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He pauses, jaw tight, staring at some point beyond me.
“But slowly, I couldn’t deny what I was really seeing. Remy was exhibiting symptoms I’d seen before. In his mother.” His voice grows quieter, “Erratic behavior. Extreme highs where he barely slept for days, talking a mile a minute in complete gibberish. Then crushing lows where he wouldn’t leave his room for a week. Mood swings that could turn on a dime. I was scared for him. For myself. For everyone around him. Because what people didn’t see was that one day I came down to breakfast and Remy wasn’t just struggling mentally. He was bigger than me. Stronger, his body filled out, lean with hard muscle from training. I barely knew how to manage him before, but now? He was a child in a man’s body. And everything that came out of his mouth was just another sign he was ill.”
I feel my chest tighten as the pieces slowly click together even more than before.
“Like the colors?” I ask carefully.
He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. “I tried my best to put a stop to it. I forbade his therapist from engaging with what I thought were just ramblings. I just wanted him right. I wanted him normal.”
The words hang between us. I step closer, heart aching for both of them, and for myself, because I know what it’s like to feel different.
“Timothy…” I say gently, “... what if Remy wasn’t rambling? What if he was speaking the same language you’re speaking right now? The body. The colors. The energy. Maybe he was trying to find balance the only way he knew how.”
He stares at me, something raw and vulnerable flickering across his face. The silence stretches, heavy with years of regret and misunderstanding. There’s a second where I think I’m going to lose him again, but I press my hand more firmly against his heart, feeling its steady, powerful beat beneath my palm.
“Show me this one,” I say softly.
Timothy covers my hand with his own for a moment, holding it there like an anchor. Then he begins to move, guiding me into a new sequence. His arms rise slowly, palms facing upward as if offering something to the heavens, before he draws them back toward his heart in a gentle, embracing motion. I follow, mirroring the slow, deliberate flow.
“This one is for the heart,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate between us. “The heart connects deeply with the fire element and the color red. When we practice this movement, we visualize a warm, vibrant, red light filling the heart center–clearing out energetic blockages, balancing fiery emotions like impatience or anger, and nurturing the positive virtues the heart holds: joy, love, and compassion.”
He demonstrates again, slower this time, his hand still pressed over mine against his chest. I follow his lead, imagining that rich, glowing red light blooming warmly inside my own chest, spreading outward with every breath and every graceful motion. The movement feels different from the others–more tender, more vulnerable, like we’re not just moving energy through the body, but inviting something emotional and alive to flow between us.
We continue like that for several minutes, moving together in the quiet studio. The red energy he described seems to grow between us, warm and consuming, filling the space with something electric and tender and long overdue.
Timothy gradually slows to a stop. He turns fully toward me, green eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Without a word, he cups my face with both hands and kisses me.
The kiss starts soft, but quickly deepens, filled with everything we’ve been circling for so long–regret, longing, forgiveness, and that bright, burning, healing red that refuses to stay hidden any longer.
30
Damon
“Jesus, is this room for eating dinner or just for creating nightmares?”
Hunter eyes Nick Bruin as he studies the massive gothic mural on the dining room wall with open fascination. The painting looms floor-to-ceiling over the long mahogany table.
He takes it in, going from panel to panel, starting with the horned king on his throne as three hooded figures kneel in oath before him. The next scene shifts to a moonlit hunt, a lone woman fleeing through the forest as masked pursuers close in behind her. The third panel is the most disturbing, depicting her capture and the brutal ritual where the hunted female is claimed in unflinching detail. Finally, the darkness gives way to dawn, where the woman—now a Baroness—kneels beside the Barons before their king, the ritual complete.
“I thought you specifically said for him not to come,” Hunter whispers to me.
“I did.”
It’s not a good sign that a King made a demand and it was instantly ignored.
Or a good look.
Christ.
“So, I’ve given everyone an update on the idea that we’ve come up with,” I start as Nick drops into a chair at the end of the long table like he owns the place. “Hunter will go into the specifics.”
Hunt rolls out the map, setting a heavy leather book on two of the edges to keep it flat. Dimitri Rathbone is here representing the Lords. He grabs one corner and sets his phone down while Pace places his laptop on the other. We chose the dining room, a more neutral area in the House of Night, but the tension is already thick enough to choke on.
“Sofia is going to start taking a few specific routes on campus every day,” Hunter continues, laying out the plan. “They’ll each pass right by known tunnel entrances. From our research, we think the next kidnapping will take place before the spring equinox, although that is speculation. It could happen at any point before then, so if someone is watching, they’ll see the pattern and hopefully make a move.”
“I can put cameras up in these areas,” Pace says, marking X’s on the map with a silver pen. “Eyes everywhere, but we won’t be seen.”
“That’s your plan?” Nick says, voice dripping with skepticism. “Hoping the Guardian just pops out and snatches her off the street like it’s fucking amateur hour?”
