"Tarquin," Marcel greeted.

The man made his way down the stairs and I examined him. Firstly, he was tall—taller than I was at 5'10 anyway. He had long, flowery, dark hair but that seemed to be the only remotely "soft" thing about him. His body was made up of jagged, harsh lines and it was clear to me he worked out.

"Who is this?" The man, Tarquin, asked again.

"Someone I'm helping," Marcel answered, shooting him a look.

Tarquin tilted his head, hair falling into his face slightly. "He isn't—"

"—Corbin, this is my youngest brother," Marcel cut him off. "He's a pixie."

I blinked. "I always thought pixies were supposed to be...tiny."

The word slipped out before I could stop it, and I immediately felt stupid.

Tarquin scoffed as though I'd offended him, seemingly done with the conversation.

"Most pixies you'll see around here are small—not nearly as small as the average human is led to believe, but short nonetheless. Tarquin's always been a bit of an anomaly in that sense," Marcel added casually, like that explained everything, though it didn't.

I blinked, trying to process. He was maybe five feet tall? Six? Hard to tell with the angle and the hair. And...a pixie? My brain immediately tried to reconcile that with what I thought I knew about the supernatural world—tiny, winged, glittery little things. Not exactly what I was seeing.

Here's the other thing about me: my brain likes to short‑circuit at the worst possible times. When faced with a huge, scary, obvious danger, it just spits out the dumbest possible response.

Like now.

Because Tarquin—this so‑called pixie—was glaring at me like I'd just kicked his dog, and my mouth, completely unsupervised, decided to keep going.

"So, uh...do you, like...have wings?"

The room went silent beside the low sound of Marcel's sigh. Tarquin just stared at me like I was scum underneath his shoe.

"You think I'd show them to you?" he asked with feigned softness. His voice had a kind of lilt to it—faintly melodic.

"Uh." My fingers tightened around the glass of water. "No. Obviously. Dumb question. Forget I asked."

Tarquin's eyes glinted in the firelight—molten for an instant, then gold again. He turned to Marcel as if I weren't even there and said, "You need to stop bringing strays home. I never like them and they always stink. He smells like blood and cheap vodka."

I nearly choked on the sip of water I'd been swallowing. "Excuse me?"

"That's a fair assessment," Marcel agreed because clearly manners were not a thing here and my dignity didn't matter in the slightest. "Let me see your wounds. You have a small cut on your arm."

I glanced down at my forearm and, sure enough, there was a thin red line I hadn't noticed before, right above my wrist, crusted with dried blood. Must've been from when I'd grabbed the cage bars. I hadn't even felt it until now.

"I—okay. Yeah." I set the glass down before I dropped it. My hands were still trembling.

Tarquin leaned on the banister, studying me like he was cataloguing a specimen. "You brought a drunk, bleeding human into the house. Severin's going to love this."

"Severin's asleep," Marcel said. "And if he isn't, he knows better than to come down until I've handled it."

Something about the way he said handled it made me swallow hard.

"Relax," Marcel added, his tone softening slightly as his gaze flicked back to me. "You're not in trouble."

"Uh...okay," I managed, my voice squeaky even to my own ears. "Thanks...for the water."

Marcel inclined his head, not taking his eyes off me. "I'll get something to clean your arm. Sit still."

I did as he said, sitting stiffly on the couch, trying not to knock anything over. Tarquin was still there, leaning, watching.

"Where did my brother find you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry again. "Uh...alley. Downtown. Someone grabbed me...tried to—uh—" I trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward my arm and the remnants of bruises forming along my collarbone. "It's...complicated."

Getting kidnapped had already been bad enough. Getting mugged by creatures I hadn't even fully processed existed was the cherry on top of it all. It wasn't like I had anything worth taking on me, anyway. Everything I had was either home or lost when I was snatched leaving the club. Didn't stop them from trying to find something though.

Tarquin's golden eyes narrowed. "Complicated is human for 'you're an idiot who wandered into trouble,'" he said, and I had the distinct impression that I couldn't argue.

Marcel crouched beside me, cloth in hand, and started cleaning the cut with clinical precision. "He's been through enough tonight," Marcel scolded. "You don't need to interrogate him."

Tarquin rolled his eyes. "He's staying in the west wing with you. I don't want him in the east and I'm sure Octavian and Severin won't be thrilled at the prospect of sharing their space either."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your concern, Tarquin. I'm aware of my own house."

Tarquin scoffed and finally stalked back up the stairs, still muttering under his breath. I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. That had been...intense.

"Is he always like that?" I asked once I was sure he was gone.

"Suspicious? A little rude? Blunt?"

"...yes," I agreed.

"More or less. He doesn't like new people, but that's a common trait amongst pixies. They're very protective of their own. It's a workout in itself to it's a workout in itself to earn their trust and respect," Marcel finished, dabbing the last of the blood from my arm. "And even then, they'll test you. Constantly."

I winced as the cloth brushed over the cut. "Sounds like a real fun crowd."

Marcel gave a short, dry chuckle. "You get used to it. Or you don't."

I stared at him for a moment, taking in the sharp planes of his face, the calm in his eyes that was somehow more unnerving than if he'd been openly hostile. "So which one are you? Used to it, or not?"

"Depends on the night. Pulling feelings out of Tarquin can be like pulling teeth. Don't take it personally." He folded the cloth neatly and set it aside, like the conversation was over. "You're cleaned up. Drink more water. You're dehydrated."

I did as he instructed, downing the rest of the glass.

"So...what now?"

"Now we go to the west wing." He stood up, offering me a hand. "You can shower, get some rest, and we can figure out where to go tomorrow."

"Oh, I know where I'm going," I assured him, taking his hand.

Back home. Back to my very human, very normal life. Away from traffickers and fairytale species that shouldn't exist. Away from it all. I was not spending another night in this city.

Marcel didn't respond. I noticed the way his eyes briefly flickered to the space beside me before he let go of me and spun around to guide me to what I assumed was the west wing.

"So, like, what do you guys do with all this space if it's just the four of you?" I questioned.

Marcel shrugged. "Whatever we want. Some of these rooms haven't been touched in decades. Maybe longer. It's just a matter of keeping the house running without driving each other insane."

I followed him down the long corridor, my sneakers muffled against the thick, patterned rug. The walls were lined with more portraits, more eyes that seemed almost alive in the flickering light from the sconces. Each doorway we passed was either closed or half-hidden by heavy curtains, like secrets tucked away just out of sight.

"So...you live like this all the time?" I asked, voice low, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. "With all these...shadows?"

Marcel didn't look at me. "Shadows aren't the problem. People are. And the occasional vampire." He said it so casually that I choked on the gulp of air I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Occasional...vampire?" I managed, eyes widening. "You mean—like...actual vampires?"

He raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Yes. Actual vampires. They respect the boundaries. Usually."

I swallowed hard. My pulse was doing that panicky dance it always did when I was terrified and fascinated at the same time. "Right. Of course. Totally normal. You live a very...normal life," I muttered, mostly to myself.

Marcel opened a door at the end of the hallway and gestured for me to step inside. The room was smaller than I expected—cozy, really—but the canopy bed and heavy curtains gave it an almost medieval feel. There was a small dresser, a reading nook by the window, and a door that I assumed led to a bathroom.

"Shower first. Eat something second. We'll talk tomorrow," Marcel instructed, closing the door behind me.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the walls, the furniture, the flickering shadows. I was absolutely, completely trapped in a world I didn't understand. And yet...for the first time since the van, I felt slightly less like I was about to die.

I touched my arm where the cut had been. It was clean now, the sting gone.

I pulled off my jacket, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor, and slowly undid my torn shirt. The cuts and bruises were worse than I'd realized—bruises spreading across my collarbone and ribs, a reminder of just how close I'd come to something...terrible.

A part of me still wanted to call it a dream. A nightmare I could wake up from. But the warmth from the fireplace, the faint smell of dust and iron—it all screamed reality.

I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair. "Okay...okay. I can do this. I just...have to survive tonight."

Survive the night and then I could go home.

I could do this.