Later that night, Rayne Foster awoke in a room draped in unfamiliarity, silver moonbeams filtering through sheer curtains. She blinked, her senses swimming in the muted glow. A low hum from the mini-fridge in the corner thrummed in the silence, a faint heartbeat in the otherwise deathly stillness. Her palms caressed the soft, cool threads of white bedsheets, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she might be in the infirmary. But the sterile scent of antiseptic was absent, replaced by something musky, colder—like a gust of wind rolling off snow-covered peaks.

Her head turned slowly, sluggish with confusion, her gaze latching onto a thin sliver of light leaking through a cracked door. In the shifting shadows, she caught the outline of a figure—a ripple of taut muscles under pale skin, moving with every breath. A soft rustle followed, fabric sliding over broad shoulders, and when dark hair slipped through the neckline of a T-shirt, tousled over shadowed eyes, Rayne finally realized who it was.

Mr. Matthews.

Swiftly, she turned away, heat creeping up her neck as panic set in.

What the hell? Where was she? She did not belong here—not in this room, not while he was changing his freaking clothes! Rayne tried to piece together how she'd ended up in this place, but the memories eluded her. The harder she tried, the more fragmented it all became, a disorienting blur of broken images and sensations that offered no answers.

Then the door creaked open, and his voice cut through the quiet. "You doing okay?" she heard him whisper, and his tone was casual, way too casual for the panic that gripped her.

Rayne forced herself to roll back around. He was closer now, his silhouette looming in the moonlight. He wore light sweats, and a dark tee stretched over the hard planes of his chest. His presence, though oddly comforting, also stirred a deep sense of unease within her. That square jaw, dusted with stubble, caught the fleeting light, a reminder that this was not a boy; this was a man.

"Where am I?" she asked, trying to muster an air of authority.

"You don't remember?"

She winced, realizing there was clearly something she was missing here. "I remember the doctor saying she was gonna sedate me."

"And she did. We're in my room now," he said softly. He moved to the couch, his gaze steady on her, searching. "You really don't remember?"

Rayne pressed her fingertips to her forehead, a futile attempt to coax the memories back to the surface. "I . . . I begged you?" she muttered, more to herself than him, but the words felt raw, jagged, as they left her mouth. It was all a blur.

"You did." Tension clung to his movements, a subtle shift in his posture that seemed to betray his own unease as well.

"I told you about the shadow people?"

Dorian nodded.

Rayne closed her eyes, flashes of the evening overtaking her. The taser striking Cole's spine, a trail of blood staining the school grounds, Doctor Campbell clearing her for sleep, Dorian escorting her back up to her dorm room. And then—Rayne begging him, hysterically, not to leave her alone with the shadows. The same shadows that had taken Lucas.

The memory was coming back to her now, but it didn't make any sense.

Why would she do that?

Rayne shook her head. "Everything feels . . . hazy. Like I wasn't really . . . here."

"Must be the meds," Dorian remarked.

Rayne's eyes scanned the dimly lit room, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "Is this even allowed?"

"No." His expression tightened, shadows deepening his features. "It's not." He reached for a water bottle, the motion fluid and purposeful, extending toward her with a quiet insistence. "Drink."

Rayne obeyed, taking a tentative sip, but she couldn't shake the image of blood from her mind. The ambulance, its sirens cutting through the night, stealing Lucas away from her. Her eyes found the floor. The memories were coming back with a vengeance now. "Where is he?" she asked quietly.

"Surgery."

Her heart stuttered, hope flaring and withering in the same breath. "How bad?"

Dorian met her gaze, a flicker of pain glimmering in his eyes, making them appear almost luminescent. "Bad."

"Tell me."

His shoulders tightened as he drew a deep breath. "Fractured ribs, a bruised lung, internal bleeding. His arm, his leg—both broken. And his pelvis . . . " He trailed off, his voice faltering as he watched her face crumble. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks. "They're doing everything they can, Rayne."

"I need to see him."

"When he wakes," Dorian promised, though his voice faltered. The truth lingered in the breath between words—Lucas might not wake up at all.

She clutched the sheets, trying to keep herself from spiraling the way she had in the courtyard earlier. But the image of Lucas—his smile, the way sunlight seemed to cling to every facet of him—tore at her, leaving her hollow. Her thoughts drifted to the way he used to look at her, how his touch had always been so gentle, even when it was desperate for hers. His voice echoed in her mind, telling her that everything would be okay, even when it never was. But now . . . he was gone, lost somewhere between life and death, and she was left with nothing but this terrible, aching emptiness.

She couldn't lose him. Not him. Not now.

"Why am I here?" Her question came out sharp, almost pleading, her need for control slipping away from her faster than she could even breathe.

"You begged me," Dorian reminded her, rubbing his chest absentmindedly, "and I felt . . . a compulsion to oblige."

"What if someone finds out?"

"They won't." A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.

Rayne reached for his hand suddenly, her fingers brushing his, and the contact sparked a vision. She gasped as it consumed her—a flash of Emma Scott, Dorian's lips grazing the woman's cheek, their closeness charged with something unspoken. Rayne recoiled, throwing his hand back at him. "I knew it. I knew you liked her."

His jaw tightened. "Is that all you saw?"

"You're not denying it." Her eyes widened. "Wait . . . You know about—?"

"Your visions? Yeah. Emma told me."

"She knew?"

Dorian's expression softened, a hint of regret ghosting his face. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing between us, Rayne. I sent her home."

"I see you're not afraid to call me by my name anymore."

"No need for pretense." He extended his hand, inviting her to delve into his thoughts once more. "Wanna try again?"

"Are you gonna show me more than your lips on her freaking face?"

"Cut the sass," he replied, but there was no bite in his words. "What else do you see?"

With a huff, Rayne grasped his hand tightly once more, closing her eyes as the visions surged, a kaleidoscope flooding her mind. Emma shimmered before her, transformed in the golden light of the sun, a wild beauty, fierce and untamed as she aimed a gun with determined grace. "Whoa. She's . . . gorgeous."

"You never noticed? Doesn't matter. She's home now. Do you see anything else?"

Rayne's eyes snapped open. "Emma knows Daniel?"

Dorian nodded.

"And then . . ." Rayne's brow furrowed. A darker presence loomed at the edges of her mind, something ancient and foul. "Leviathan?"

"Let's not call it by name, shall we?"

Rayne's mind spun with all of the revelations, tumbling around as though they might pull the walls of the room with them. She tried to focus on Dorian's face before her, but the visions lingered. The kiss over Emma's cheek—it wasn't just a fleeting goodbye; there was longing within him, swelling in her mind like rising tides, cresting and falling in slow, yet clearly inevitable waves that reflected the heavens above.

Rayne's fingers tightened. Those two weren't supposed to have moments like that—Emma was married. They were supposed to be the righteous ones, the ones who held it together when everything else fell apart. But now, seeing the quiet intimacy between them, it was like that moral high ground she'd placed them on had cracked beneath their feet.

But worse, Emma had known about Rayne's abilities. For how long? Since she was a child? Or was it because of Daniel? The thought twisted inside her. Had Emma been haunted by him, too—just like she had been? Yet, somehow, it was different, wasn't it? Because Daniel had visited Emma often enough to build a connection, one that hadn't left her with the same fear he'd carved into Rayne. She swallowed, feeling the gap between her and Emma widen, sharpened by the realization that Emma had been in the loop all along—maybe even before Rayne herself.

And then . . . there was Leviathan.

Just the name sent a chill through her. There was something disturbingly familiar about it, as if she had heard it before. No, not just heard it—it was as if she danced with it, rolled the name around in her mouth, tasting its foulness. A chill of recognition followed, and with it, more visions: the janitor's glowing eyes, Bianca on homecoming night, Cole's uncle in the grainy security footage, and then . . . herself. Emma had been there on the night of the murder—had seen that same eerie glow in Rayne's eyes.

Leviathan had been watching Rayne for longer than she'd ever known, lurking within.

"It possessed me that night," she whispered, her grip tightening around the teacher's hand as the memories flashed before her. "And Daniel, too?" She looked up, her eyes searching his, glistening with shared pain. He nodded, confirming the bittersweet truth. "We . . . didn't do it," she choked out, as if saying it aloud could make it more real. "We didn't do it?"

"It wasn't you," he whispered back.

The words crashed over her like a typhoon. She really didn't do it? After all this time, the guilt that had festered inside of her, the fear that she was a murderer—that she had caused so much pain—began to unravel. The surge of relief that ripped through was so overwhelming, she nearly felt light-headed; but with all that relief came a sharp pang of loss too, a hollow ache that settled deep in her chest. It may not have been her . . . but the scars still remained.

What kind of monster could do this? This thing—this demon—wasn't like the shadow people. The shadows were terrifying, yes, but they could be outrun. In the right company, they could even be ignored. But this . . . This was so much worse. It was far older, far more dangerous than anything she could have ever possibly known. It wasn't something she could run from, let alone defeat. It made death feel . . . inevitable.

Was it her fault that thing was here? Her fault it went after Lucas?

No, it's been here for decades.

But she . . . Rayne's family owned this school.

"Lucas was right," she breathed, eyes stirring in the darkness. "How can we . . . We're just kids. We had no chance—Lucas had no chance—against . . . a demon." Anger flared within her. "Why didn't you tell me? Maybe we could've—!"

"Lower your voice," Dorian warned, his gaze flicking toward the door, neck muscles tight. "You're not supposed to be here, remember?" He took a deep breath, regret mingling with frustration. "Look, we thought it would be easier. Safer, if you didn't know. Daniel thought keeping you in the dark would protect you."

"You've talked to him?"

Dorian hesitated, rubbing his sternum as if soothing an ache. "Not exactly. Only through Emma. But . . . when Daniel was alive, we had this . . . connection. Like we could sense each other, sometimes even speak without words. Twin telepathy, I guess you'd call it. Since all this started, I've been feeling him again—like something's pulling me toward him." He paused, the weight of the words thick in the air. "I think he's ready for you to know now. That, or . . . something really bad is coming."

Rayne's voice fell. The weight of those words, the gravity of what was ahead, settled like a heavy stone in her chest. "Do you think Lucas is gonna be okay?"

"I hope so," Dorian replied, though the weariness in his voice didn't give much comfort. He laid back on the sofa, stretching out as though exhaustion had finally taken hold. Instead of reaching for the blanket, he fluffed a throw pillow beneath his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised one knee as he closed his eyes. "Just . . . try to get some sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning."

"If there's even a morning," she muttered under her breath.

◢✥◣

Deputy Malik Thompson gripped the leather-worn steering wheel as his cruiser rolled into the station's parking lot. It was well past midnight, and the night stretched on like a shadow waiting to engulf him. The call had come in just before eleven—another student, another tragedy, this time from the rooftop of Maria J. Westwood. Yet something about the details nagged at him. His colleagues had been abnormally tight-lipped regarding the situation, sharing only vague reassurances through the dispatcher: "It's under control."

Except, it didn't feel that way. Not with all four deputies still on duty this late, their cruisers scattered like forgotten toys across the lot. Not with his uncle, Sheriff Williams himself, still here, keeping the entire squad well past their shifts. Malik had spent enough late nights at the station to know when something was off, and tonight, the air felt thick—too thick, like the entire building was holding its breath.

Emma Scott's voicemail echoed in his mind: "You need to trust me—something dangerous is happening, and I could really use your help."

Her words dripped with urgency, and when he'd returned her call, she refused to explain anything over the phone, insisting they meet face-to-face immediately. Of course, he pushed back, settling for the morning instead, despite her claims that waiting could be far too dangerous.

But Malik had his reasons. Before meeting with her, he needed to stop here first—to understand why he'd been kept in the dark about the latest incident. This wasn't the first tragedy to strike the pristine reform school, and all signs seemed to circle back to one person. The very person Emma Scott seemed strangely determined to protect.

Rayne Foster.

This year alone, the deaths began with Hillary Berkshire, the student who "took her own life" on homecoming night. Rayne had been the one to find the body that evening. Shortly thereafter, on the very same night that Doctor Shaw's body had been found in the woods, Rayne was also found, hiding in a nearby shack with her boyfriend. Then came Doctor MacGowan—Rayne's own psychiatrist—who had given Malik his journal just moments before taking his own life in the middle of the road. And now, Rayne's boyfriend, Lucas Abbott, lay in critical condition, awaiting emergency surgery.

There was something here.

Malik's gut twisted as he parked and stepped out of his cruiser. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead did nothing to dispel the shadows creeping in from the edge of the lot. Inside, the sheriff's office was oppressively quiet, the kind of quiet that felt intentional—as if it had begun soon after hearing the sound of his tires disturbing the gravel outside. Malik's boots scuffed the linoleum floor, and though no one looked up as he walked in, he could feel the weight of their attention—an unspoken heaviness that prickled across his skin.

His uncle, Sheriff Williams, sat at his desk, his expression cast in half-light. The other deputies worked silently, heads bowed over paperwork or screens. But there was a stillness to their movements, a rigidity in the air that had never been there before.

Malik opened his mouth, the instinct to ask what was happening bubbling up inside him, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he felt a strange compulsion to remain silent, as if breaking the stillness would only deepen the shadows somehow.

He approached his desk, seeking solace in its familiar clutter. His gaze fell on MacGowan's journal, resting where he'd left it. Reaching for it, he felt the weight of its secrets, heavy and resistant, as if the pages themselves were aware of the darkness surrounding him. He hoped to find something—anything—that might explain the strange connection between Rayne and the series of tragedies that had unfolded.

As he opened the journal, the psychiatrist's notes revealed a descent into chaos, the writing more erratic with each entry, as though he was unraveling with every line.

"It's here . . . in the faces of the students . . . hiding in plain sight."

A chill slithered through Malik's spine. The words seemed to pulse on the page. He shifted in his seat, casting a quick glance around the office. Sheriff Williams was watching him now, his gaze unwavering, eyes darker than they should have been in the dim light. Malik quickly looked away, swallowing the inexplicable fear that surged inside him like a child's terror of the dark.

He saw the word "demon" scribbled more frequently across the margins. His fingers hovered over the journal, hesitant.

"It wears their faces. You won't notice, not at first. But one day . . . you'll see."

Malik felt eyes on him again—heavy and invasive. Slowly, he raised his head. This time, they were all staring. Sheriff Williams, Roy Parker, Juan Rodriguez, Bobby Harris—each one of them unmoving, unblinking, their eyes hollow and black as the void.

Suddenly, the journal seemed like the last thing he wanted to read, but he couldn't stop now. He had to keep digging. That was his duty—his lantern in the darkness. Even if it led him somewhere he wasn't sure he wanted to go.

He looked down at the journal.

"Once you see it, you can't unsee it. You can't run from what's already inside you."

The words throbbed in his mind. His throat went dry. His body felt like it was being squeezed from all sides, the walls of the office closing in. The overhead lights seemed to dim, shadows clinging to every corner, shifting preternaturally. He could hear his heart in his eardrums, but the room grew eerily quiet—no sounds of typing, no shuffling of papers.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor with a jarring screech that echoed through the suffocating silence. Demons aren't real, he told himself, gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles blanched.

But if none of this was real . . . then why couldn't he bring himself to look up again?

His hands trembled. Every muscle screamed at him. Run. Get out. But his legs felt leaden. And logic assured him he was just being childish.

He thought of Emma Scott, the officer from Michigan. She had warned him to keep his mind open, that this school was no ordinary school. Certainly she'd just been referring to the kinds of legal conspiracies he'd originally been pursuing with this case . . . right?

Not . . . demons?

His palms were slick with sweat as he fumbled for his cell phone, desperate for something, anything to pull him out of this nightmare. It didn't make sense. This wasn't like him. Was this what a panic attack felt like? His fingers trembled as he dialed Emma's number.

"Malik." The voice was familiar, but the tone . . . It was all wrong.

It crawled under his skin.

He looked up, and there was his uncle, standing too close, his face cast in shadows.

"What's wrong, boy?" the sheriff asked, his grip tightening around the wrist that held Malik's cell phone. Malik tried meekly to take his hand back, but was surprised by the strength of his uncle. Malik was younger, stronger, his muscular build far larger, and yet, his uncle was unyielding, unnaturally strong.

The room felt like it was spinning.

"Uncle Terrence," he said, his voice uncharacteristically boyish. "Let go of me."

The lights flickered, dimming further, the darkness swallowing up the corners of the office. He met the man's gaze fully now, and finally, he saw the truth.

Those were not his uncle's eyes.

And for the first time, he realized they hadn't been . . . for years. Malik could see it, feel it now—the monster lurking beneath the familiar features, wearing his uncle's face like a mask.

"No." Malik took several shaky steps backward, his phone falling to the floor. "No, you're not—"

"Not who you thought I was?" His uncle's smile twisted into something inhuman. His voice dropped to a low growl. "Took long enough. I've been here for fifteen years, boy."

Malik's hand twitched toward his holster, the weight of his gun a reassuring presence on his hip. His uncle—no, the thing wearing his uncle's face—hadn't moved yet, but Malik knew. He could see it in the way the others began to shift around him, too . . . their movements were almost . . . rehearsed.

"You can't escape this, Malik," the demon said, using his uncle's voice.

"Who are you?" asked Malik. Despite the fear, despite the irrationality, he still felt a yearning for the truth.

"My name? My true name?" The sheriff's smile widened, his face distorting in the flickering light. "Andras."

"Demon?" Malik pressed.

"Careful, son," he said, eyeing the twitch in Malik's fingers. "You're surrounded."

Malik couldn't resist his instincts. His fingers curled around the grip of his gun, and in one smooth motion, he yanked it from the holster and fired.

Three deafening shots exploded through the room. Nothing.

The sheriff didn't even flinch. The bullets passed through him, crimson blooming and soaking the fabric, but his uncle only laughed. With unsettling calm, the demon raised a hand to his chest, fingers tracing the ragged bullet hole.

"Look at that," the demon said slowly, dipping a finger into the wound. The flesh parted with an almost oily ease as it probed the entry site, and then, slowly, the demon extracted the bullet, slick with blood. It held it up, crimson still dripping down its knuckles, the sound of each drop hitting the floor sharp in the silence. "Now your uncle is dead." It examined the bullet a moment longer, as if it might say something else, then let it fall to the floor with a faint clink. It leaned closer, black eyes narrowing. "But I'm still here."

Malik backed up, his mind racing. The others stepped forward, their movements monstrous, as if their joints bent at angles that shouldn't have been possible. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he shoved it down. He wasn't helpless. He wasn't going down without a fight.

Swiftly, Malik ducked behind one of the desks to his left, overturning it to create cover. His gun still drawn, he aimed again—this time, more calculated, aiming for their heads.

He fired. One. Two more shots.

Still, nothing!

The rounds hit his uncle and Rodriguez, but it didn't faze them. Didn't kill them.

But Malik had been trained for this—survival, combat. There had to be a way out. He considered his options. The exit was too far. They'd be on him before he reached it. But the armory—the armory—was only a few feet away, and inside were the heavier weapons, shotguns. Maybe something in there could . . . slow them down, at least.

The demons' grins all widened, distorted. The thing inside the sheriff chuckled, a deep and hollow sound that reverberated through the small office. "Don't you get it, boy?" his uncle growled. "You can't kill me. Not with those toys."

Malik's stomach twisted, but he surged forward anyway, adrenaline forcing his body to move. In three quick strides, he made it to the armory door. He yanked it open, grabbing the first shotgun he could find, his hands shaking only slightly as he loaded the rounds. The heavy weight of it gave him a fleeting sense of control.

But when he turned, they were already there. Standing just beyond the dim halo of light, their gleaming eyes blacker than before. His uncle stepped forward. "You should be honored, Malik. You've been serving me for years, without even realizing it."

"I've been serving Andras," he said, breathless, "the demon?"

"Not just any demon. I am one of the Marquis of Hell, bound to the Prince of Envy. When the time comes, when we finally unleash Hell on Earth, I will command legions." Andras leaned closer, his uncle's eyes sparkling with malevolent delight. "I've watched you grow, Malik. And now, here you are—a puppet with severed strings, about to be consumed by the very darkness you've spent your life trying to illuminate."

Malik raised the shotgun.

The demon laughed. "My dear nephew, you misunderstand my intentions. I simply mean to offer you a role in the grand tapestry of chaos. Imagine the power you could wield."

Malik closed one eye, aiming. "Nah, I'm good," he said gruffly, and pulled the trigger.

A thunderous crack shook the room as the shotgun's blast erupted, and the shell tore through his uncle's chest. But even as blood spattered and fabric shredded, Malik found himself hurled back against the wall, his body pinned in place by an unseen force. The gaping wound in Andras's chest was raw, but it didn't slow him; he only smiled, advancing effortlessly. Malik's breath hitched as the demon's grip closed around his throat, lifting him higher off the ground.

Andras loomed over him, his face flickering between the familiar lines of his uncle's features and something twisted and terrible—eyes dark and round as an owl's.

"You were never the predator, Malik," Andras whispered, his hands wrapping tighter around Malik's throat. A noose. "From the very beginning, you were always meant to be hunted."

Malik could feel his strength draining, and he tried to fight, to push back, but it was as if every muscle of his body was locked into place.

"And now . . . it's too late," Andras said softly, the words slithering into Malik's ear. "You should've embraced the darkness when you had a chance."

With a sickening snap, Malik's vision went black, and the last thing he saw was the twisted, triumphant smile of the creature that had been with him all along.

◢✥◣

Dorian awoke to the feeling of something soft brushing against his chest. At first, it was easy to dismiss, a fleeting sensation that might have come from a dream. But the warmth persisted, fingers tracing the lines of his shirt like whispers of air, tugging him from sleep. He stirred, disoriented, blinking at the dim glow cast by the moon outside the window. The weight beside him shifted, and when his gaze fell downward, his breath caught in his throat.

Rayne was curled beside him on the sofa, her hand sliding across his chest, the touch slow, deliberate, as if she were mapping the planes of his body. His heart pounded, something inside him recoiling from the wrongness of it all.

"Rayne?" His voice was hoarse, thick with sleep.

She didn't respond. Her hand slipped lower, grazing his navel through the fabric of his shirt, traveling lower still. He shot upright, grabbing her wrist gently but firmly. "Rayne," he snapped, urgency sharpening the word as he tried to meet her eyes.

But the eyes that met him were not hers.

Rayne's lips curled into a twisted, mocking smile, the kind that did not belong on her face. Her once cherry brown eyes now gleamed with an unnatural green light, a disturbingly eerie hue that sent ice snaking down his spine. The sight hollowed him out, leaving him cold, and the air thickened with the smell of decay. Something ancient was peering back at him, through her eyes.

"It's you," he whispered, his throat tightening. His grip around her wrist deepened, but his strength felt futile. Useless.

"The one and only," the demon purred, lacing Rayne's voice with something darker. Her head tilted, studying him with a predatory gleam, her body moving closer. "Do you fear me?" Her breath was hot against his neck, and then her tongue, wet and serpentine, flicked out, grazing his skin. "I love the taste."

Dorian jerked away. "Let go of her," he growled, but his voice lacked the strength it needed. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—to defend himself. The glint of metal on the coffee table caught his eye. Scissors. His hand reached for them, shaking with the realization of how pitiful it all was.

The demon's laughter echoed in the small room. "Ah, ah, ah," it tisked. "Hurt me, and you hurt her," it crooned, clicking Rayne's tongue; the sound was thick with derision. "I'll flee her body so quickly, the only one who will feel the pain is this poor girl."

Dorian froze, the scissors heavy in his grip. He was powerless.

Rayne's body loomed over him then, her face inches from his, eyes wide and soulless, the thing wearing her skin smirking down at him. Defeated, he slumped back against the sofa, his breath ragged as fear and helplessness twisted his insides.

"Is this what you did to Davenport?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. He had to know. Had to.

Leviathan's smile widened over Rayne's lips, a grotesque mimicry of amusement. "You think I forced him to bed that girl? Oh, Dorian. Men like him are already rotten. Didn't take much of anything—just a little nudge. A wrong glance at the right time. And you, Dorian, are no different." It traced the sharp edge of his jaw using Rayne's finger, and Dorian recoiled, gritting his teeth at the touch. "Like what I did with you and Officer Sexy." It tapped his temple. "Something was already there, waiting for me. All I did was bring it to the surface."

Dorian's vision blurred, the world around him warping. Rayne's form flickered and twisted, and suddenly, it wasn't her on top of him anymore. It was . . . Emma.

He saw her eyes, her face, even her smell filled his senses, and his heart thrashed in his chest, each beat more painful than the last. He tried to shake the illusion, but it clung to him, pulling him under like a current. For the very first time, Dorian could not ignore the unsettling weight of his feelings for the rogue officer. He couldn't let himself think it before, hadn't dared name the flickers of something he needn't understand. But now, with her face so close to him, it struck him with an intensity that left him breathless—he wanted her.

But when? When had it begun? When he'd caught that glimpse of her undressing in the car mirror? Or maybe when she'd comforted him in Braiden's home, her touch lingering longer than it should have? Perhaps it was when he watched her sleep as he drove her to that motel, or even that first moment in the park when she pulled a gun on him, fierce and defiant. Whatever the spark, he couldn't deny the sin of it—she was married, a mother of three, and yet here he was, drowning in the sudden realization: he deeply wished she'd never left.

"How are you doing this?" he rasped, desperation creeping into his voice. Were these feelings even real? Or had the demon planted them in his mind?

Like dipping a syringe into your skull, Braiden had said.

Leviathan smirked, this time using Emma's lips, but it was not her smile. "I'm in your mind, Dorian," it whispered, and even now, it sounded like her. "It's so easy to unearth the things men bury." The demon leaned closer, Emma's lips grazing his cheek. "How brave of you to send her home, Dorian. To kiss her goodbye . . . Oh, but you wanted to do so much more, didn't you?"

Her breath, hot and teasing against his ear, sent a tremor through him. Every fiber of his being resisted the pull, but the longing in him was undeniable, an ache in him so fierce it hurt. He no longer knew where his own desires ended and the demon's influence began. It was a jagged line between lust and horror, and Dorian hated that some part of him still yearned for the touch, even now, when he knew it wasn't real.

"Get out of my head," he grumbled, and Dorian's vision swam again, Rayne's face suddenly snapping back into focus as the illusion of Emma crumbled away. In this light, the demon appeared almost disappointed. Now, Dorian began to feel dizzy. "You killed my brother, didn't you?"

Its eyes glinted. "Ah, you must mean the one you call Daniel." The demon sneered. "Yes, well, he's been a rather naughty underling . . ."

Dorian's rage flared, but he was defenseless, his mind unraveling at the slightest pull of the demon's presence. "I will kill you," he vowed.

"With what?" Leviathan laughed. Rayne's face twisted into something monstrous, a menacing snarl that chilled him to the bone. But then, just as quickly, her features returned to their original, youthful softness, only the demon's mocking sneer lingering. "Typical man. Do you even have a plan?" It extended the scissors to him, taunting. "Go ahead. Try it. Let's see what you've got."

Dorian's hand clenched around the handle, but he couldn't move. The demon stared down at him, Rayne's mouth twitching with malicious glee.

"Oh, you don't know how to kill me, do you?" it mocked, its voice deepening into a guttural growl. "I am Leviathan. You wouldn't be able to take down a single minion of mine, let alone me." Its voice suddenly bubbled, springing back into Rayne's usual tone. "Honestly, Dorian, I'm offended."

His eyes flickered, sweat beading at his temples as terror gripped him fully now, sinking into his bones. The demon took the scissors back from him, slowly, deliberately.

"How would you fight me," it murmured, emerald eyes raking over glistening metal as it twirled in Rayne's fingers, "if I chose to plunge this into your heart"—it met his eyes—"right now?"

The room seemed to close in around him, the walls breathing, the shadows alive.

I couldn't, he realized. There was nothing he could've done that wouldn't hurt Rayne.

"Now Officer Sexy, on the other hand?" Leviathan mused, its voice playful again. "Now, she seems to have a plan. It would never work, but technically . . . it is a plan."

Dorian blinked. "What?"

The demon chuckled. "Oh, I just love this part—making you squirm in your ignorance." With every subsequent word, it tapped his chest with the scissors. "She. Never. Left."

His heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, Dorian. As much as I wish I were truly all-knowing, that just isn't the case," Leviathan continued, the cruelty in its voice wrapping around him like a vice, "And I have my own questions that are going to take precedence over yours. For instance, why does Rayne have this memory of you calling her 'sweetheart'?"

Dorian's confusion deepened. "I . . . don't know."

It had surprised him too, when she said that it had happened. Because it never did.

"Hmmm." The demon narrowed Rayne's eyes at him, thoughtful. "Why don't we just use her little trick then, shall we?" it supplied, placing Rayne's hand on his neck, sending a jolt down his spine. The demon closed Rayne's eyes, probing Dorian's mind for the memory. It blinked in surprise. "You have no memory of this."

Dorian tried to steady his breath as the demon tapped the scissors against Rayne's temple, contemplating something. Slowly, it dug the metal in, barely breaking skin, until a small bead of crimson rose to the surface. The demon pulled back, staring at the blood staining the blades.

Realization suddenly twisted its expression. "Oh, naughty, naughty, Marchosias."

Dorian's mind reeled, grasping at fragments of meaning. "What? What is it?"

Leviathan's gaze shot back to him, satisfied and deadly. "You'll have to excuse me," it said with a sinister grin. "I have a brother of yours to kill . . . again."

And just like that, it was gone, fleeing from Rayne's body in a violent rush, leaving her limp and crumbling into Dorian's arms. He caught her before she hit the floor, the dead weight of her body jarring him into a horrified silence. For a moment, he just stared at her, so helpless, his hands trembling from the aftershock of the encounter.

"Rayne," he whispered.

He laid her down gently on the bed, his hands trembling as he covered her with the blanket. Sitting on the edge of the mattress beside her, his elbows resting on his knees, Dorian buried his face in his hands. What had Daniel done? What had he just witnessed? What did that thing . . . want him to do?

Dorian dragged his hands down his face, chest tight with a feeling he couldn't quite name. He was in way over his head. In the stillness of the room, the silence felt more dangerous than the demon itself. And he had no idea what to do next. Or if he'd ever sleep again.