THEA'S POV
The kitchen knife slips and nearly takes off my finger.
I jerk my hand back, heart racing, and watch a thin line of blood bloom across my thumb. It heals in seconds—skin knitting together like magic. Like it always does.
"Great," I mutter, grabbing another cupcake. "Can't even cut myself properly on my own birthday."
Twenty-three years old today, and I'm spending it exactly like every other birthday: alone in our massive estate with nobody but the cleaning staff who barely speak to me. Mrs. Chen already went home. Mr. Rodriguez is somewhere vacuuming the west wing. And Father...
I check my phone again. Nothing.
Father always calls at midnight. Every single birthday since I can remember, no matter where he is in the world. London, Tokyo, Paris—doesn't matter. At exactly 12:00 AM, his name lights up my screen.
It's 11:47 PM now.
I squeeze pink frosting onto another cupcake, making it look cheerful even though I feel like screaming. This is pathetic. I'm pathetic. A twenty-three-year-old woman decorating cupcakes for a party of one.
But Father promised he'd call. He always calls.
My hand shakes as I pipe another frosting flower. Some of it glops onto the counter. I should just go to bed. Forget the stupid cupcakes. Forget the birthday. Forget that I've spent my entire life in this prison-mansion with no friends, no school, no life beyond these walls.
"Happy birthday to me," I whisper to the empty kitchen.
The grandfather clock in the hallway starts chiming. Midnight. I count each one, waiting for my phone to buzz.
One. Two. Three.
My stomach twists tighter with each chime.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Please, Dad. Please call.
Eleven. Twelve.
Silence.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Father has never forgotten. Not once. Even when I was eight and he was in the hospital after that "car accident" (the one he made me promise never to ask about), he still called. His voice was weak and scratchy, but he sang happy birthday.
Something's wrong.
My chest feels too tight. I can't breathe properly. It's like the kitchen walls are closing in, the shadows getting darker, the silence getting louder—
My phone rings.
I nearly drop it lunging for it. "Dad! I thought—"
"Miss Corvain?"
I freeze. That's not Father's voice. This voice is deep and cold, like winter wind scraping over frozen ground. Dangerous. Wrong.
"Who is this?" My voice comes out smaller than I want. "Where's my father?"
"This is Magnus Ravencroft." A pause. "I'm your father's business partner."
Magnus Ravencroft. I've heard that name before. Father mentions him sometimes—his friend from "the old days," whatever that means. I've seen him twice. Once when I was sixteen and spied on one of Father's meetings. Mr. Ravencroft looked like he could kill someone with just his eyes. The second time was last year. He stood in our driveway talking to Father, and when his gaze accidentally met mine through the window, I felt like prey being stalked by a wolf.
I haven't thought about him since.
Until now.
"Why are you calling me?" I ask. "Where's my dad?"
Another pause. Too long. Way too long.
"Miss Corvain, I need you to sit down."
"I'm fine standing. Where. Is. My. Father?"
"Your father is dead."
The words don't make sense. They're in English. I understand each one separately. But together? Together they're impossible.
The cupcake I'm holding slips from my fingers. It hits the marble floor and pink frosting explodes outward, spreading across the white tile like blood.
Like blood.
"No," I whisper. "No, that's not— He was supposed to call. He always calls."
"There was an accident tonight. His car went off Cliffside Road near the lake." That cold voice doesn't change. Doesn't soften. Just states facts like they're weather reports. "He died on impact. I'm sorry."
I can't breathe. The kitchen is spinning. Father can't be dead. He's the only person I have. The only person who's ever cared about me. The only reason I exist.
"You're lying," I choke out. "This is some sick joke—"
"I don't joke about death, Miss Corvain." Something shifts in his voice. Something almost... angry? "Your father was my closest friend. I wish I was lying."
My legs give out. I slide down the kitchen cabinet until I'm sitting on the floor, pink frosting soaking into my pajama pants. I don't care.
"I need you to listen carefully," Magnus Ravencroft continues. "Your father's death wasn't an accident. Someone killed him. And now they're coming for you."
What?
"That's insane," I manage. "Who would—"
"I don't have time to explain everything over the phone. Pack a bag. Essentials only. I'm leaving now and I'll be at your estate in three hours." His voice drops lower, more urgent. "Do not open the door for anyone except me. Do not call the police. Do not tell anyone what I've told you. Do you understand?"
"No! I don't understand anything! My father is dead and you're talking about people coming to kill me and—"
"THEA." He's never used my first name before. It sounds wrong coming from him. "Your father left very specific instructions for if anything happened to him. Instructions about keeping you safe. I made him a promise, and I intend to keep it. But you need to trust me."
"I don't even know you!"
"You don't have a choice." There's something final in those words. Something that makes my blood run cold. "Pack light. I'm coming for you. You're not safe there anymore."
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone, unable to move. Unable to think. The screen is still glowing, showing Father's last text message to me from this morning:
"Happy birthday, little bird. Sorry I can't be there. Remember what I've always told you: Never trust anyone. Not even my friends. I love you more than you'll ever know."
Not even my friends.
My hands start shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone.
Father knew. Somehow, he knew this was coming.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I spin around, heart hammering.
Mr. Rodriguez stands in the kitchen doorway. But he's not holding a vacuum cleaner. He's holding a gun.
And it's pointed directly at my head.
"Sorry, Miss Thea," he says, his usual kind voice now flat and emotionless. "Nothing personal. Just business."
His finger moves to the trigger.
I don't think. Don't plan. Just move.
Something explodes inside me—something wild and powerful and completely unfamiliar. The world slows down. I can hear Mr. Rodriguez's heartbeat. Smell the gun oil. See his finger squeezing the trigger in slow motion.
I dive left as the gun fires.
The bullet hits the cabinet where my head was a split second ago, wood exploding into splinters.
I'm running before my brain catches up. Out of the kitchen. Down the hallway. My feet barely touch the ground. Everything is too bright, too loud, too much. I can smell Mr. Rodriguez chasing me—sweat and something chemical and wrong.
Another gunshot. The mirror beside me shatters.
I burst through the front door into the night and keep running.
But headlights suddenly flood the driveway. A black SUV screeches to a stop between me and Mr. Rodriguez.
A man steps out.
Tall. Dark-haired. Eyes that flash gold in the headlights.
Magnus Ravencroft.
"Get in the car, Thea," he says calmly, like men with guns chase me every day. "Now."
Behind me, Mr. Rodriguez raises his weapon again.
I dive into the SUV.
Magnus is back in the driver's seat instantly. The engine roars. We peel out of the driveway as bullets punch through the back windshield.
"Who was that?" Magnus demands, accelerating down the dark road.
"My... my housekeeper's husband," I gasp. "He's worked for us for years. Why would he—"
"Because someone paid him to kill you." Magnus's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Your father died three hours ago. They're already making their move."
"Who? Who wants me dead?"
He glances at me. His eyes flash gold again—actually gold, like an animal's.
"The same people who've been hunting you your entire life," he says. "Welcome to the real world, Thea Corvain. Nothing your father told you was true."
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. Text message:
"You can run, little hybrid. But we can smell you. We're already coming. And when we find you, we'll finish what we started with your mother."
My mother died when I was born.
Didn't she?