Page 58 of Shadowkissed

Riven kneels beside me, brushing hair from my face, reverent and sickening.

“You should never have left,” he whispers, like it’s a prayer. “Youbelonghere.”

I shove him off me, fury boiling in my throat, but it’s hollow.I’mhollow.

Because there’s no warmth in me anymore.

No thread to Dante. No bond to anchor me.

Just emptiness.

Just silence where his name should be.

Riven stands and smiles down at me like I’m already wearing chains.

“You look like something precious with the light torn out,” comes Seraphiel’s voice from behind me and everything in me turns cold, despite the burn of hell..

28

DANTE

I’ve been through hell.

Literal and metaphorical.

I’ve been hunted, betrayed, broken. I’ve watched people I loved get buried before their time, and I’ve killed things that don’t stay dead.

But this?

This fuckingnothingnessinside me? It’s worse than any of that.

I sit in the corner of the loft, shirt off, sweat clinging to my back like guilt. The place is too quiet. My body’s still—more or less—but my brain?

It’s a goddamn war zone.

I feel like I’ve been blackout drunk for days and can’t remember what I lost. I know something’s missing. Someone.

Every instinct I’ve got is clawing at the inside of my chest, telling me Iforgot her.That I let someone slip through my fingers and now I’ll never get her back. But I don’t have a name. A face. Athreadto pull on. Just this ache. Thisitchunder my skin that won’t quit.

I’ve tried every tracker’s trick I know—scent, psychic tether, ritual, blood trace. Nothing. And that’s not normal. Not for someone like me.

The last of a bloodline that got wiped off the map before most people knew it existed. Guardians. Old magic. Ancient protectors of the Veil—created when the world first split into layers. Not angels. Not demons. Just… balance. Fangs and claws and fury sharpened into a promise.

We kept things from spilling over. We kept things from breaking. Kept things hidden and the balance of powers in check. Now, with the Veil cracked, we aren’t needed. We’re outdated. And almost extinct.

I dig out the box from under the floorboards.

It smells like cedar and stale air. I haven’t opened it in years—not since the pack banished me. Not since I walked away from the only family I had left and swore I’d never look back.

Inside: an old leather-bound journal. My father’s. A bone pendant—cracked, faded, still warm to the touch. And a piece of fur from the ceremonial cloak they burned when they cast me out.

I thumb through the journal. Most of it is spells and oaths, lines written in a dialect that’s half-lost to time. But I find the page I’m looking for.

The bloodline markings.

My family’s crest: a twisted circle of teeth and stars. Under it, a phrase in Guardian tongue:

"We keep the Veil closed not for ourselves, but for those who would never survive it open."

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