Trisha knew the moment the world stilled around her—
this was not the same place.
The air felt different.
Heavier.
Older.
When Rowan had taken her to the penthouse before, it had felt controlled. Modern. Like a space built to fit into the world she understood.
This—
This did not belong to her world at all.
The D'Arcy mansion rose around her in silence, vast and unmoving, its presence pressing in from every direction. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, shadows pooling in the corners like they had nowhere else to go.
Like they had always been here.
Waiting.
The massive doors shut behind her with a deep, echoing sound that vibrated through the marble beneath her feet.
Trisha flinched.
"You brought me somewhere else."
Rowan didn't turn.
"This is my home."
The way he said it made something in her chest tighten.
Not temporary.
Not optional.
His.
Her gaze moved slowly across the grand staircase, the dim golden light, the stillness that seemed too complete to be natural.
"I'm not staying here."
The words came automatically.
A reflex.
A grasp at something normal.
"You are."
" We are."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
Trisha turned sharply, anger rising fast and hot.
"No, I'm not."
Now he faced her.
And the moment his eyes met hers—
the air shifted.
Sharp.
Cold.
Certain.
"You don't understand the position you're in," he said.
"And you don't understand mine," she shot back. "I have a life outside of this. Outside of you."
"Had."
The correction landed like a slap.
Her breath caught.
"I have college, Rowan," she continued, her voice tightening. "Classes. Exams. People who will notice when I just disappear. I can't just vanish into your—your whatever this is—and pretend it's okay."
"Your life nearly got you killed tonight."
"Because of you!"
The words cracked through the silence.
For a moment—
nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Rowan went very still.
"You think I don't know that?" he said quietly.
The calm in his voice was worse than anger.
"I think you don't care what I wanted," she fired back.
This time, she saw it.
A flicker.
Gone almost instantly.
But real.
Her chest tightened.
Good.
Let him feel it.
"I'm going back," she said, turning toward the doors. "I'll figure this out myself—"
"Trisha."
She didn't stop.
Took a step.
Then another.
"You won't make it past the gates."
She froze.
Slowly—
turned back.
Rowan hadn't moved.
But something about him had shifted.
Not visibly.
But undeniably.
Power coiled beneath his stillness.
Unquestionable.
Her pulse quickened.
"I can't stay here," she said again, softer now. "I can't be locked away like this."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
"I'll consider an arrangement."
The words caught her off guard.
"What?"
"You don't leave alone," he said. "You don't go anywhere unprotected. If you return to college—it will be controlled."
Controlled.
The word settled heavily.
"You'll let me go?" she asked.
"I'll allow it."
"It is for your own safety."
Not freedom.
Not permission.
Allowance.
It irritated her more than it should have.
But it was something.
"Who was he?" she asked suddenly. "The one who came after me."
Rowan's expression shifted.
Subtle.
But darker.
"I had never seen him before. He wasn't from my clan."
"So… who was he?"
"He belonged to the Blackwood clan— perhaps working for Lucien Blackwood."
"Lucien Blackwood."
The name felt wrong in the air.
Heavy.
Ancient.
"Who is he?"
"Lucien is the head of the Blackwood clan, ourRival Clan ," Rowan said. "Old enough to remember a time when our kind didn't bother hiding. A time when our clans ruled the world."
A chill ran through her.
"And he came for me."
"Yes."
"Because of the mark?"
Rowan's gaze locked onto hers.
"Because of what the mark makes you."
Her stomach twisted.
"And what is that?"
The pain hit before he could answer.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Her breath caught as heat flared beneath her collarbone, spreading outward like fire under her skin.
"Ah—"
Her hand flew to the mark instinctively.
It pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Stronger.
Not just pain—
Pulling.
Calling.
"Rowan—"
He was in front of her instantly.
His hand closed around her wrist, steadying her as her balance faltered.
"Don't move."
The command wrapped around her, grounding and overwhelming at the same time.
"What is happening—"
His fingers hovered near her collarbone.
Then—
touched.
Everything exploded.
Heat surged through her, flooding her senses, her chest, her thoughts—dragging her into something she couldn't control.
Him.
Trisha gasped, her fingers tightening around his arm.
Her body reacted before she could stop it.
Before she could think.
"Focus," he said, his voice tighter now.
But she could feel it—
through the bond.
His restraint.
His control.
And something darker beneath it.
Something that made her breath catch.
"You feel that?" he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered.
"That's the bond stabilizing."
"It doesn't feel stable."
"No," he said quietly. "It feels alive."
The heat coiled deeper, pulling her closer without permission.
Her pulse raced.
Her thoughts blurred.
"I hate this," she said.
"No," he replied softly.
"You fear it. You think it would control you."
Her grip tightened.
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"No."
The word was certain.
Final.
The mark pulsed again—stronger—and she leaned toward him instinctively.
Their faces close.
Too close.
His breath brushed her skin.
Cold.
Steady.
Her heart pounded in contrast.
For a moment—
everything stilled.
Then—
Rowan stepped back.
Breaking it.
Deliberately.
Like he had to.
The heat receded slowly, leaving her unsteady.
Aware.
Too aware.
"I need space," she muttered, turning away before he could respond.
She walked.
Faster this time.
Deeper into the mansion.
The corridors stretched endlessly, dimly lit, lined with doors that all looked the same.
Closed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Her breathing was still uneven as she turned a corner—
and slowed.
This part of the mansion felt different.
Quieter.
More… personal.
At the end of the hallway—
a door slightly ajar.
She hesitated.
Then pushed it open.
The room inside wasn't grand like the others.
It was quieter.
Intimate.
A study.
Or something like it.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that looked far too old to belong anywhere in the modern world.
A large desk stood near the window.
But that wasn't what caught her attention.
It was the walls.
Trisha stepped in slowly.
Frowning.
At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at.
Sketches.
Dozens of them.
Pinned.
Stacked.
Leaning against the walls.
Her gaze moved to the nearest one.
A woman.
Drawn in charcoal.
Soft lines.
Delicate shading.
Something about it—
felt familiar.
She stepped closer.
Studied it.
Her brows pulled together.
"That looks like…"
She stopped herself.
Shook her head slightly.
No.
It was just—
similar.
That was all.
Her gaze shifted.
Another sketch.
Same woman.
Different angle.
Different expression.
This one looked… sad.
A faint crease between her brows.
Trisha's stomach tightened.
She moved to the next.
And the next.
Her steps slowed.
Her breathing did too.
Because now—
there was no denying it.
They were all the same woman.
The same face.
The same features.
Her features.
"No…"
She turned slowly.
And that was when she saw all of them.
The entire room.
Covered.
Sketches pinned across the walls.
Stacked on the desk.
Leaning against furniture.
Different poses.
Different expressions.
Laughing.
Crying.
Angry.
Distant.
Alive.
Her.
All of them were her.
Her heart started pounding.
"This isn't—"
Her hand trembled as she reached for one.
Lifting it carefully.
Her eyes dropped to the corner.
Where a date was written.
Her breath caught.
Old.
Too old.
She grabbed another.
Checked it.
Older.
Another—
Even older.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she flipped through more, her movements faster now.
Desperate.
Searching for something that made sense.
Something that didn't feel impossible.
But every single one—
Had a date.
And every date—
Went further back.
Years.
Decades.
Centuries.
Her hands shook.
"This isn't possible…"
One sketch slipped from her fingers, falling softly to the floor.
She didn't pick it up.
Couldn't.
Because one date—
one date—
stood out.
Clear.
Unmistakable.
Over five hundred years old.
Her breath hitched sharply.
"No…"
"You weren't supposed to see these."
The voice came from the doorway.
Low.
Controlled.
Too calm.
Trisha turned slowly.
Rowan stood there.
Watching her.
Not shocked.
Not angry.
Something worse.
Like he had always known this moment would come.
Her voice trembled.
"Why…"
She swallowed hard.
Her chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Why do they all look like me?"
Silence stretched.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Rowan stepped inside.
Slow.
Measured.
His gaze never leaving her.
And when he finally spoke—
his voice was quieter than she had ever heard it.
"Because," he said,
"they are you."