Chapter Text
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Mason Van Garrett
The hall erupted exactly as Mason expected it to.
A perfect, delicious chaos.
He leaned back against a support beam, arms folded, watching the villagers surge forward like cattle panicked by thunder. Someone screamed, someone else cried out for God’s mercy, and the sound rolled through the rafters in a way that made the wooden ceiling tremble. Lanterns swung wildly on their hooks. A bench overturned with a crash.
Mason laughed, a loud, unrestrained, almost musical in its cruelty.
It was beautiful. A single suggestion, a single spark from him, and the whole village had caught fire. “Witch!” he had cried, and they followed him like dogs snapping at scraps.
He watched them turn on Alana Van Brunt and felt a slow, warm satisfaction uncurl behind his ribs. The girl stood pale, wide-eyed behind Margot — his Margot — who was desperately trying to shield her.
The sight made something feral knot in his chest.
Margot’s hand on another woman. Her body pressed against someone who wasn’t him. Her eyes, the same blue as his, lit with something that wasn’t fear but devotion.
Since the womb, they had been together. Two halves of one perfect whole. He had always been by her side, always her protector, her guide, the one she belonged to. That’s how Mason saw it, destiny, blood-twined and inseparable. Margot had always been his: his shadow, his mirror, his belonging.
And when she’d tried to pull away from him, in the past? When she’d tried to forget that sacred bond?
He’d reminded her.
Little marks, little lessons, carved in ways only she and he understood. Nothing dramatic, nothing that would draw the eye of servants or doctors… just enough to sting, enough to teach. Tiny reminders that she was his, body and soul. He was the elder by minutes, but by right, he was everything. The heir. The mind. The will. Margot existed because he allowed it.
And now?
She dared to give her loyalty…her affection…to someone else.
To Alana. A woman. A nobody.
Mason’s jaw clenched as he watched the two women huddled together, frightened and clinging to each other under the flickering lanternlight.
Margot should cling to him. Margot should fear him, obey him, need him.
His fingers flexed where they rested against the railing of the hall.
Alana Van Brunt had stolen her. She had ruined his sister, tainted her with softness, with sentiment, with all those poisonous little ideas about choice and affection. Filled her days with sighs and longing and foolish, romantic glances. Mason wanted to rip that influence out of Margot. Rip it from her skin, piece by piece. Strip her down to the bone and leave her remembering exactly where she belonged.
He wasn’t even sure if the two had truly lain together. Perhaps Alana hadn’t yet realised her “unnatural proclivities.” Margot’s girlish infatuation was likely one-sided.
He had known Margot since before either of them had names. He had known her heartbeat in the womb, known her cries in the cradle, known her fears and her weaknesses and her quiet, desperate hopes. Every fibre of her being was familiar to him — her expressions, her lies, her tells, the way her shoulders curled when she was ashamed, the way her breath changed when she longed for something she believed she could not have.
And he had seen that breath catch when she looked at Alana.
Her eyes had softened in a way Mason had never permitted. Her voice warmed. Her guard lowered.
Margot loved her.
He saw it in every glance, every trembling defence, every small step she took toward Alana as though pulled by an invisible thread.
And the knowledge struck Mason like a lash of fire.
His twin — his — giving her heart to another.
Alana had taken Margot from him. For that, Alana deserved pain. Punishment. A cleansing.
And the Hollow deserved the same. A village swollen with sin needed purging.
A surge in the crowd drew his attention, bodies pressing forward, hands grabbing, feet stomping. Someone knocked over a lantern. The hall’s air thickened with smoke and fear.
Mason’s grin widened. Yes. Yes, this was perfect.
Then a shape cut through the frenzy.
The schoolmaster.
William Crane pushed his way between villagers like he had any authority to command them, his voice choked with frantic desperation. “Stop it! You’ll hurt them!”
Mason’s smile snapped into a snarl.
The meddlesome, doe-eyed little schoolmaster. Pretty as a painting, all delicate curls and soft cheeks… and forever getting in the way. Forever spoiling things. Forever thinking he could stand between Mason and what was his.
Will was a problem. A problem with a pretty face.
A flicker of dark pleasure twisted in Mason’s mind at the thought of punishing him for his interference.
Crane would look very different with that earnest expression shattered. He’d sound different, too… the polite little schoolmaster’s voice breaking, stripped of all its moral certainty and soft-spoken reason. Mason could almost hear it now, those choked half-pleas tangled with disbelief, the sound of someone realising too late that goodness offered no protection in a world ruled by men like him.
The idea thrilled him.
He imagined those clever blue eyes, the way they would widen when fear replaced defiance. The way Crane’s trembling would blur into obedience once he learned what power truly meant — not righteousness, but the simple, exquisite power of one man bending another to his will.
Before he could indulge the image further, another figure broke through the mob.
Hannibal Van Tassel.
Mason’s whole body tensed. He loathed the man instinctively. Not because of anything Hannibal had done, but because Mason recognised something in him, an intensity, a quiet authority, a predator’s stillness.
It made his skin crawl, as though another wolf had stepped into his territory.
Even now, in the shifting lantern-light, Hannibal moved through the chaos as if untouched by it. People shrank away from him without understanding why. Power clung to him like a second skin.
Mason hated him for it.
And worse, Mason could feel him. That strange, cold aura, like winter’s breath against the spine. A whisper of something ancient. Something that made Mason’s instincts scream that he was not the only hunter in the room.
He imagined forcing Van Tassel to his knees. Imagined making him watch, helpless, gagged, restrained, as Mason punished the pretty schoolmaster for daring to oppose him. Make him watch as he carved obedience into the schoolmaster’s skin, the same way he had carved reminders into Margot’s skin. Teach him exactly who he belonged to. Strip away Crane’s stubbornness, the bravery, the little bursts of righteous fury that glimmered in him like sparks.
He’d remake Crane into something pliant. Something grateful. Something that would cling to him for protection because Hannibal Van Tassel wouldn’t be there to interfere — not once Mason was finished with him.
The thought pulsed warmly in his gut.
Oh yes. This village would be cleansed.
Alana.
Margot.
The schoolmaster.
The gentleman predator.
He would tear it all apart before he let anyone take from him what was his.
Then the hall erupted, not with noise this time, but with force. A crack like thunder split the air. Lanterns burst. Windows exploded outward in a storm of glass. Wind slammed through the room so violently that people stumbled, shrieked, and clawed blindly toward the doors.
Mason flinched. While the villagers cowered and hid their faces…
He saw.
Through the swirling dust and whipping wind, he caught sight of the schoolmaster. Of Crane, standing with his arms thrown out protectively before Margot and Alana. Blue light laced through his veins. His eyes gleamed with colours no natural fire could produce, green, blue, silver, swirling like stormwater in a whirlpool.
Mason’s breath caught.
Well, well.
The pretty schoolmaster wasn’t simply meddlesome.
He was sin. Witchcraft wrapped in soft curls and long eyelashes. Power disguised as something delicate.
A wicked grin twisted across Mason’s lips.
Oh, this was rich.
The Hollow really was drowning in witches, and the sweetest one of all had been masquerading as a schoolteacher. Pretending to be harmless. Fooling the entire village with his soft voice and earnest eyes. But not Mason. Never Mason.
He watched with rapt fascination as the wind obeyed William Crane’s rage, as the blue fire crawled under his skin like lightning trying to escape flesh.
Yes.
Yes, he wanted him.
Even more now.
Mason felt his pulse quicken, a thrum of triumph and greed.
The schoolmaster wasn’t merely pretty. He was powerful. Rare. A thing the world would fear… and that Mason could own.
Crane might be stubborn, might try to resist, but Mason had broken more difficult spirits than his. He knew how to grind down willpower, how to strip a person of their righteousness until they bent themselves into whatever shape he demanded. Will Crane would be no different.
His gaze flicked to Hannibal Van Tassel. That cold, watchful figure stood at the boy’s side, guarding him with an intensity that made Mason’s teeth clench. Hannibal moved a fraction closer whenever the wind surged, positioning himself between Will and the mob, like a loyal hound shielding its master…or a beast protecting something precious.
And precious he was, wasn’t he?
A treasure Hannibal clearly believed belonged to him.
Mason’s jaw flexed.
That would be a problem. But problems could be removed. Or broken. Or persuaded to kneel.
He watched the way Hannibal steadied Will’s arm, how Crane leaned toward him instinctively, unaware of what he was revealing.
Oh, this was delightful.
Two secrets folded neatly together: one a witch, the other a monster. Both deliciously dangerous. Both needed to be separated before Mason could take what he wanted.
Thunder rattled the beams above. Villagers fled past him, screaming, weeping, shoving for the exit; not one of them paying attention to the source of the storm in their midst. Not one of them saw what Mason saw. Fools. Every last one of them.
Through the swirling chaos, his eyes remained fixed on Will, on the boy’s trembling hands, his crackling power, the fierce desperation etched across his face as he shielded Margot and her little Van Brunt paramour. Crane was protective. Emotional. And easily manipulated.
Mason almost laughed again.
William Crane didn’t yet understand what he was. Didn’t understand what he was worth.
But Mason did.
And he would make sure the boy learned — painfully, beautifully — who he belonged to.
The moment the wind died, the villagers shattered into motion. They bolted for the doors in a frantic swarm, shoving and tripping over each other in their desperation to escape whatever unholy force had just torn through the hall. Screams echoed into the damp night as the mob spilt into the street, scattering like kicked ants under the cold drizzle.
Mason followed at a leisurely pace, laughter bubbling in his throat.
Raindrops hissed on the lanterns outside, turning the muddy street into a wash of reflected flame and trampled glass. The air smelled of wet earth and fear. The villagers ran helter-skelter toward their homes, clutching shawls over their heads, calling out prayers, curses, and pleas for mercy….as though God would bother with such worms.
Mason tipped his head back, letting the rain bead along his lashes. He couldn’t stop smiling.
His gaze slid forward through the curtain of rain.
Across the courtyard, beneath the sickly orange glow of the remaining lanterns, stood four figures: Margot, Alana, William Crane, and Hannibal Van Tassel.
Hannibal’s hand hovered protectively near the boy’s back. Will leaned subtly toward him, curls plastered to his forehead, clothing drenched, magic still simmering faintly beneath his skin like buried lightning.
The sight made something dark coil low in Mason’s gut.
Hannibal wasn’t merely guarding Crane. He was claiming him. A predator recognising another predator’s prize.
Mason’s smile flattened into a cold, thoughtful line.
That would never do.
If he wanted Will — and he did, desperately, obsessively — he would need to divide them. Break their connection. Turn the village’s fear into a weapon sharp enough to drive a wedge between the two monsters standing in the rain.
Perhaps even turn the Hollow against Hannibal himself.
Oh, yes. The mob could be useful. So malleable. So eager to latch onto any enemy they were told to fear.
And Mason had always been very, very good at rousing fear.
He watched the four figures through the mist, his gaze lingering shamelessly on Will. On the way, the boy’s lips parted when he breathed. On the trembling of his tired limbs. On the way, he reached instinctively for Van Tassel…too pure, too trusting to see the danger in the shadows watching him.
William Crane had no idea.
No idea the lengths Mason would go to claim him. No idea how easily he could be broken and remade into something obedient. No idea how deliciously sinful it felt to want a witch locked beneath his hand, trembling with power and defiance and fear.
He turned slightly, sinking deeper into the shadowed alcove at the edge of the courtyard, the rain cloaking him like a curtain.
Oh, Mason would enjoy this. He would enjoy it very much.