This chapter things start getting a little ... heated ... so fair warning ; ) Also don't be afraid of that comment section curious to hear what you think! And I'm pretty sure it's proven to increase writing speeds.
Vi wasn't sure how long she stood there, staring at the door Caitlyn had walked through.
Only when a shiver rolled through her did she finally blink, coming back to herself. The damp chill from the rain still clung to her skin. Or maybe that was just the cold grip of everything she was trying not to think about.
The safe house had seemed big enough at first. Now, with Caitlyn gone, it felt small. Just a handful of rooms and a training area. Efficient. Temporary.
Without windows.
Without air.
Run, Vi
She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake the feeling creeping up her spine, the weight pressing against her chest the longer she stayed still. The sealed windows caught her eye again.
Caitlyn had left to track down whatever the hell the Lycans wanted with her, leaving Vi alone with her thoughts—never a good thing.
She dragged a hand through her matted hair, then peeled off her ruined tank top. The fabric clung stubbornly before hitting the floor in a wet slap, leaving her in just her cotton wraps. Her fingers brushed the bruises forming along her ribs, the deeper ones she could feel on her back and shoulders.
Vi clenched her jaw as she rolled her shoulder. Pain, she could deal with. Pain she understood.
It was everything else that had fallen on top of her over the last few hours she didn't want to think about.
Instead, she turned toward the punching bag hanging in the corner. It swayed slightly, like it was waiting for her.
Fine. If she couldn't leave—if she was trapped in here like some caged animal—then she was going to bleed off this restless, twisting energy before it ate her alive.
She cracked her knuckles. Then set to work.
At first, it was just movement. Muscle memory. Footwork. Jabs. Crosses. The steady thud of her fists against the bag filled the space. Rhythmic. Grounding. Familiar. Drowning out the silence.
Then her mind caught up.
Stillwater.
The damp, rotting stench of the cells. The chains. The screams. The guards. The walls pressing in. No way out. No room to move.
Her strikes sharpened. Turned vicious.
Werewolves tearing through her home. Blood. The pack descending like a nightmare made flesh. Claggor and Mylo. Vander. Powder screaming. Gone.
Her whole life flipped upside down in a single night. And now? Now she was being hunted by those same damn creatures—being told she wasn't just prey. That she was something more. Something they wanted.
Her muscles burned, but she didn't stop. She drove her fists harder into the bag, sweat rolling down her spine, mixing with the last traces of rainwater.
Then— there was Caitlyn.
Vi scowled, landing another sharp cross.
The Death Dealer . Too cold, too damn perfect. Always in control. Always looking at Vi like she was something to be handled. An asset, a means to an end.
A flash of Caitlyn's smirk and quirked brow passed through Vi's mind just as she was getting a good rage building.
The bag swung wildly, but Vi let it. Finally, she stepped back, chest heaving, breath hot in her throat.
Her hands ached. Split knuckles stung.
Good.
The exhaustion hit slowly, creeping up her limbs like a rising tide, dragging her back from the edge. What time was it? Caitlyn had said there were still a few hours 'til dawn, but with the windows sealed…
She glanced around, spotting a timeteller on the wall.
No wonder she felt like she was about to crash. She hadn't slept in almost 34 hours.
Vi pushed damp hair from her face and turned toward the small bedroom Caitlyn had pointed her to earlier. Dumping her bag on the floor, she moved straight for the bathroom—small, but functional. A working shower.
She cranked the water to hot and stepped under the spray, exhaling as the near-scalding pressure hit her sore muscles.
For a moment, it helped. The heat. The sensation of sweat, grime, and blood washing away, swirling down the drain.
Vi leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the still cool slick tile. Eyes shut. Breathe. Just breathe.
But it still wasn't enough.
Her knuckles still throbbed. Her body was spent, but her mind refused to shut up.
The walls were pressing in. The silence was suffocating.
She thought the workout would be enough. Thought exhaustion would make it easier to breathe.
But even now, standing under the steaming water, she could feel it creeping back in. Vi did her best to ground herself and fuckin' relax .
Her hands hung limply at her sides as she focused on breathing, tension slowly draining from her shoulders. The water traced the ridges of old scars, moving over the reminders Stillwater had left on her—of fists and chains, of a past that refused to let go.
She needed to focus on something else. Anything else .
Her fingers drifted.
The movement was unconscious at first. Barely there. Just idle, tracing damp skin at her hip.
She barely registered it.
Too caught in the warmth finally sinking into her bones, the way the water ran slow, deliberate rivulets down her stomach. Over muscle. Down her legs. Over scars. Over everything that made her.
Then—her fingers moved lower.
She didn't notice at first.
Not until the heat pooling low in her body shifted.
Vi stilled.
Her breathing changed. Slower. Deeper. She was suddenly aware —of her own pulse, hammering just beneath the surface. Of where her hand had wandered.
Of exactly what she was thinking about.
Shit
Her jaw clenched. Her head tipped forward, water streaming through short, damp strands as she tried to get a grip. To shove this away before—
But then—her mind drifted.
And she saw her.
Caitlyn.
The moment hit like a shot to the chest. Unbidden. Unstoppable.
Not the stiff, commanding Death Dealer with clipped words and cold precision.
No—Vi saw her standing in the dim light of the safe house. Stripped down, peeling herself out of her ruined catsuit with a practiced ease. That smirk. That raised brow.
The long, pale line of her back. The curve of her waist.
The slow, fluid movements as she slid into a fresh one—shiny, liquid leather clinging to her body, painting her in a way Vi had noticed.
And Caitlyn? She hadn't reacted. Hadn't cared. Like standing there, sculpted and stunning and so damn untouchable, was just routine.
Vi swallowed hard.
What would it have felt like to be the one to peel her out of that suit... to trace the lines on that perfect, toned body...
She realized—too late—her fingers had moved again.
Just barely. Just enough to—
Her eyes snapped open.
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
She jerked her hand away, flexing her fingers like she'd touched something burning, a sharp breath forcing its way out of her lungs.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Heat flared up her neck, mortifying and impossible to ignore. Her pulse was still hammering, her skin still too warm.
Grinding her teeth, she twisted the knobs roughly, cutting off the water.
The pipes groaned. The steam thickened.
For a long moment, she just stood there.
Dripping. Breathing. Trying to pull herself together.
Then, shaking her head sharply, Vi stepped out, dragging a towel roughly over her shoulders, as if she could scrub away whatever the hell that was.
But even as she moved to leave, even as she wiped a hand over the fogged-up mirror—
She could still feel it.
A lingering warmth, curling low in her stomach. A frustration she really didn't want to analyze.
And a name.
Stuck in her head like a damn curse.
Caitlyn
Vi exhaled sharply. Her breathing was still uneven, but she forced herself to focus.
A pack of werewolves wanted her. Who knew how many covens suddenly knew her name. She needed to get a fucking grip.
Shaking off the heat lingering in her body, she ran the towel over her hair, rough and efficient. The ache in her muscles from training was welcome. Familiar.
But this? The way her stomach still felt tight, coiled, restless?
That was something else entirely.
Instead, after rummaging through her bag she yanked on a clean tank top, the fabric clinging slightly to damp skin, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. The motion was automatic, familiar, grounding. Anything to push away the memory of cool skin under her fingertips, of how Caitlyn had looked —
Vi groaned, running a hand over her face.
This was stupid .
She barely knew this Piltie vampire murderess, and just those words alone should've been enough to let Vi know this wasn't worth thinking about. Hadn't she kept things cold, professional? Had flat-out said Vi was just an asset , nothing more.
And yet—
Vi exhaled sharply through her nose and pushed the bathroom door open. Her eyes flicked toward the couch, to the now-closed crate, and she could almost see Caitlyn standing there—tall, composed, unreadable.
Her jaw clenched.
Vi moved toward the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water - pointedly ignoring the shelf filled with orderly rows of blood. The cap twisted off with a sharp crack, and she took a long drink, letting the cool liquid settle her. She just needed to focus. To figure out her next move.
Vi's pulse was still too fast, her breathing uneven. She ground her teeth together, willing herself to pull it together.
I need to sleep.
She sprawled onto the stiff, unfamiliar bed, a loaded pistol she'd borrowed from the rather impressive collection of firearms now resting on the nearby table, brass knuckles tucked under her pillow. The sheets felt foreign, rough against her skin, the silence pressing in around her. Despite the exhaustion dragging at her limbs, she was still too wired, too restless.
She turned onto her side. Then onto her back. Stared at the ceiling.
She hated this.
The way her mind refused to shut up.
Just let me sleep, for once.
But Vi had always had trouble sleeping. Had it started with Stillwater or before? It didn't matter. Her nightmares were the same—gnashing teeth, the suffocating press of too-small spaces, the desperate need to break free of whatever trap her mind had locked her in. It was why she always took late shifts, why she spent more time at the boxing gym than in her own apartment.
It wasn't just the memories of the last few days—being hunted, barely surviving, realizing she was at the center of something she didn't fully understand. No, it was something else creeping under her skin now. Something sharper. More dangerous.
Vi squeezed her eyes shut.
Her personal Death Dealer. Those sharp blue eyes that saw too much. That ridiculous, unshakable control over every word, every breath, every movement.
Caitlyn, who moved like a predator—quiet, effortless, dangerous.
Vi exhaled slowly, forcing herself to push the thoughts away. This was ridiculous. She didn't have time for this. Didn't have the luxury of thinking about Caitlyn like that. She should be focusing on why the hell werewolves were after her—not on the way Caitlyn's scent had lingered in the room after she left.
She groaned, rolling onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. But it didn't help. The thoughts wouldn't stop.
The way Caitlyn had flinched, just barely, when Vi's fingers had brushed against her healed skin. The way her throat had moved when she swallowed, lips parting slightly. The way Vi had caught her staring, just for a second, before she'd shut it down, turned away like nothing had happened.
A slow, unsteady breath left Vi's lips. Her body was tense again, too tight, but it wasn't from frustration, or the suffocating stillness, or the weight of her past creeping in from the edges.
This was different.
This was heat curling low in her stomach, spreading through her veins like something dangerous, something she shouldn't touch—but already had.
She shouldn't want this.
Shouldn't be thinking about Caitlyn like that.
Shouldn't be imagining cool hands against her skin, lips grazing her throat, sharp teeth scraping along her jaw, breath hitching in that clipped, controlled voice.
Vi exhaled sharply, rolling onto her back again.
Fuck.
She dragged a hand over her face, as if she could scrub away the thoughts clawing at her mind. It didn't work. Nothing did.
Her body ached for something she shouldn't want.
But Caitlyn was still there, behind her eyes, filling the empty spaces in her mind, sinking into her skin like something she couldn't shake.
Vi groaned, rolling onto her side, her fingers already trailing down, ghosting over the hard planes of her stomach, flexing like she could still feel the memory of Caitlyn's skin beneath them.
It was wrong.
She knew it was wrong.
But it didn't stop her.
She could almost feel it—Caitlyn's breath at her ear, voice low, teasing, telling her exactly what she wanted to hear. Vi arched, her body tensing, her breath catching as she saw Caitlyn's teeth sinking into her neck until she finally—
It hit like a shockwave.
Vi rolled onto her stomach, pressing her burning face into the pillow, heart still hammering, the heat in her veins now tangled with something else.
What the fuck was that?
It wasn't just that she'd touched herself thinking about Caitlyn.
It was the fact that it wasn't enough .
That she wanted more.
And Vi had no idea what the hell she was supposed to do about it.
The first hints of dawn bled into the sky as Caitlyn strode through the grand hallways of Coven Kiramman, her thoughts still tangled in the night's events.
Why Vi? What did Silco's pack want with her?
Humans didn't fight werewolves. They ran. They died. Or they turned.
But Vi hadn't.
Caitlyn had seen it in the way she moved—fast, fluid, brutal. Not just some brawler throwing desperate punches. It was controlled, instinctive. Trained.
Something about it gnawed at her.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost didn't hear the whisper of expensive fabric.
Almost.
"Caitlyn."
She stopped instantly, exhaling slowly before turning. She had hoped to reach the labs before this.
Cassandra Kiramman stood at the entrance of her study, flanked by two attendants. Regal, poised—always an unshakable force. She didn't raise her voice, never needed to. It was enough that she had spoken.
And looking deeper into the study behind them—
Oh, for the love of the Ancients.
Dresses. A rack of them.
Caitlyn resisted the urge to sigh.
"Mother," she greeted smoothly, clasping her hands behind her back, slipping into the posture expected of her.
Cassandra's gaze swept over her, assessing, critical. Caitlyn could feel the weight of it. The unspoken disapproval. Black leather, reinforced corset, high boots still streaked with Zaun's filth—her mother saw all of it.
A flicker of something in Cassandra's expression. Not quite disappointment. No—disappointment required expectation of failure. This was simply calculation.
Cassandra turned, gliding into her study without another word. Caitlyn followed.
"How was your hunt?" Cassandra's voice was cool, detached in the way one might inquire about the efficiency of a well-maintained blade.
Caitlyn swallowed down her irritation. "Productive. But… Michael fell."
Cassandra did not stop moving, did not turn. Only a slight pause, enough for Caitlyn to know she was processing the loss—not in grief, but in logistics.
"How? Michael was one of our best."
Caitlyn stamped down the irritation that after serving as a Death Dealer for more than a century Michael didn't even deserve a moment of recognition from the leader of his Coven. Her mother valued calm and precision. So instead she adjusted her pace to match her mother's steps, pulling the recovered UV rounds from her belt. "A new weapon. The Lycans developed them."
Cassandra plucked the clip from her palm, examining the ammunition with idle curiosity before handing it back. "I find it difficult to believe Lycans possess the intelligence to develop something so precise."
"But mother I -" Cassandra cut Caitlyn off with a look but seeing Caitlyn's determination released a small sigh of resignation.
"Take it to Jayce. He will determine where those beasts stole it from and how they managed to kill one of our own in their hunt."
Caitlyn clenched her jaw. "They weren't just hunting tonight."
Cassandra stepped behind her grand desk, lifting a quill to sign some document. "And?"
Caitlyn's fingers curled at her sides. Her mother had been sending her into the night as her chosen blade since she was a teen. Trusted her to execute her priorities and to protect the Coven. But not once in all of those nights had she seemed interested in trusting her opinion when it came to Lycans and particularly Silco. "They were after a human. A woman. And they didn't kill her. They wanted her. Silco is up to something."
That, at least, earned her mother's attention—if only briefly.
Cassandra looked up, arching a single, elegant brow. A flicker of mild interest. Then, just as quickly, another dismissal.
"You give that mongrel Silco's pack too much credit," she said, returning to her work. "They are creatures of impulse, incapable of true strategy."
"Silco is no brute," Caitlyn said before she could stop herself.
Cassandra's quill stilled.
The silence that followed was deliberate, weighted. A warning.
Caitlyn swallowed down the rest of what she wanted to say.
Her mother tilted her head slightly. "No? He is still a beast. And you waste your time entertaining the idea that any of them are more than that. I taught you better."
Caitlyn stood still, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared.
She would not argue. She knew better.
Cassandra had spent decades molding her, sharpening her, perfecting her. Honing her into exactly what she needed to be.
A weapon. A Death Dealer. A future leader.
As far as Caitlyn was concerned, her mother's view was that being a daughter was merely something factual.
She had been raised to obey. To execute orders with precision. To understand her role, her purpose. And that purpose was not to question.
Her mother had forged her into something flawless.
Caitlyn inhaled, steadying herself. "Then why would they take her?"
Cassandra sighed, as if she were indulging a child's pointless curiosity. "Why do wolves chase prey? Instinct. Nothing more."
Caitlyn fought the urge to press further.
She had already taken too many liberties. Her mother had dismissed the topic, and that was the end of it.
"Regardless." Cassandra flicked her wrist, and one of the attendants stepped forward, lifting a gown from the selection.
It was a rich, dark, deep navy that shimmered under the candlelight. The bodice was structured, interwoven with the Coven's colors to look regal, designed for power.
A Kiramman dress.
Caitlyn felt something coil tight in her chest.
"You have an appearance to make tomorrow night," Cassandra said, already moving past the matter of the Lycans. Already done with it.
Caitlyn's hands clenched again at her sides. "I don't have time for—"
"You will make time."
Caitlyn shut her mouth.
"You are heir to this Coven, Caitlyn." Cassandra's voice was as sharp as a blade. "I positioned your role as a Death Dealer because it honed your talents. Because it made you better. But you are still a Kiramman with other responsibilities."
She turned, leveling Caitlyn with a look. "And Kirammans do not only stalk in the shadows putting down dogs."
Caitlyn inhaled, steady, even. She would not argue. She would not cross the line.
She knew her role. She had always known her role.
"Be ready," Cassandra said. "And don't be late."
Then, with a graceful turn, she was gone.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, her gaze falling to the gown.
It wasn't just an outfit. It was a reminder. A demand.
A leash .
She had killed more Lycans than she could count. Had practically bathed in the blood of their kind. Fought, hunted, executed her duties with flawless precision.
And yet, none of it mattered.
Because she was still hers.
Still something Cassandra had made.
Her mother saw her not as a person but as a construct—refined, sharpened, perfected.
And no matter how well Caitlyn performed, how obediently she executed her orders, how deep into the darkness she carved her legend—
Cassandra would always expect more.
Caitlyn tore her gaze from the dress, jaw tight, and turned sharply on her heel.
She had more important things to do.
Caitlyn moved through the undercroft of Coven Kiramman, steps sharp, tension coiled tight beneath her skin. The grand, gilded halls above gave way to something colder, more mechanical. Stone walls lined with sconces, the scent of metal and alchemical compounds thick in the air.
The labs.
The tension from her exchange with her mother still sat heavy on her chest. She hated how easily her mother dismissed things, how her voice alone had the power to keep Caitlyn in place, forcing her to swallow words she wanted to snap. But that was the price of being her daughter. The future of the coven.
The princess of House Kirimman, if you wanted to be archaic.
But Caitlyn had always preferred the title of Death Dealer. The one she'd earned.
Caitlyn pushed through the doors.
Jayce looked up from where he stood near a workbench, sleeves rolled to his elbows, thick arms braced against the metal as he studied some half-assembled weapon. Stark lights flickered over sharp features—angular jaw, strong brow, a presence that had only grown since his turning.
He had been human, once. A blacksmith. An engineer. A man who had made himself valuable . That had been close to two decades ago.
Now, he was more.
Luckily, his transformation had not stripped away his vibrancy. He still carried himself with the confidence of a man who could build or break the world with his bare hands. The change had merely refined him, honed his strength, made him faster, sharper—more durable. Yet he still smiled the same, still carried the same boisterous energy that made him impossible to ignore. If anything, he exuded even more confidence – if such a thing was possible.
And he was one of the few who could actually get her to smile.
"Cait!" Jayce's grin was immediate, boyish. "You look like you could use a drink. Or maybe a few rounds at the range? Either way, I volunteer for the former."
The tension in Caitlyn's shoulders eased, just for a moment. Damn him.
But she didn't have time for distractions. She crossed the room, flipping the clip of UV rounds onto the table. "I need you to look at these."
Jayce's brow furrowed as he plucked the clip up, examining the rounds. Across the lab, Viktor barely looked up from where he was hunched over some half-finished schematics. The pair had already revolutionized how Piltover adapted for vampires, with whole swaths of the city now operating under huge, stylized fans of shade that followed the sun, allowing the vampire elite to spend more time in and around the city during daylight hours. Not to mention the continued supply of cutting edge weapons and engineering that kept Coven Kirimman at the top of Pitlover's vampiric elite.
"The hell am I looking at?" Jayce muttered, tilting one of the rounds toward the light.
Caitlyn's gaze flicked toward Viktor.
Where Jayce was all fire and motion, Viktor was something else entirely. He leaned over his workbench, thin fingers tapping out an absentminded rhythm against the metal. He looked as he always did—pale with dark circles carved beneath his sharp eyes. He had been with the coven for years, even longer than Jayce.
And yet, he was still human .
The transformation that had made Jayce more would have killed Viktor. His body was too fragile to withstand it.
But frail did not mean weak, despite what other members of the Council believed. Their oversight, however, had been their Coven's gain.
Caitlyn had long since learned to respect the way Viktor's mind worked. The way he saw things others didn't.
Viktor finally sighed, barely glancing at the rounds. "A particulate nitrate coating, perhaps? A little ingenuity, but hardly revolutionary. "
Jayce scoffed. "Are you kidding? This is brilliant. "
Viktor made a noncommittal sound, still focused on his own work.
Jayce ignored him, already focused on the clip in his hand. "UV ammunition. Someone found a way to weaponize sunlight and pack it into a bullet. No more carrying around bulky UV lamps or flooding whole rooms with light—this is precise. Efficient." He let out a low whistle. "Cait, I hate how much I love this."
Caitlyn crossed her arms. "A werewolf killed a Death Dealer with it tonight. I need to know who made it."
Jayce frowned, rolling one of the rounds between his fingers. "Could be any number of human alchemists or weaponsmiths with the right funding. It's smart. Whoever put this together knows their way around vampire biology, metallurgy, and chemical stabilizers."
He hesitated.
Caitlyn watched him carefully. "Could the Lycans have made it?"
Jayce went quiet. Contemplative.
Viktor snorted softly. "Highly unlikely."
Caitlyn shot him a look.
Viktor finally turned toward them, dark eyes filled with skepticism. "Lycans are not engineers, Caitlyn. They don't create. They fight. They kill. They take. Even if they wanted such a thing, they would have stolen it, not developed it." He gestured toward the rounds dismissively. "More likely, someone made it for them."
Jayce exhaled, thoughtful. "I mean… he's not wrong. It's not that Lycans couldn't have done it. It's just that… Well, they wouldn't. " He flipped one of the rounds between his fingers. "They don't build. They destroy."
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, processing.
Viktor had already turned back to his work. "I'll look into it," he murmured, as if the conversation was already boring him.
Jayce smirked, nudging Caitlyn's shoulder. "What did you do to him?"
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "I walked in."
Jayce chuckled with a flash of fangs.
It was an easy sound, warm in a way few things in this place were. There had always been something almost brotherly about him. A protector's instinct, though he had long since learned she didn't need protecting.
But he was one of the few things that made this place bearable.
She exhaled. "Just let me know what you find."
Jayce gave her an exaggerated salute, grinning. "Aye, aye, princess."
Caitlyn groaned, already regretting this.
She turned for the door, leaving the two of them to their work.
But the tension in her chest hadn't lifted.
Because if Viktor was right, if Lycans hadn't made the rounds…
Then who had ?