Brynn Okafor stages other people's perfect nights for a living. The invitation to curate a private centennial gathering at the isolated ridge estate known as Duskbound is the largest fee of her career—and the strangest. The house is older than its maps. Its two owners watch her the way predators watch something that has already wandered too far inside the den.
Arvid Lind is pale, precise, and centuries past ordinary patience. Rafa Ortega is warmer, hungrier, and just as certain. They tell her the truth on the afternoon before the guests arrive: they are not human, they have waited a very long time, and the blood in both of them recognized her the moment she stepped onto their stone steps. Fated. Third. Theirs.
She can still walk away. The door is open. The path down the ridge is clear. Or she can stay in the room while the light dies and let two ancient men put their mouths on her, claim her in front of the glass, and rewrite every contract she has ever signed.
What begins as a job becomes a claiming. What begins as curiosity becomes the only night she never wants to end.
