Summer’s pulse thundered louder if that were even possible.

Leave it alone, Theo. She can take care of herself.

“Hey, that’s enough.” Summer’s voice was pleading, cautious. He resisted every urge he had to glance over in her direction. Refusing to let her know that he was paying attention. “Come on. Let go, please?”

Lacy’s bottle had landed on another girl across the circle from her with dark hair and green eyes. There were cackles and cat calls uttered from almost every male participant in the game except Theo. His teeth gritted against one another, his jaw flexing as he fought back a growl.

“Why are you acting shy now? Thought we were having fun.”

Something inside Theo snapped. In one swift motion he had reached across Summer’s lap, his hand closing around the squirming fingers of the 80s monstrosity. He squeezed, hard, harder than he should have. His eyes looked right past Summer with burning intensity, an unspoken warning but he was far past warnings now. The guy let out a yelp, “Hey man, what the fuck?” But Theo wouldn’t, couldn’t let up.

“She said let go.” He kept squeezing, harder and harder until he felt a crack, then as if broken from a trance, Theo released his grip. It was too late by then. Summer’s admirer had let loose a slew of profanities, all of which were directed at Theo, as he stumbled to his feet, clutching his right hand and howling in pain.

Without missing a beat, Theo rose to meet him. He dwarfed the other male by at least a foot, “Get out.” The two syllables left his lips without an inch of room for negotiation. Venom laced his words and his gaze cut sharp like daggers.

“What the fuck man! We were just fooling around. What the hell is your problem?” He was causing a scene, drawing attention from more than just the circle of spin the bottle participants. Theo didn’t budge, in fact, he took a step forward to ensure that he was heard.

“I said get out.”

80s guy looked around, suddenly aware of the multiple sets of eyes on him, and he hesitated, evidently weighing his options. He could either leave and tend to his broken hand, or risk agitating Theo even further with his protests. He chose the first option. “Fuck you.” he spat, before fleeing the room clutching his broken hand to his chest.

There was a beat, a moment of silence where the circle seemed unsure how to address what had just happened, and then a guy in the back right corner erupted into laughter. “What a dweeb.” A cacophony of giggles joined in agreement, the party resumed largely uninterrupted. A tension hovered between Theo and Summer as he gave her a once over, inspecting her for any damage but unwilling to breach the subject of what he had just done.

Instead, he reached for the bottle, taking his place beside her and handing it over to her with a casual smirk. “I think it’s your turn, blondie.”

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Helena Crayne
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Black Hollow Woods ~
outfit: here / mood: concerned ​

The doors to the study were shut and he was settled on the floor, not wanting to risk him falling in one of the chairs onto it. It was quieter, softer, Helena turned the lights off and was silent. Allowing him the space. But she didn't breathe. Not as she watched August struggle with his own. There was an unshakable tightness in her throat as she looked at him, curled up against the wall, knees drawn to his chest.

She focused on the sound of his heartbeat, tuning in with precision. It was erratic, unsteady, his breath continuing to struggle. She wanted to do something—anything—to help him, but the helplessness clawed at her. So instead, she stood still, unnervingly motionless in the dark, waiting.

Her own head still ached, though the pain was beginning to fade. And then—so did his breathing. It slowed, steadied. Relief washed over Helena, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Then August apologized and her eyes opened, in the dark, it was most likely difficult for him to see her eyes - the softness she had in her gaze when she looked upon him. But it was there.

"You have nothing to be sorry for.” Her voice gentle, sweet, "I’m just glad I could offer you a place of solitude.” Her steps were slow, deliberate, boots clicking against the hardwood as she crossed the room. When she reached him, she sank gracefully to the floor, kneeling before shifting onto her hip, tucking her legs beneath her—ever the lady. Then August pointed out her outfit. Helena kept her expression neutral despite the flicker of confusion. Grass? He pointed again—her hair. The twirls?

August normally didn’t confuse her with someone else. But had he thought a partygoer was her and was now wondering why she was wearing another outfit? "Did I at least look good in the twirls?” she asked, keeping her voice light, a small smile forming. But it faded as quickly as it came. Now that he was safe—now that his pain no longer fogged her mind—she could really see him.

He looked disheveled, as if he’d been dragged from bed not by choice, but by necessity. Even in the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the tall windows, his skin was pale, slick with sweat, his exhaustion seeping into the very air around him. August looked like…

Spoiler: Flashback: If you want to read!

​

~ Winter 1692 ~

"Please—if this is a matter of coin, I can get it!"

Helena’s voice was raw, cracked from illness, her breath shuddering as she fought to steady herself. "Whatever the amount is, I can get it, just… just…" Her hands trembled, her knees threatened to give beneath her. The world tilted, her fevered mind barely holding on, but none of it mattered. Not compared to him. The town doctor hesitated, pity softening his features, and the sight of it made her stomach churn. She knew that look. She had seen it three months ago when they lost their parents. She had seen it when there was no hope left.

"This isn’t a matter of price, Miss Crayne," he said gently. "There is nothing more I can do for the boy. The fever refuses to leave him. His body refuses to fight. There is nothing more to be done." Helena shook her head. Over and over, violently, as though the sheer force of her denial could change fate. But no words came—only hot, stinging tears, searing her fevered skin.

A light touch on her shoulder. A whisper of a hand, weightless yet heavy with finality.

"Be with him. Make him comfortable," the doctor murmured. "But remember, you are still ill yourself. I’ve left you more tonic on the table. God Bless you both." The door shut. The cottage felt smaller, emptier. The fire in the hearth was dying, its glow barely reaching the corners of the room. Cold crept in. Or perhaps it was already there, sinking into her bones, a chill that had nothing to do with winter.

A weak, wracking cough from the other room snapped her from her trance. Elias. Helena moved on instinct, feet unsteady but determined. She passed the table, ignored the tonic. There was no cure for this. She poured fresh water and rushed to his bedside, lifting his frail body just enough to help him drink. She didn’t breathe until he did.

His brown eyes found hers, dimmed with exhaustion, yet still holding the warmth that had always been there. A light flickering at the edges, struggling against the dark. Sweat slicked his forehead, tangling his soft curls. She smoothed them back, hands trembling as she wrung out a rag in cool water, pressing it gently to his burning skin.

"Lena?" His voice was so small.

"Yes, Li?"

"I’m not afraid to die."

Her breath hitched. She turned away, biting her lip until she tasted copper, willing the tears back. She had to be strong. Had to be his anchor. A deep breath—shallow, rattling in her aching lungs—before she turned back.

She climbed into bed beside him, gathering his frail body against her chest, cradling him as though she could shield him from what was coming. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the cool rag against his forehead. He was burning up, burning alive in her arms, and there was nothing—nothing—she could do. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. "You’re not dying."

Elias let out a breath that might have been a laugh, if he weren’t so weak. "You’re a terrible liar, Lena." His voice was so small now, almost lost in the crackling of the dying fire. "I know what waits for me. Mama and Papa." Helena squeezed her eyes shut as fresh tears fell, silent and unrelenting. She smoothed his curls back again, memorizing every little detail, every precious second she had left.

"Lena?"

"Yes, little love?"

"Tell me a story to fall asleep to?"

Helena's breath caught sharply, the ache settling like stone in her bones. Mother and Father had always chided her for filling his innocent mind with tales of heroes, villains, and distant, impossible dreams. But Elias, sweet Elias, was a dreamer—a soul too pure for a world that had shown him nothing but sorrow. In a world that gave him little kindness, she had always wanted him to hold his heart among the stars, even if they were fading around them. And soon, he would be with them. With a tremor of grief, she nodded, her voice breaking as it slipped from her lips, soft and fragile as she began, "O-once," She breathed, "there was a boy who carried the sun in his heart, even on the darkest of nights where the shadows whispered doubts, for he believed that with enough courage, he could chase the stars and turn the night into day."

​

Elias had drifted into sleep within her arms that night… and never woke to chase the dawn. The sun rose without him, painting the world in gold, while she remained in the quiet dark, holding only his absence.

The memory slipped through the cracks of her mind, unbidden, unwelcome. Helena drew her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying at it, likely smearing the red from her lips. She had buried that memory deep, locked it away where it could not touch her. But now, with the shadows no longer weaving through every corner of her mind, her defenses wavered, leaving her exposed. Running her tongue along her teeth, she cleared her throat, as if she could swallow the past and keep it buried.

August wasn’t dying. He was sick—clearly—but there was medicine now, doctors who could help. He could get better. He would get better.

"August?" Her voice cracked, splintering under the weight of dread. Her chest ached, too tight, as if unseen hands pressed against her ribs, stealing her breath. "You shouldn’t be here." The words came sharper than she intended, edged with fear, with frustration. He wasn’t helping himself. He wasn’t seeking help.

She wanted him here—more than he would ever know—but not at the cost of his health. Never that. And yet, now she could feel his pain. It thrummed through her like a heartbeat she didn’t possess. How that was possible, she didn’t dare ponder now. She reached for him, fingers grazing his arm, seeking his gaze. Compel him. The thought — her own thought — brushed against her mind, but something inside her recoiled. It would be a violation, a betrayal, even if it was for his own good.

When his eyes finally met hers, a quiet breath escaped her, heavy with a sorrow that felt too vast to carry. "It breaks me to see you like this," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the truth between them. One she struggled to understand. "I feel so useless, watching you drown in this silence, pretending you're fine. But you're not. You're not fine." Her words cracked, raw with frustration and helplessness. "Please, I need you to see a doctor." The plea left her like a tortured groan, even though the agony she had once felt through him had faded. Her own pain lingered, smoldering beneath her skin—quiet, but relentless—a fire she couldn’t extinguish, the ache she so desperately needed to speak, to name, to let him see. Could he understand what she was trying to say? Did she even understand?
with: SEE A DOCTOR Pyroclast

 

[Bellz]

Summer Calloway
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill~
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.° outfit:here/ mood: Too hot in here ⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.°​

Summer flinched as a hand swept across her lap, her pulse spiking—but it wasn’t reaching for her. No, Theo’s fingers locked around the hand of the man who had dared to touch her, his grip like iron. Her breath hitched, her head snapping up to look at Theo’s face. If looks could kill, the bastard beside her would’ve been nothing but a corpse on the floor.

Oh, God. He heard everything.

"Theo." Her voice came out in a breathless whisper, as if her lungs had just decided to peace out. But it was too late. The damage was done. A scream of pain ripped through the air, laced with a string of colorful profanities, but Summer barely registered it. No, her focus was entirely on Theo—on the way he radiated sheer, unfiltered dominance like some kind of avenging angel. Or maybe a demon. Either way, wow.

The temperature in the room shot up at least ten degrees as Theo stood, his command slicing through the tension like a knife. Get out. Oh, okay, so apparently, he was in charge of the entire room now? Maybe the world? Honestly, if he told her oxygen was optional in that tone, she might just stop breathing on instinct.

God. The power in that voice, the raw venom in his glare—was it weird that she kind of wanted to sit back and fan herself? Probably. The guy dressed like a neon sign—bless his deeply unfortunate decision-making skills—actually tried to defend himself. Summer turned her gaze on him, arching a brow as if to say, Really? Do I look like I was enjoying myself? Because no, sir, she did not.

She should probably feel worse about the fact that his hand was now cradled against his chest, very obviously broken. Instead, all she could think was, well, that’s what happens when you get handsy without an invitation, buddy. But Theo took a step forward, and oh no. Oh no no no. He was still in scary, protective, I-could-end-you mode, and it was doing things to her. Did he even realize how terrifyingly attractive he was like this? Probably not. And frankly, thank God, because if he did, she’d be in real trouble.

Her cheeks were entirely too hot. Definitely the alcohol. Yep. That was the only explanation. She was never drinking vodka again. 80s neon sign guy realized this was a battle he wouldn’t win. With two famous last words that Summer didn’t hear, he exited the room, cradling his broken hand like a newborn baby.

The room was still hot. The room was laughing about something, probably about something ridiculous, but Summer was too busy staring at the werewolf who’d casually broke a man’s hand like it was an overcooked breadstick for her. Breadsticks? Second time tonight she’s thought about those. Maybe she was just missing her brother’s cooking. Ew, no. Stop thinking about Tobin when you're literally burning from the inside out like this Summer.

Theo finally looked at her, scanning for injuries, and that deep, simmering warmth inside of her spread like a guilty pleasure romance novel. Neither of them acknowledged the fact that he’d just turned another man’s bones into abstract art on her behalf. Which was probably for the best because, frankly, why the fuck was she so into that? She needed to unpack that later. Preferably in the presence of a mental health professional.

He sat back down beside her. As if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Summer was experiencing a complete chemical imbalance. Every nerve ending in her body lit up like a Christmas tree, and—hold on, did he always smell like that? Did he smell like that in the car? Probably. She’d been too busy panicking at the time. But now… now he smelled like pine and something deeper. Something that made her brain go staticky.

"I think it’s your turn, blondie." Summer jumped at the sound of his rumbling voice, before his hands held a bottle in front of her face. And GOOD GOD, were his hands always that big? How typical Summer? Isn’t that how the fucking story goes? Oh my, what big hands you have? Or whatever it was to that effect.

I wouldn’t mind if he— NO!

"Huh?" She said, though she’d heard him, probably wearing the dumbest face imaginable. The bottle was still in front of her but her ocean blue eyes were inspecting his hand and fingers splayed over it like it held the secrets to the fucking universe. Those same hands that just broke another dude’s like it was nothing? What would they feel like if they wrapped around her—?

NOPE. STOP. ABORT MISSION. The warmth inside her spread traitorously, and she knew she had officially lost whatever battle was happening inside her own body. Then, Theo’s dark eyes met hers. A mistake. A huge mistake. Because now she couldn’t breathe. The room was stifling, unbearable, like the air had turned into a thick, invisible blanket she was suffocating under.

She needed to leave. Immediately. Preferably to a monastery. "Uh… air." What? That wasn’t a sentence! That wasn’t anything! "I need air," she clarified, stumbling to her feet like a newborn deer. Looking down at him, she tried again. "Thank you for your help." It came out breathless, but she meant it. And then she fled.
With: Theo WanderLust.

~ Backyard ~​

Summer burst into the backyard moments later, gulping in the cold night air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. Ironic, right? The distant throb of music and laughter from the house dulled as she moved further away, the warmth of the party replaced by something raw, something exposed. But she didn’t go into the trees. She wasn’t that stupid. The blondes never survive in the horror films. Instead, she pressed her back against the nearest trunk inside the yard, trying to slow her breath, trying to convince herself she wasn’t being watched.

Then—snap.

Summer went rigid. The sound came from the treeline, too deliberate to be an animal, too close to be nothing. She took a careful step back, her stomach twisting into knots. Then another. And backed straight into something solid. A muscled chest. A body. A strangled gasp tore from her lips as she spun around, only to find herself staring up at a man. He was tall—unnaturally so—and smiling down at her with a slow, knowing amusement. "What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone out here?” His voice was smooth, the kind of silk that wrapped around your throat and squeezed.

Summer swallowed, keeping her shoulders relaxed even as her pulse thundered. "Oh you know," She said lightly, fingers twitching anxiously. "Just…getting some air." Her head looked around him. He stood in her path of getting to the back door.

“Quite the party, isn’t it?” A second voice. This one behind her. Her heart stuttered as she turned, catching sight of the shorter one—lean, sharp-featured, his smile a cruel sliver of white in the dark. “Dangerous night for a girl like you,” he continued, tilting his head, his gaze slithering over her. “Wouldn’t want to get lost in those woods, now, would you?”

Summer’s lips pressed together. Red flags. The kind that screamed run.

“Air,” she repeated, keeping her voice level. “That’s all. And now, if you don’t mind—” She spun back toward the taller man, intending to slip past him, but he moved too—blocking her with a lazy ease that made her stomach twist.

“Where are you going?” His grin widened, showing just the barest hint of something too sharp. “It’s rude to leave without introducing yourself.”

Red. Fucking. Flags.

“You first.” Summer’s voice turned cold, defiant before trying to step around again only for the man to grab her by the throat. A steel grip clamped around her throat, crushing her breath into nothing. "Not so fast," he purred, tilting his head toward his companion. "We’re just getting started, aren’t we, Cal?" Summer’s nails dug into his hand, her vision swimming, panic scraping up her throat. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight, his grin splitting open with something cruel, something ancient. Vampires. The realization slammed into her, sending ice through her veins. Her abilities—at least the ones that mattered—didn’t work on them.

But her knee did.

She swung up hard, catching him in the groin. He snarled, his grip faltering just enough for her to suck in a desperate breath—then she was airborne. The ground rushed up to meet her. Pain exploded through her side as she hit the ground, nothing but moss and gravel to cushion her fall — the impact rattled her bones. Summer groaned, trying to scramble to her feet, her ribs screamed with each labored breath she managed. The scent of blood — her blood — tinged the air.

A hand wrenched her up by the throat again, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Leave me alone—!” The words choked out, strangled as his fingers tightened around her throat. She thrashed, wild and desperate, a predator backed into a corner. Her siren instincts surged, sharpening to a razor’s edge. Her eyes flared an eerie, bioluminescent blue. Under the moonlight, her skin shimmered, iridescent scales ghosting along her cheekbones and forearms. Her nails darkened, stretching into curved, black talons. A shudder rippled through her as her teeth elongated, a full set of shark like teeth filling her mouth. With a guttural snarl, she struck—her claws raking across his cheek, carving four deep lines into his flesh.

The vampire’s head jerked to the side. He hissed, a sharp, rattling sound. And she hissed back. His eyes flicked to black when he looked back at her.

Oh, shit.

Summer swiped again, clawing, kicking, thrashing—until he threw her to the ground like a WWE wrestling match her brothers would watch on TV. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She barely had time to process the pain before he was on her, pressing her down, his fingers digging into her flesh as he forced her head to the side. She could feel his breath on her throat.

Her claws sank into his arms, and she felt the wet heat of his blood drip onto her skin. Her chest, her face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t care. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it. Air. She’d just wanted air. Now, she couldn't even fucking breathe. This was a mistake. A stupid, fatal mistake. She should have just drowned in Theo West instead.

(She is totally not going to be a part of the sequel)