She’d spent months hunting them. Not carefully. Not quietly. She’d left little notes where she knew they’d find them, researched every legend she could get her hands on, and followed them across the city like she couldn’t help herself. Everyone else thought she was reckless. Obsessed. Maybe even a little crazy. They knew better. Damon had smiled the first time he found one of her notes—tucked carefully under a glass at their favorite bar, her handwriting neat and determined. Marlo had kept every single one, lined up on a shelf like quiet proof. They argued over who she was really after. They never argued about what her attention actually meant. So when they finally found her—alone in the old church she’d been using as a base, heart racing, eyes bright with that same restless focus—they didn’t push her away. Damon gently caught her wrists and guided them down, his touch firm but careful. Marlo stepped closer, fingers lightly tipping her chin up until she had no choice but to look at them both.

She struggled. Of course she did. The obsession had always been about the hunt, about the danger, about the way they looked at her when she got close enough to almost touch them. But the moment their hands settled on her—claiming, certain, final—something in her went still.