The air in the dungeon felt heavier than stone, damp and oppressive as if the very walls were weeping with the weight of all the broken souls who had once occupied this place. The torchlight along the corridor flickered against the cold stone, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to dance in cruel mockery of her shame. Caralee stood rooted to the spot, her body trembling from the strain of willpower alone. The metallic tang of blood still clung to the back of her throat, burning like acid, reminding her of the terrible line she had nearly crossed.
Slowly, as if moving through molasses, she turned on shaking legs.
And there he was.
Merrick.
His towering frame stood mere feet behind her in the dim corridor. No sound had warned of his arrival, but she felt it—felt him— as if the air itself had shifted. His presence pressed against her like a vice, leaving her no room to breathe. His face, usually carved from the finest stone, a masterpiece of restrained power and icy composure, now trembled with something far more devastating than anger.
It was pain.
Shattered, raw, unmasked pain.
And betrayal.
How long had he been standing there? How long had he watched from the shadows, unseen? The thought turned her stomach. His chest rose and fell heavily, the flickering torchlight casting cruel angles across his chiseled features. His lips were parted slightly, as if words had formed on them but never found the strength to be spoken. His expression—Gods help her—his expression was not the fiery rage she had braced herself for.
It was heartbreak.
The moment splintered her from the inside out. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled where she stood, clutching her arms around herself as though she could somehow hold together the pieces of her breaking soul. Tears streamed freely, hot and blinding, as her body shook with quiet sobs she could no longer control.
"Please," she choked out, her voice fracturing like glass, thick with despair. Her fangs ached, fully exposed, betraying the monstrous hunger she had barely managed to suppress. "Please— I do not wish to harm him— I—"
She couldn't finish.
The words disintegrated in her throat, strangled by a fresh wave of shame.
But Merrick— he said nothing.
Not a word.
Not a syllable.
He simply moved.
With supernatural speed and unnerving silence, he was there. Before she could even think to recoil, his arms enveloped her, wrapping her trembling form in his embrace. It wasn't rough or punishing as she'd feared. No, it was devastatingly tender. His cloak, soft and scented faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely him, billowed around them as he turned—turning her away from the cell, away from Donovan's pale, wide-eyed horror.
Caralee clung to him instinctively, pressing her face into the velvet-clad breadth of his chest as more sobs tore from her throat, silent but violent, shaking her to her very bones.
He said nothing still.
He didn't have to.
His hold, the way he carried her as though she were the most fragile thing in existence, spoke louder than any words could. His hands trembled ever so slightly against her back, betraying that his composure was an illusion. He was breaking too. She felt it in every shuddering breath he dared to draw.
And Gods forgive her, she let him carry her.
Because in his arms— she felt safe.
It stunned her, startled her to her core. She had expected to feel guilt, rage, terror—anything but this fragile, traitorous sense of peace. And that realization crushed what little resistance she had left. Being in Donovan's arms had brought her no comfort. It had only brought guilt and fear—fear of what she was, of what she had become. But here, wrapped in Merrick's strength, surrounded by his scent, feeling his muscles thundering in his body— she felt as though the world itself could collapse around them and she would still be safe.
The truth hit her like a blade to the gut.
She hadn't come to save Donovan.
No.
She had come to destroy him.
Not with malice. Not with intent. But that had been the inevitable end of this fool's errand. She had brought ruin to the boy she once believed she could love. She had proven that she was the true danger now—not only to him, but to herself, to Merrick, to every fragile human life she had once only ever wished to protect. She had crossed a threshold she could never uncross.
And she hated herself for it.
When Merrick finally stopped walking, she didn't dare open her eyes. She buried her face deeper into him, clutching at his collar with trembling fingers. She didn't want to see the disappointment in his gaze. She didn't think she could survive it.
But Merrick— he only held her tighter.
His hand came to rest on the crown of her head, stroking her hair with such aching tenderness that it broke her all over again. A sob tore from her throat, ragged and raw, as she turned her face toward him. Yet, still— she could not meet his eyes.
"Cara," he breathed softly.
She flinched at the sound of her name.
"Caralee," he whispered again, this time with more urgency, more need.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, hot tears burning trails down her cheeks. But he didn't let her hide. His cool fingers gently curled beneath her chin, lifting her face with infinite care.
"Look at me, my sweet."
The endearment, so soft, so broken, unraveled what was left of her defenses.
Taking a shuddering breath, she finally forced her eyes open.
And what she saw there— shattered her completely.
Merrick's face, once so impenetrable, was now a canvas of torment. His icy eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears he would never dare allow to fall. His jaw trembled ever so slightly as though holding back the full force of his grief. There was no hatred in his gaze—only a deep, soul-crushing sorrow.
And she had put it there.
She sobbed soundlessly, her body shaking as she tried to apologize without words. But what words could ever mend this? What apology could ever erase the betrayal?
Merrick finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of emotion.
"What you did today was very dangerous, Cara," he murmured, tightening his hold around her as though afraid she might dissolve into nothing. "Your hunger— it is not yet under your control."
She let out a broken whimper, nodding as more tears streamed down her face.
But Merrick wasn't finished.
"You did well— to pull yourself away," he whispered, stroking her trembling cheek with the back of his hand. "You have a will stronger than I ever imagined. Stronger than I prepared you for." His voice caught in his throat, heavy with something close to guilt. "Most fledglings— they lose themselves. They slaughter without meaning to. Yet you— you stopped yourself."
His praise—gentle, sincere—only made her sob harder.
He tilted her face again, searching her expression as if memorizing every inch of her, as if terrified she might vanish from his arms.
"You are still you, Caralee," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her damp forehead. "You are not lost to me."
She clung to him desperately, burying herself in his chest again, but Merrick shifted then, gently lifting her off his lap and setting her down on the bed. His movements were swift, purposeful, as he strode to the door and cracked it open just enough to speak to someone she couldn't see.
Her heart clenched in her throat.
Was he summoning the guards? Was this the moment he would finally cast her aside as ruined, or dangerous? Her mind spiraled, dragging her into darker and darker fears with every minute. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly on the edge of the bed, waiting for the inevitable punishment.
Merrick shut the door and began pacing, his jaw clenched, and his brow furrowed. She could feel the tension radiating from him like a storm brewing on the horizon.
Then— a knock.
Her stomach dropped.
"Come in," Merrick commanded, his voice low but steady.
Caralee held her breath.
The door creaked open, and Merrick moved to greet the guest, his towering, broad shouldered frame blocked her view, shielding whoever had entered. But she didn't need to see. She already knew.
She could smell him.
Her body locked in place, blood turning to ice as realization struck her like lightning.
Renauld.
No.
What was he doing here? Why had Merrick summoned him? Was this some cruel punishment? Had she and the dashing feeder committed some transgression? The very scent of him made her hunger stir again, made her throat burn anew with an unholy thirst. Panic surged through her veins like poison.
She wanted to scream.
And yet— she didn't.
Because if Merrick had summoned Renauld, then she feared something far more dangerous than just punishment was at play.
And Caralee was sure that she was about to learn exactly what that was.