Ronan wakes with a start.

“Shh,” says Hazel, her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Haze…what…?” Ronan blinks until the room comes into focus. He remembers, with a rush of pain in his head, that he had walked through the illusion only to come face-to-face with one of Locke’s bodyguards. He remembers the vampire as the one who shot him. This time, however, there was no gun but a fist that landed on the side of Ronan’s head before he could block it.

He sits up, taking in his surroundings. The roof is slanted, with wooden beams dark against the white paint on the walls. It makes the room feel smaller than it is. It must have been a great feat to fit the queen-size bed, dresser, and writing desk inside. The bed is neatly made, except for the impression left by Ronan as he unknowingly slept. There is nothing on the walls besides a golden-framed mirror.

The room is entirely impersonal, like a photograph in a catalog. Almost too perfect. He wonders if this is an illusion as well. “How long was I out?” he mumbles, peering through the window to catch a glimpse of the pale blue sky beyond, broken only by the spiny tendrils of the tree outside. There is nothing to indicate the time of day.

Although the bullet wound has long since healed, his muscles are stiff from inactivity, and he massages his shoulder, stretching his neck to each side before he finally looks at Hazel. He should be angry with her, but when she smiles and says, “Hey, Kelly,” he gathers her into a hug without thinking, breathing her name against her cheek.

She holds onto him, too, her fingers clutching his t-shirt. “Your shoulder is healing up nicely,” she whispers.

He pulls back but keeps his hands on her upper arms. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

She avoids his gaze and shrugs casually. “Been better. You were out the whole night. How did you find me?”

“Wolf, remember,” he says with a crooked smile, tapping the side of his nose. “Who owns this house?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, standing up. “You can’t stay.”

“Fine by me. Let’s get out of here.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up as well.

“I can’t leave. Not yet. Ozias won’t let me.”

“You asked for help. Help is here. Take it.”

Hazel turns away from Ronan. “That was a momentary lapse in judgment. I shouldn’t have reached out to Harvey in the first place. It only brought more trouble.”

“She’s been holding a lot of guilt, you know.”

“I know.”

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“She misses you.”

“I know.”

“I miss you.”

Hazel smiles sadly. “I know.”

Ronan looks around the room and then glances out of the window. The street below is quiet, with well-manicured lawns and nearly identical houses. The house across the street is the only one that looks lived-in, with a slightly unruly yard, though not so unruly as to appear abandoned.

A car turns around the corner and drives down the street. He doesn’t watch which driveway the car pulls into. He makes his way back to the bed, where Hazel has sat down, legs crossed, clutching a pillow in her lap.

“You did all of this? The house, the illusion?”

“Ozias pays me well.”

Ronan grimaces. “Do you love him or something? What does he have over you?”

Hazel shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Ronan looks like he’s going to protest.

“Nothing,” she says again. “Seriously, I chose to work for him. This is all my fault and that’s why I’m going to fix it myself. But for now, you have to leave. He’s in a meeting downstairs, so he won’t be paying attention. I think I can sneak you out of the back.”

For a moment, she looks so scared and fragile, and he almost agrees to leave. But the door swings open and interrupts him. Ronan stands to greet the vampire who enters the room, fists curled tight and hackles all but raised.

The vampire gives Ronan a terse, slightly curious smile and then holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Dominic. Nice to meet you.”

Hazel releases her breath, watching Ronan and Dominic shake hands. “Is he still downstairs?” she asks Dominic.

Dominic nods. “In the study. He sent me up here to get you.”

“Already running errands for him, uh?” She arches an eyebrow and smirks, but her expression remains reserved.

He meets her gaze and raises a finger to his mouth, his eyes glancing downward to indicate that whoever is downstairs is listening. Leaning close, he says something into her ear that Ronan can’t hear.

Whatever it is, she nods and glances at Ronan. “I have to go downstairs, but I’ll be back up soon.”

Ronan is already shaking his head, but he keeps his mouth shut, looking pointedly at the window. Earlier, when he looked out, he saw the slope of the roof and made note of the distance between the attic window and the tree just outside. He could jump down himself and survive the landing. Hazel would have to shimmy across the roof and climb down the tree, but even if she jumped from a low-hanging branch, he would be able to catch her.

Hazel considers the option, letting the possibility play out in her head while she bites her lower lip. Dominic nods encouragingly. He points to himself and then downward, then toward Hazel and the window, as if to say, I can cover for you while you get away.

Ronan watches as she struggles with making a decision. With a deep breath, she takes a step forward, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment of relief, Ronan thinks that she is going to come with him.

But when she wraps her arms around him, he knows she isn’t going to leave. His heart plummets down into his belly as she whispers, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She gives him one last squeeze and then steps back, leaving the room in one swift movement, the scent of lilacs the only remnant of her presence.

Ronan attempts to sit down on the bed while he waits but doesn’t stay seated for long. He decides to pace, arms crossed, eyes down as if he can pierce through the wood floor with sheer determination. He glances out of the window when he hears a car door slam shut. He can’t see the visitor at this angle, though he does hear the doorbell ring.

He hesitates for a second before making his way to the door, slowly pulling it back and poking his head out so that he can hear better. The voice of the visitor snakes its way up the stairs, and Ronan can just about hear the words.

“Why, hello Hazel, dear.

But it’s not the words that make Ronan’s hands tighten into fists, his teeth barred. It’s the voice, a particular timber of youthfulness tinged with a metallic coldness and dripping in thinly veiled threats.