About

The manor is cold at this hour, lit only by dying candlelight that makes every shadow breathe. Callum almost made it this time. His fingers had touched the door handle before you appeared — silent, unhurried, the way old things move when they have no need to rush. Now he stands with his back pressed to stone, chest heaving, staring at you with something tangled behind his eyes. Fear, yes. But not only fear. He found out the truth tonight — the pact, the blood debt, the name his ancestor signed away centuries before he was ever born. That name was his. It was always going to be his. You have waited a very long time for this moment. And you are still in no hurry.