"You're lying."
The words came out quieter than Trisha intended.
Not strong.
Not convincing.
Because even as she said them—
something inside her twisted.
Not denial.
Recognition.
Rowan didn't respond immediately.
He stood a few steps away from her, shadows clinging to him like they belonged there, his expression unreadable—but not unaffected.
That was the worst part.
He didn't look surprised.
He didn't look confused.
He looked like a man who had been waiting for this exact moment for a very long time.
"For someone who doesn't believe me," he said finally, voice low, controlled, "you're shaking."
Trisha hadn't realized it.
Her fingers trembled slightly where they hung at her sides.
She curled them into fists.
"I'm not shaking because I believe you," she snapped. "I'm shaking because this is insane."
Her gaze darted to the walls again.
To the sketches.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Her face.
Her expressions.
Her—life—captured in moments she had never lived.
Her chest tightened.
"No one just—dreams a person for centuries," she continued, her voice rising. "No one draws the same face over and over and somehow it ends up being real. That's not fate, Rowan—that's obsession."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
"Careful," he murmured.
But she didn't stop.
Couldn't.
"Maybe you saw someone who looked like me once," she pushed, words tumbling now, desperate for logic, for something normal. "Maybe your mind just filled in the rest. People do that. They imagine things, they—"
"I know the difference between imagination and memory."
That stopped her.
The quiet certainty in his voice cut through her words like a blade.
Trisha's breath hitched.
"No," she said again, softer now. "No, you don't get to say that like it makes sense. You don't get to stand there and tell me you've known me for centuries when I didn't even know you existed a few days ago."
"I didn't know you," Rowan said.
He took a step closer.
Slow.
Measured.
"But I knew you."
The distinction sent a chill down her spine.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything."
Another step.
Too close now.
Her pulse jumped.
"You think I wanted this?" he continued, his voice lower, rougher at the edges now. "You think I chose to see the same face every night for years—decades—centuries?"
Trisha swallowed hard.
"You could have ignored it."
A humorless sound left him.
"I tried."
For a moment—
just a moment—
something cracked.
Not fully.
Not visibly.
But enough.
Enough for her to see it.
"I tried to forget you," he said quietly. "I tried to convince myself you weren't real. That it was just… some trick of the mind."
His gaze lifted back to hers.
Dark.
Heavy.
"But you never changed."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"In every dream," he said, "you were the same."
A pause.
"Same eyes. Same expressions. Same… defiance."
Something in her chest tightened.
"I would wake up," he continued, "and I would draw you before I forgot."
Her eyes flickered toward the sketches again.
"They're not perfect," he added. "Not always. Sometimes I got the details wrong. Sometimes I couldn't remember your face clearly enough."
His voice dropped.
"But I always remembered how you made me feel."
The air shifted.
Thicker.
Too heavy.
"That doesn't mean I'm supposed to be here," she whispered.
Rowan's gaze didn't waver.
"It means you were always meant to be. Maybe not in these circumstances. But you were always meant to be."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because a part of her—
a small, traitorous part—
wanted to believe them.
The mark burned.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Trisha gasped, her hand flying to her collarbone as heat surged beneath her skin, spreading fast—too fast.
"Not again—"
Her knees weakened.
Rowan was in front of her instantly.
His hand closed around her wrist, steadying her before she could fall.
"Focus."
His voice was tighter now.
Controlled—but strained.
"It hurts—"
"I know."
His fingers hovered near the mark.
Hesitated.
Then touched.
The world tilted.
Heat exploded through her, flooding her veins, her chest, her thoughts—pulling her somewhere she couldn't see but could feel.
Him.
It was him.
His presence wrapped around her, inside her, through her—too close, too much, too overwhelming.
Trisha's grip tightened on his arm.
"Stop—"
"I'm not doing this," he said, but his voice was lower now, rougher. "You are."
"I don't know how—"
"Then learn."
The mark pulsed again.
Stronger.
And suddenly—
she wasn't just feeling.
She was seeing.
A room.
Dark.
Silent.
Walls covered in sketches.
The same ones.
Him—
standing in the center.
Alone.
Painting.
Again.
And again.
And again—
Her breath hitched sharply as the vision snapped.
Trisha staggered, her grip tightening painfully around Rowan's sleeve.
"I saw—"
"I know."
His hand tightened around hers.
Too tight.
"You're not supposed to- "
A sharp knock echoed through the hallway.
Both of them stilled.
The moment shattered.
Rowan's expression changed instantly.
The softness—gone.
The tension—hidden.
What remained—
was control.
Absolute.
The door opened before either of them spoke.
Footsteps approached.
Fast.
Measured.
A group of guards appeared at the entrance, their movements precise, their presence heavy.
They didn't look at Trisha.
They didn't hesitate.
They bowed.
Deeply.
"To you, my lord," one of them said, stepping forward before leaning closer, whispering something into Rowan's ear.
Trisha couldn't hear the words.
But she saw the effect.
Rowan's expression didn't change much.
But something in his eyes darkened.
Sharpened.
"Is she alone?" he asked.
"Yes."
A pause.
Then—
"Bring her."
The command was quiet.
Absolute.
Something cold slid down Trisha's spine.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
"Who—"
The sound of heels stopped her.
Slow.
Measured.
Familiar.
Her breath hitched.
No.
No, it couldn't—
The figure appeared in the doorway.
And this time—
there was no confusion.
Trisha knew her.
Instantly.
Her chest tightened sharply.
"You."
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Seraphina didn't react to the tone.
Didn't react to the accusation beneath it.
She stepped inside like she belonged there.
Like she always had.
Black draped over her like shadow, her posture flawless, her expression calm—
too calm.
Her gaze went to Rowan first.
Of course it did.
And for a brief moment—
something unspoken passed between them.
Familiar.
Intimate.
Too familiar.
Trisha's stomach twisted.
Then—
Seraphina's eyes shifted.
Landed on her.
And stayed there.
This time, there was no politeness.
No performance.
Just assessment.
Sharp.
Knowing.
Her lips curved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
"So," she said softly,
"you didn't listen."
The words were directed at Rowan.
But her eyes never left Trisha.
Heat rose in Trisha's chest—anger, sharp and immediate.
"You knew?" she demanded. "You knew about this?"
Seraphina tilted her head slightly.
Studying her.
"I warned you," she said.
Calm.
Unbothered.
"At the party."
The memory hit instantly.
The music.
The crowd.
Her voice—
Choose what world you want.
Trisha's breath tightened.
"You knew this would happen," she pressed.
Seraphina didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she stepped closer.
Unhurried.
Each step deliberate.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"You were never supposed to be this involved," she said quietly.
Trisha frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Seraphina stopped just a few feet away.
Close enough now that Trisha could see every detail.
Every flicker in her expression.
Her gaze dropped briefly—
to the mark.
And this time—
she didn't hide it.
The reaction.
Sharp.
Real.
A crack in her composure.
"That's…" she murmured.
Then exhaled softly.
Something between disbelief and inevitability.
Rowan's voice cut in, low.
"Seraphina."
A warning.
Subtle.
But there.
Her eyes lifted back to his.
And whatever passed between them this time—
wasn't soft.
It was tense.
"You actually did it," she said.
Not accusing.
Not shocked.
Just… confirming.
Rowan didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Her gaze flickered back to Trisha.
Slower now.
More deliberate.
"He marked you," she said.
Trisha's chest tightened.
"I didn't exactly sign up for it."
A faint smile touched Seraphina's lips.
"This is bigger than what you signed up for."
"I figured that out," Trisha shot back.
Seraphina studied her for a long second.
Then—
"You still don't understand," she said.
Frustration snapped.
"Then explain it."
A pause.
Seraphina's expression didn't change.
"No."
The word landed harder than expected.
Final.
Controlled.
Infuriating.
Trisha took a step forward.
"Stop talking like I'm not in the room—"
"She's not ready."
The words weren't for her.
They were for Rowan.
And something about that—
about being dismissed like that—
made something hot and sharp rise in Trisha's chest.
"I'm standing right here," she said, her voice cutting.
Seraphina finally looked at her fully.
And this time—
there was something else there.
Not just control.
Not just assessment.
Something darker.
"You're standing in a world you don't understand," she replied calmly.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Tight.
Then—
her gaze dropped again.
To the mark.
Longer this time.
More focused.
And when she spoke again—
her voice was quieter.
Different.
"You shouldn't have brought her here."
Rowan's expression hardened instantly.
"I didn't bring her."
A beat.
Then, colder—
"She was always going to come."
Seraphina held his gaze.
Something unreadable passing between them.
Then—
"We don't have time for this."
Trisha's pulse spiked.
"What do you mean—"
"He's moving."
The words cut through everything.
Rowan went still.
Completely.
The shift was immediate.
Dangerous.
"Already?" he asked.
Seraphina nodded once.
"Faster than expected."
Trisha's stomach dropped.
"Who?" she demanded.
But even as she asked—
she knew.
She felt it.
In the mark.
In the air.
In the way Rowan turned toward her.
His gaze locking onto hers.
Dark.
Certain.
Possessive.
"Lucien," he said quietly.
The name settled like a storm.
And Seraphina's next words sealed it.
"He knows," she said.
A pause.
Her eyes flicked once more to Trisha.
Cold.
Certain.
"You found her."