Page 53 of Shattered & Returned

He guided me to the booth before turning on the lingering students. “Out. All of you. Upstairs or elsewhere. Now.”

The bar emptied with grudging obedience. A couple students cast murderous glances my way, the intruder who’d stolen their king’s attention. Within sixty seconds, the hall stood deserted.

This wasn’t just privilege. This was power rivaling the authority of the professors.

We settled into the booth. With a casual wave of his hand, Sebastian conjured the soundproofing spell, a faint shimmer in the air surrounding us. A hush fell over our conversation.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” He lounged against the cushions, every movement calculated ease. “My door’s always open for you, you know.”

I bypassed the pleasantries. Social graces wouldn’t solve murders or protect potential victims. “You said Ravencrux has a preference for redheads,” I began, my ribs tightening around my lungs. “What exactly did you mean?”

Sebastian’s smile dissolved, replaced by grim satisfaction, as though he’d been waiting for precisely this question. “I’m glad you came to me for the truth, Bloom.”

He opened his palm, and a folder materialized from the air. No spell work. Just raw, effortless power.

From the folder, Sebastian extracted a photograph and slid it across the table, fingers clinging to its edge as though reluctant to fully release it. When I leaned in, the breath froze in my lungs. The world stopped.

A woman stared up, vacant and lifeless. Vibrant red hair fanned across stone steps like spilled wine, blood pooling beneath her. But it was the face that stole my breath—mycheekbones, my lips, my features. It was as though I was looking at my own corpse.

My hand flew to my throat, trembling fingers on my racing pulse to reassure myself I was still alive.

“What the—” The word cracked.

“One of Ravencrux’s victims.” Sebastian monitored my reaction like a scientist observing a reaction.

I examined the photograph’s yellowed edges, the newsprint texture. Evidence, not prophecy. The distinction steadied me.

Sebastian’s fingers tapped the photograph’s bottom edge. “This came from Ravencrux’s private collection.”

The implication struck like a dagger between ribs. “A…souvenir?”

Sebastian looked grim, his beautiful face hardening. “A trophy from an immortal serial killer.”

My fingernails bit into my palms. “How did you get this?” I asked as I stared at the dead woman’s face, unable to tear my eyes away.

“A contact stole it. There are more, all redheads. But Ravencrux warded them against me specifically.” His jaw tightened. “He’s made threats.”

Chills sank into my bone marrow. “You believe he killed her. And Angelina too?” I asked in a shaking voice.

Sebastian’s gaze held terrifying certainty. “Not belief. Knowledge.”

I forced myself to study the photograph again. The resemblance was uncannily similar. “She could be my…me.” The words ended with a bone-deep fear flooding my system.

“Your bloodline seems to be his obsession.” Sebastian leaned forward. “That’s why I sought you out, to prevent you from becoming his next masterpiece.”

Mom’s secrecy, our constant moves—had she known? But— “My mother had dark hair.”

“Are you certain she was your birth mother?” The question landed like a punch in the gut.

“What? Of course!” I replied automatically. Now the seed of doubt unfurled thorns in my chest.

Mom’s terror of losing me suddenly made horrific sense. Her isolationist rules, the way she’d flinch at strangers’ glances—had she been hiding me? The cabin deep in the woods, her refusal to speak of family. Had I been stolen? Every deflected question about my father, every angry diversion took on new, sinister meaning.

The ground beneath my identity crumbled.

Sebastian’s voice reeled me back. “Ravencrux doesn’t just hunt women. He romances them first.” He twirled his glass. “He lures, seduces, then destroys. I’ve seen his violent records. He isn’t just dangerous. He’s a bad man, an abuser. And pain isn’t a byproduct; it’s the whole point.”

The memory of his teeth on my skin flashed hot. Worse—how my body had arched toward that pain. The realization curdled in my stomach: this dead woman and I shared more than features. We might share appetites.

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