Chapter 25: The Underground

The passage behind the painting was narrower than Elena expected. She pressed her palm against the cold stone wall, feeling the rough edges dig into her skin as she shuffled forward. The air grew damp, carrying the scent of earth and rust. Behind her, the muffled sounds of the penthouse—Damon’s shouts, the clash of bodies—faded into silence. Her heart hammered. Every step felt like a betrayal of the fragile trust she’d built with him. But she couldn’t stay. Not when the thing wearing her mother’s face lay unexamined, a weapon her father would use to control her forever. The tunnel curved downward, the ceiling lowering until she had to stoop. A faint light flickered ahead—a lantern, hung on a rusted hook. She stopped, listening. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. The silence was heavy, expectant. “You’re not supposed to be here.” The voice came from behind her. Elena spun, her hand flying to the knife hidden in her boot. A man stepped out of the shadows—tall, lean, with a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes glowed faintly amber in the dim light. “Who are you?” she demanded, keeping the blade between them. “Someone who knows what you’re looking for.” He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “The body Marcus wants you to call your mother. He hid it well, but I know where it is.” Elena’s grip tightened. “Why should I trust you?” “You shouldn’t.” He stepped closer, unafraid of her knife. “But you’re out of options. The tunnels stretch for miles under the city. You’ll never find it alone. And your father’s men are already searching.” She studied him. His clothes were worn, his hands calloused. A rogue wolf, exiled from some pack. But his eyes held no malice—only a weary knowing. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Rourke. And before you ask—I was exiled by your father. Ten years ago. He killed my mate for refusing to bow.” His voice hardened. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to hurt him. Helping you is the closest I’ll get.” Elena lowered the knife. “If this is a trap—” “It’s not. But we need to move. The Crimson Fang has patrols down here now. They’re looking for you.” She followed him into the depths. The tunnels branched and twisted, forming a labyrinth beneath the city. Rourke moved with practiced ease, his footsteps silent on the wet stone. Elena struggled to keep up, her boots slipping on the slick floor. “How do you know where she is?” she asked, her voice echoing. “I was there when Marcus brought it down here. He wanted to make sure no one would test it. But he didn’t see me.” Rourke glanced back. “It’s in a chamber near the old reservoir. He sealed it with a blood lock.” “A blood lock?” “Magic that only opens with the blood of a family member. Yours.” Elena’s stomach twisted. Of course. Her father had planned for everything. He wanted her to come, to bleed for her mother’s remains. It was another trap. But she had no choice. They walked for what felt like hours. The tunnels grew colder, the air thinner. Elena’s legs ached, and her lungs burned. But the thought of her mother—alone, forgotten in the dark—drove her forward. Finally, Rourke stopped before a heavy iron door, covered in rust and strange symbols. “This is it.” Elena stepped forward, her hand trembling. She pulled the knife across her palm, wincing as blood welled up. Pressing her palm to the door, she felt a pulse of energy, a deep thrum that vibrated through her bones. The symbols glowed red, and with a grinding groan, the door swung open. The chamber beyond was small, barely large enough for a single cot. On it lay a figure, covered in a white sheet. Elena's lungs stalled. She crossed the room, her legs threatening to give way. Slowly, she pulled back the sheet. Her mother’s face was pale, peaceful. Too peaceful. The skin looked waxen in the lantern glow, the lips carefully colored, the lashes arranged as if by an artist trying to imitate grief. Elena sank to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, and reached for the wrist. No scar. The locket beneath Elena’s shirt turned suddenly cold. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but the words changed as they left her mouth. “I’m sorry I believed him.” She stayed there, letting the grief wash over her. Rourke waited by the door, his eyes averted. After a long moment, she stood, wiping her face. She would not let her father see her cry. “Thank you,” she said, her voice raw. “For bringing me here.” Rourke nodded. “We should go. The patrols—” A sound echoed from the tunnel—footsteps, many of them. Rourke’s face hardened. “They’re here.” Elena grabbed the cold hand, then flinched. Beneath the skin, no pulse answered, but no death-scent rose either. Just silver, roses, and old blood. She pressed a kiss to the waxen forehead anyway. “I’ll find out what you are. And then I’ll make him pay.” She turned to leave, but Rourke blocked the door. His eyes had changed—cold, calculating. The mask of the weary exile slipped away. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he said, his voice flat. “But I made a deal.” Before she could react, something slammed into the back of her head. Pain exploded behind her eyes, and the world went dark.