Maya Hart couldn't shake the weight of the severed finger. It sat in a small wooden box on the hotel dresser, a grotesque relic from the chaos of the masquerade attack, its jagged edge a silent accusation. Every time she glanced at it, her stomach twisted—rage, fear, and grief coiling tighter. The rogues were taunting her, daring her to act, and she was done waiting for answers to fall into her lap. The clue from the masquerade—13 Blood Lane—burned in her mind, but it wasn't enough. She needed more, something concrete to tie Vladislav's clan to Emily's murder. The Black Rose, a rogue hangout she'd heard whispers about since the attack at The Crimson Veil, seemed like the next step. If they were behind Emily's death, she'd find proof there.
Lucian Blackwood sprawled across the bed, his lean frame draped in shadow, watching her with those piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through her soul. "You're restless," he said, his voice a low rumble tinged with amusement. "Planning to storm the city single-handedly?"
She stopped pacing, hands on her hips, and met his gaze. "I'm going to The Black Rose. It's a bar—a rogue hangout. If they're tied to Emily's murder, I'll find something there."
His amusement evaporated, replaced by a scowl that deepened the lines of his ageless face. "That's a death wish, Maya. You're not ready for what's waiting in a place like that."
"Then come with me," she shot back, grabbing her leather jacket from the chair. "Or stay here and brood. Either way, I'm going."
She didn't wait for his response. The door slammed behind her, the echo chasing her down the stairwell. Her pulse raced, a cocktail of defiance and dread surging through her veins. She knew this was reckless—Lucian wasn't wrong—but the image of Emily's lifeless body, the sigil's cruel lines etched into her chest, burned behind her eyes. The severed finger was a threat, a promise of violence, and it pushed her forward. She had to know what it meant, why her sister had died.
The Black Rose crouched at the edge of Ebon City's industrial sprawl, a hulking shadow of a building with blackened windows and a neon sign that buzzed erratically, casting a sickly red glow. The air outside reeked of stale beer and decay, and the figures lurking near the entrance moved with the jittery grace of predators—eyes glinting, fangs barely concealed. Maya squared her shoulders, her hand brushing the knife tucked into her waistband, its weight a small comfort. She stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind her.
The interior was a cavern of gloom, dim lights swallowed by a haze of cigarette smoke and the tang of spilled liquor. Vampires and humans mingled in uneasy symbiosis, their laughter sharp and brittle, eyes tracking her every move. She scanned the room, searching for the sigil's familiar curves or the rogue she'd glimpsed at the masquerade. A hand clamped over her mouth, rough and cold, yanking her backward into the shadows. She kicked, her elbow driving into ribs, but a sharp prick stung her neck—a needle—and the world melted into darkness.
Consciousness returned in jagged shards. Maya's head throbbed, her wrists ached where coarse ropes dug into her skin, and the air was damp and heavy with the scent of mold. She blinked, her vision clearing to reveal a cavernous space—stone walls slick with moisture, a single bulb swinging overhead, casting long, flickering shadows. She was tied to a chair, arms pinned behind her, the hemp biting deep enough to draw blood. Panic surged, but she forced it down, focusing on the figure stepping into the light.
Seraphine, the rogue leader, was a vision of lethal beauty—silver hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes black as midnight, lips curved in a smile that promised pain. She moved with a predator's elegance, her presence filling the room like a storm. "So, you're the mortal who's been sniffing around," Seraphine said, her voice a silken blade. She circled Maya, fingers brushing her jaw with icy precision. "Emily's sister, hmm? She had that same fire. Right until I snuffed it out."
Maya's stomach twisted, rage flaring hot and bright. "What do you know about her?" she spat, straining against the ropes.
Seraphine laughed, a sound that scraped like nails on stone. "She knew too much. About the sigil, about what it can do. She thought she could stop us." Her hand slid down Maya's throat, nails grazing her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "You, though… you might still serve a purpose."
"I'm not telling you shit," Maya growled, jerking away.
Seraphine's smile widened, predatory and cruel. "Oh, you will."
She stepped back, retrieving a leather whip from a table cluttered with blades and tools. The first strike lashed across Maya's back, tearing through her shirt and igniting a line of searing pain. She clenched her teeth, swallowing a scream, but the second blow landed harder, splitting skin, and blood trickled warm down her spine. The third came fast, a vicious snap that stole her breath, her vision swimming with white-hot agony. Each lash felt like fire, but she bit her lip until it bled, refusing to give Seraphine the satisfaction of her screams.
"Impressive," Seraphine purred, discarding the whip for a knife. She dragged the blade across Maya's thigh, slicing through denim and flesh in one smooth motion. Blood welled, soaking into the fabric, and Maya hissed, tears stinging her eyes. "I was once human, ya know, like you, until Vladislav turned me. Now, I'll burn this city to the fucking ground for him."
Seraphine's hand slipped between Maya's legs, fingers invasive and rough, pressing hard enough to bruise. Maya's body bucked, a choked gasp escaping her lips. "Stop," she rasped, voice breaking.
"Tell me what you know," Seraphine demanded, her touch turning punishing. "About the sigil. About Lucian."
Maya glared through the pain, defiance blazing. "Burn in hell."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed, and she sank her fangs into Maya's shoulder, the bite deep and brutal. Blood poured, soaking her shirt, and Maya screamed, the sound tearing from her throat. But amid the torment, Seraphine's voice slithered into her ear: "Emily uncovered our ritual—the sigil's power to bind souls, to command life and death itself. She died for it. And you'll join her."
The words hit like a sledgehammer. Emily had died because she'd found the key to the rogues' plan—a ritual tied to the sigil, something apocalyptic. Maya's resolve hardened. She had to survive this.
A thunderous crash shattered the silence, the warehouse door splintering inward. Lucian burst through, a tempest of rage and violence. He tore into the rogues guarding her, claws slashing throats, snapping spines with savage precision. Blood sprayed, thick and coppery, coating the walls as he carved a path to her, his eyes blazing with fury.
Seraphine released Maya, lunging at Lucian with a feral hiss. They collided in a blur of fangs and fury, but Lucian was unstoppable. He pinned her against the wall, stone cracking under the force, and sank his teeth into her neck. "For her," he snarled, draining her until her body went limp, crumpling to the floor.
He turned to Maya, chest heaving, face streaked with blood. "Are you okay?"
She nodded weakly, pain throbbing through her. He cut her free, catching her as she stumbled, and she clung to him, her strength fading. They fought their way out, Maya snatching a blade from a fallen rogue and driving it into another's chest. Her eyes caught a new symbol tattooed on the rogue's arm—a twisted variation of the sigil, unfamiliar and ominous, its lines sharper, darker. Another thread in the mystery.
They staggered into the night, the warehouse a graveyard behind them. The city's streets whispered of ancient pacts, vampire covens warring for centuries. Maya wondered if they'd ever find allies in this endless night. Lucian half-carried her back to the hotel, his arm steady around her waist.
In their room, Lucian peeled away her ruined clothes, his hands steady but gentle. He cleaned her wounds with a damp cloth, his jaw tight as he traced the whip marks and the gash on her thigh. "You're a damn fool," he muttered, wrapping a bandage around her leg. "You could've died."
"I had to," she whispered, wincing as he worked. "For Emily. For the truth."
He paused, his hand resting on her cheek, thumb brushing away a smear of blood. "You're too brave for your own good, Maya Hart. Too stubborn." His voice softened, raw. "I can't lose you."
She leaned into his touch, their lips meeting in a kiss that was soft, fragile—a lifeline after the storm. It deepened, her hands tugging at his shirt, needing the heat of his skin against hers. He obliged, shedding his clothes, and laid her back on the bed, his mouth mapping her body with reverent kisses—her throat, her breasts, the sensitive skin below her navel.
His tongue found her clit, teasing with slow, deliberate strokes, and she arched, a moan spilling free. He took his time, coaxing her to the edge with a tenderness that unraveled her. When he slid inside her, it was gentle, their bodies rocking together in a rhythm of trust and need. She gripped his shoulders, nails biting into muscle, her climax cresting like a quiet wave. He followed, a shudder running through him, and they collapsed, tangled and breathless.
In the stillness, Maya traced his jaw, her voice steady despite the exhaustion. "There was a new symbol on one of them. Different from the sigil, but connected. It's part of this—whatever they're planning."
Lucian's expression darkened, resolute. "We'll find out what it means. Together."
She nestled against him, his heartbeat a steady anchor. The fight wasn't over, Seraphine's words and the new symbol loomed like shadows on the horizon, but with Lucian beside her, she'd face it all. For Emily. For justice.