Chapter 2

Ten days left.

I woke up screaming.

The dream was still vivid—a dark throne room, blood-red candles burning everywhere, and a voice that seemed to reach into my bones. "Wrong girl, little one. They're preparing the wrong sacrifice."

In the dream, I'd seen Seraphina in her wedding dress, perfectly healthy and alive. And me, lying on a stone altar, my blood pooling beneath me. A tall figure had bent over me, pale fingers touching my left shoulder. "Your blood calls to me. Not hers."

The burn had felt so real.

I touched my shoulder now. The skin was hot, almost feverish. When I stumbled to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt, I had to grip the sink to steady myself.

The crescent birthmark was glowing brighter than last night, and thin silver lines were definitely spreading from it now, reaching toward my collarbone like delicate vines.

I took a photo with shaking hands, then went downstairs to breakfast.

"I had another dream," I said, sliding into my chair. "About the sacrifice—"

"Elara!" Seraphina's fork clattered against her plate. "Don't!"

Mom reached across to squeeze Seraphina's hand. "Sweetie, it's okay." Then to me, sharper, "Elara, don't scare your sister."

"I'm not trying to scare anyone. I'm trying to tell you that something's wrong—"

"Dreams are just dreams," Dad said, not looking up from his newspaper. "Stress does funny things to the mind."

I pulled up my sleeve. "Then explain this."

Mom glanced at the silver lines crawling up my arm and sighed. "That's probably eczema, honey. You should use more lotion."

Eczema. She thought the supernatural mark of a vampire's claim was eczema.

I put my sleeve down. "Right. Of course."

In the afternoon, the bridal boutique smelled like expensive perfume and false hope.

"Try this one!" Mom held up a dress that probably cost more than a car. "The lace detail is stunning."

Seraphina disappeared into the dressing room while I sat on the white leather couch, surrounded by tissue paper and champagne flutes I wasn't offered. Mom and Dad were both here, along with Marcus, all acting like this was the happiest day of our lives.

When Seraphina emerged in the first dress, everyone gasped.

"Beautiful," Mom breathed.

"Like a princess," Dad agreed.

Marcus just stared, and something in his expression made my stomach hurt.

"What do you think, Elara?" Seraphina spun around, making the skirt flare out.

"It's nice."

"Nice?" She pouted. "Just nice?"

"You look beautiful," I corrected, because that's what I was supposed to say. "Really beautiful."

She beamed and disappeared to try on another one.

The saleswoman approached with more dresses draped over her arm. "Is your sister wedding dress shopping too?" she asked me. "We have a lovely collection for—"

"Oh, Elara's not getting married," Mom cut in quickly.

The saleswoman blinked. "Really? I thought..." She glanced at Marcus. "Aren't you two engaged?"

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "It's complicated."

"Elara gave me her blessing," Seraphina called from the dressing room. "Isn't she the best sister ever?"

The saleswoman's expression changed to something between pity and confusion, but she smiled professionally. "How generous."

Generous. That was the word everyone kept using.

When we left for the jewelry store, I thought maybe the worst was over. I was wrong.

Dad led us to the counter displaying engagement rings, and my heart started pounding because I knew—I knew—what was coming.

"Seraphina should have a proper ring," he announced.

"Dad, I already have—" Seraphina started.

"The family ring." Dad turned to me and held out his hand. "Elara."

I looked down at my left hand, at the antique diamond ring Marcus had given me when we were sixteen. It had belonged to his grandmother, and he'd told me I'd wear it forever.

"Dad, this is mine."

"And you'll get another one later." His tone left no room for argument. "Seraphina needs it now. For the wedding."

"But—"

"Elara." Just my name, but the weight of eighteen years of guilt behind it.

I twisted the ring off my finger. It left a pale indent in my skin.

Dad took it and slid it onto Seraphina's hand. "Perfect fit."

She looked at it, then at me, her eyes shining. "I'll take good care of it. I promise."

"I know you will," I managed.

I excused myself to the bathroom, locked the door, and pressed my forehead against the cool tile. I wasn't going to cry. I'd promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore.

But when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back. The silver lines had spread to my neck now, just visible above my collar. They looked like delicate metallic tattoos, beautiful and terrible.

I splashed cold water on my face and went back out, because that's what I always did. I went back out and pretended everything was fine.

That night, I walked past my parents' study and heard their voices through the door.

"I can't believe it's really happening." Mom's voice was thick with tears. "In ten days..."

I stopped, hand on the doorframe.

"At least we gave her everything," Dad said. "Every wish, every dream."

"Do you think we neglected Elara?"

My breath caught.

A long pause. "What do you mean?"

"I feel like we haven't really seen her in years. Talked to her. Asked her what she wants."

"She understands. She's strong."

"But is that fair? She's our daughter too."

"We'll make it up to her," Dad said firmly. "After. We'll give her all the attention she deserves. All the love."

After. After Seraphina was gone. After the sacrifice was made.

After it was too late.

I pushed the door open. "Mom, Dad, I need to—"

"Elara, not now." Dad rubbed his temples. "We're exhausted."

"Please, it's important—"

"Honey, we've been wedding planning all day." Mom's face was drawn with fatigue. "Can it wait until morning?"

I looked at them both, at their tired eyes and worried expressions, all directed at thoughts of Seraphina. Never at me. Never really at me.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "It can wait."

I closed the door and went to my room, where I pulled off my shirt and stood in front of the mirror. The silver lines had spread across my entire left arm now, and new ones were starting on my chest, curling around my ribs like skeletal fingers reaching for my heart.

I was marked for death. And in ten more days, everyone would realize they'd spent eighteen years loving the wrong daughter.

The funny thing? I wasn't even angry anymore. Just tired.

I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, watching shadows dance in the moonlight. Outside my window, I could hear laughter from the garden—Seraphina's bright giggle and Marcus's lower rumble.

I got up and looked out.

They were on the swing set Dad had built when we were seven. Marcus was pushing Seraphina gently, and she was laughing like a child, her hair streaming behind her.

"I'm glad Elara said yes," Seraphina said. "She really does love me."

"She's a good person," Marcus agreed.

"Do you love her?"

I should have closed the window. Walked away. I didn't.

"I did," Marcus said after a moment. "But you're different. Special."

"Because I'm dying?"

"Because you make every moment matter."

I did. Not I do.

I closed the curtains and sat on my bed, touching the burning mark on my shoulder. A drop of blood welled up where the skin had cracked, rolling down my arm and dropping onto the white carpet. It formed a perfect crescent shape.

Ten days. I could last ten days.

And then none of this would matter anymore.