Chapter Nine

Echoes of the Past

Elysia smoothed the fabric of her uniform, still unsure how something so striking could be work attire. The fire-threaded embroidery seemed to pulse with life as she walked, heels clicking softly against the polished floors of the Midnight Mirage. Tonight was her first shift, and she was determined to prove she belonged—despite the unease that had clung to her since waking.

Then it hit her.

A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over her, warping the world around her. The gilded corridors of the Mirage flickered and distorted, the present slipping through her fingers like sand. Her breath hitched as she stumbled, and in an instant, she was somewhere else—somewhen else.

Fire roared around her, licking at shattered stone and splintered wood. The battlefield stretched endlessly before her, a cacophony of screams and steel ringing in the air. Shadows loomed, twisting and writhing as they consumed everything in their path.

And she was not alone.

Beside her, a massive werewolf stood, his silvered fur matted with blood, his fangs bared in a snarl as he fought against the darkness. His presence was a tether, grounding her in the chaos. He turned his head toward her, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she saw recognition in his eyes.

Her heart pounded, her lungs burning with the acrid scent of smoke. She knew this place. Knew this moment. And then—

The vision shattered.

Elysia gasped, stumbling down the corridor as the Mirage returned to focus around her. Her pulse raced, her hands shaking as she reached for anything to steady herself.

“Ronan,” she breathed.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, strong arms caught her, steadying her before she could hit the floor. Warmth radiated from the body pressed against hers, and an inexplicable sense of familiarity washed over her.

She looked up, and there he was—Ronan, his expression carefully guarded as his gaze flickered over her. His grip was firm, secure, as if he had expected her to fall.

Then, just like that, a slow smile spread across his face. “Be careful, those heels can be dangerous.”

Elysia blinked, still trying to ground herself in reality. Had he seen? Had he felt what she just experienced? Or was he passing off her moment of weakness as a stumble?

Where had he even come from? Had he been watching her?

All she knew was that the moment his hands touched her, she felt something settle deep inside her—something familiar, something impossibly calming.

And it terrified her.

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A Curse Upon Fate

Ronan walked away from Elysia, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. The Midnight Mirage pulsed with its usual rhythm—music thrummed through the walls, laughter and whispered deals wove through the air—but none reached him. His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the moment that had just passed.

She had gasped his name.

He clenched his jaw, silently cursing fate. She was remembering too quickly. Too soon.

Ronan’s fingers flexed at his sides as he pushed forward, his strides carrying him toward the private lounge at the far end of the Mirage. He needed distance, needed space to think. Elysia’s awakening was inevitable—he had known that from the moment she stepped through the casino’s doors. But he had hoped for more time to prepare and protect her from the truth.

She wasn’t ready.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair. The vision had shaken her—he had seen it in her wide eyes and how she trembled beneath his touch before regaining her composure. But worse than that, he had felt it too. The crackling energy between them, the pull that had never faded despite lifetimes apart. The same force that had bound them before was still at work, drawing her back into the past neither of them could outrun.

A voice cut through his thoughts. “You look troubled, brother.”

Dorian materialized from the shadows, his crimson gaze sharp with amusement, though his tone held a trace of concern. He leaned lazily against the marble pillar, arms crossed, watching Ronan with knowing eyes. “That’s rare.”

Ronan sighed, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible weight. “She’s remembering.”

Dorian’s smirk faded slightly. “Already?”

Ronan nodded. “She saw something in the corridor. A vision. When she came out of it, she said my name.”

Dorian let out a low whistle. “Well, that complicates things.”

Ronan shot him a dry look. “Understatement of the century.”

Dorian pushed off the pillar and took a step closer. “So what now?”

Ronan’s gaze darkened, his resolve settling like stone. “We give her just enough truth to keep her from breaking under the weight of it. But no more.”

Dorian arched a brow. “And when she remembers everything?”

Ronan turned toward the grand window overlooking the Mirage’s glowing skyline. “Then fate will have its way. And gods help us all when it does.”

Dorian was silent for a moment, then let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, if nothing else, it’ll be interesting.”

Ronan finally turned to face him fully. “I need you to watch her. Every move she makes.”

Dorian’s amusement deepened, his smirk growing. “She’s already run into you twice. She’s going to think you’re stalking her.”

Ronan ignored the jab, his expression unwavering.

Dorian exhaled, shaking his head. “So you’d rather she think I’m stalking her instead?”

Ronan’s lips quirked, but the humor never reached his eyes. “Just do it.”

Dorian sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if she catches on, don’t blame me when she tries to set me on fire.”

Ronan didn’t respond. He couldn’t afford to dwell on what was coming. All he could do now was hold the past at bay for as long as possible.

Even if it was already slipping through his fingers.

Stolen story; please report.

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Shadows and Secrets

The private lounge of the Midnight Mirage was dimly lit, the warm amber glow from the crystal chandeliers casting long shadows across the dark leather furnishings. The scent of aged whiskey and smoldering incense lingered in the air, a quiet reprieve from the storm brewing beyond the doors.

Ronan sat in his usual chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The liquid swirled slowly as he stared into its depths. His grip on the glass was firm, his jaw tense. He had always enjoyed the taste of fine whiskey, but it brought him no comfort tonight.

The door creaked open, and Astrid stepped inside. She paused in the doorway, her silver hair glinting in the low light as she surveyed the scene before her. “Your day has been that bad?” she inquired, her tone half-amused, half-knowing.

Ronan didn’t look up. He grunted, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a slow sip.

Astrid sighed, stepping closer. “Well, I won’t be improving it any.”

Ronan’s amber eyes flickered to her at that, wary but expectant. “Then don’t waste my time, Astrid. Say what you came to say.”

She lowered herself into the seat across from him, folding her hands atop the polished table. “Her visions… They’re going to get stronger.”

Ronan stiffened slightly, but he said nothing.

Astrid continued, her voice gentler now. “Something is blocking her from accessing the full truth. A barrier, placed deliberately. And it’s weakening.”

Ronan exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “By who?”

Astrid shook her head. “That, I don’t know. But the fact that it exists at all tells us something important. Someone didn’t want her to remember. Not just the past—but what she is.”

Silence settled between them. Outside, the Mirage continued its dance of illusion and indulgence, but reality pressed heavy against them both in this moment.

Finally, Ronan ran a hand through his dark hair, his frustration evident. “How much time do we have before the memories break through completely?”

Astrid’s gaze darkened. “Not long. And when they do, there’s no telling what it will unleash.”

Ronan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The weight of the past and the inevitability of what was coming bore down on him like a specter from another life.

“Then we need to be ready,” he murmured. “Before it’s too late.”

Astrid nodded, her expression unreadable. “And we need to make sure she survives it.”

With that, she rose, leaving Ronan alone with his thoughts and his glass of whiskey. The shadows of their conversation linger long after she has gone.

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A Night in the High Roller Lounge

The High Roller Lounge was a spectacle of excess, filled with men and women with more money than restraint. Tonight, the casino pulsed with energy, the hum of conversation and laughter mingling with the clinking of ice in crystal glasses. Every table was alive with bets, whispers of strategy, and the occasional burst of triumph or frustration.

Elysia wove through the crowd, her new uniform catching the dim golden light. She wasn’t alone in her frustration—the other girls were struggling with the elaborate sleeves, their movements hindered as they rushed from table to table. “New uniforms?” one of them grumbled as she brushed past. “Yeah, right.”

Elysia just shook her head, focusing on the job.

What she couldn’t ignore, however, was the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The other servers were distracted, their eyes darting to a tall, elegant figure standing off to the side, watching.

Elysia leaned toward one of them, lowering her voice. “Who is that?”

The girl barely glanced at her. “Dorian. The owner’s number two. He never just lingers like that.”

Elysia frowned. She didn’t have time to figure it out. The lounge was packed, and she had work to do.

She carried out bottle service, delivering extravagant drinks to customers who barely noticed her. Most were subtle enough, but one table stood out—a boisterous group, laughing too loud, celebrating something she hadn’t caught. At the head of it sat a young man with the air of a professional poker player. He looked like a real playboy, radiating confidence and recklessness.

She set down their newest indulgence—a one-million-dollar bottle of Diva Vodka—just as she turned to leave. Before she could take another step, a hand grabbed her ass.

Before the man could even remove it, Dorian was there.

In a blur of movement, he caught the gambler’s wrist, twisting his arm behind his back with a force that made the man yelp. Dorian leaned in, his voice low and deadly. “The girls are off limits.”

The man’s mouth opened, whether to apologize or protest, but the grip on his arm tightened just enough to cut him off. The tussle sent the expensive bottle tumbling to the floor, shattering on impact. A gasp rippled through the nearby tables.

The gambler wrenched free as Dorian released him, clutching his arm as he jumped up, face red with indignation. “That bottle—”

Dorian sneered, his crimson gaze flickering. “That is the cost of grabbing the girls.” He took a slow step forward, lowering his voice. “Do it again, and the price is much steeper.”

Silence spread through the lounge like a shockwave. The man held his tongue, wisely choosing to slink back into his seat.

Elysia barely registered the aftermath. Her heart was still pounding as she rushed to the back, barely able to process what had just happened. What the hell was that?

She wasn’t left wondering for long. Moments later, Dorian strode through the staff entrance, his expression unreadable as he stopped before her.

“Follow me,” he said.

Elysia swallowed hard, quickly falling into step beside him. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Dorian stopped abruptly, cutting her off with a sharp look. “You have nothing to apologize for. You did nothing wrong.”

She blinked up at him, still unsure of what to say.

Dorian exhaled, his gaze flicking over her uniform before settling back on her face. “However, this is clearly not the place for you.”

Elysia’s stomach twisted. “Are you—”

“I will find something more appropriate,” Dorian said.

And with that, he turned, leaving Elysia standing there, wondering what she had just stepped into.

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The Private Lounge

Dorian led Elysia down a quiet, dimly lit corridor, the low hum of the Midnight Mirage’s revelry fading with each step. She followed silently, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from uncertainty. After the chaos of her first shift, she wasn’t sure what to expect next.

The door at the end of the hall loomed before them, guarded by intricate carvings of twisting shadows and moonlight. Dorian pushed it open with ease, revealing a lavish private lounge beyond. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and smoldering cigars, contrasting sharply to the polished chaos outside.

Ronan sat at the center of the room, his dark gaze on a figure across from him. Malrik.

Malrik was a presence that demanded attention. He exuded power, his form wrapped in an immaculately tailored suit that shimmered subtly under the dim lights, its intricate designs resembling interwoven sigils of control and power. His skin was pallid, stretched over sharp, aristocratic features etched with deep, ancient scars that pulsed faintly with an eerie crimson glow. His crimson eyes burned with intelligence, and his lips, lined with fangs that glinted under the light, curled into a calculating smirk. He held an air of practiced elegance that barely concealed the ruthless predator beneath.

Ronan had been mid-sip when he glanced up and nearly choked on his whiskey for the first time in ages. His dark eyes flicked between Elysia and Dorian, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass.

Dorian smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Boss, I would like to introduce you to the newest waitress of the private lounge.”

Elysia blinked in confusion as Malrik extended a hand toward her, his expression unreadable. “A pleasure,” he said smoothly. She hesitated before shaking it, feeling the cold strength beneath his grip.

Malrik’s gaze flicked to Ronan for some explanation, but before he could speak, Ronan cut in sharply, “We have already met.”

Malrik arched an eyebrow but nodded in understanding. His curiosity was piqued, but Ronan’s reaction told him more than words could.

Reveling in Ronan’s discomfort, Dorian leaned back with a knowing grin. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer the high rollers to grab her ass while she delivers their bottle service?”

Ronan shot to his feet, straightening his jacket as if trying to compose himself, but the fury in his stance was impossible to ignore. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with barely contained anger.

Malrik, watching the exchange with open amusement, leaned back into his seat. “You two are absolutely insane,” he muttered, sipping his drink.

The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably, tension crackling in the air like a storm on the horizon. Finally, Elysia cleared her throat, cutting through the moment with quiet resolve.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice firm despite the uncertainty curling in her stomach. “I can handle myself if you’d prefer I service the high roller lounge.”

Ronan’s head snapped toward her, his frustration evident. Malrik’s smirk deepened, watching how the game pieces moved in real time.

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, I like her.”

Ronan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before pinning Dorian with a sharp glare. “This is fine. Thank you Dorian”

Elysia folded her arms. “I don’t need protecting.”

Malrik hummed, his fingers tapping idly against his glass. “She’s got fire. I see why you’re both so interested.”

Ronan ignored him, his gaze locked onto Elysia’s. “You’re not working the high roller lounge. End of discussion.”

Elysia frowned but said nothing further.

Dorian grinned.

Malrik just shook his head, amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. “This is going to be interesting.”

Ronan took a long, slow sip of his whiskey, as if trying to wash away the irritation curling in his chest. But even as the conversation shifted back to business, his mind remained on Elysia. And that was a problem.