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“I think they got scared,” I say. “In their defense, the magick is unstable, and…” My voice fades. There’s no point in continuing when I can see from Braxton’s frown that he’s not buying a word of it.

“And what makes you think they won’t be scared to partake in whatever plan we manage to hatch?” he asks.

Though I must admit there’s logic to what he just said, I’m not quite willing to give up on the idea. “What about Jago?” I prompt.

Braxton dismiss the notion with a wave of his hand. “Jago’s living it up—totally embracing everything Gray Wolf Academy has to offer. Have you ever Tripped with that guy?”

I nod that I have, reminding him how I was paired with him and Elodie on my first Trip to 1745 Versailles.

“He’s in his element,” Braxton goes on, shaking his head. “Loves every bit of it. And, I must admit, he’s a natural. Both women and men practically throw themselves at him, eagerly offering up all their art and jewels in the hope he’ll agree to grace their beds. Besides, isn’t he still involved with Elodie?”

Catching Braxton’s eye, memories of his own history with Elodie flood my mind, causing a sharp stab of jealousy that instantly reopens the wound I was sure I’d already healed. It’s a feeling I despise in myself. It makes me feel petty, silly, and small. Leaving me to wonder if I’ll ever fully reconcile the fact that Braxton, much like me, was once vulnerable enough, lonely enough, and desperate enough to be seduced by Elodie’s glittering facade.

Sensing the sudden shift in my mood, Braxton tips a finger to the underside of my chin. “Hey there,” he says, voice soft with concern. “What just happened? What is this?”

He tilts my face until I’m looking at him, and in this awkward, embarrassing moment, I’m painfully aware that my eyes shine too brightly, my cheeks burn too hot, betraying my inner turmoil, the shame my pathetic jealousy has unleashed.

How can I still be feeling this way—reacting this way—when I’m supposedly deemed powerful enough, enlightened enough, to take down the great Arthur Blackstone?

Clearly, my father must be mistaken, seeing as how nothing has changed. I’m still the same old, grudging—

Braxton leans in, pulls me close to his chest, and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. The gesture so kind, so full of empathy and understanding, my self-incriminating thoughts instantly disappear as I melt deeper into his arms.

It’s in this instant, while I’m enveloped in his warmth, that I remember how I did something much worse to him.

How just a few days ago, back in Renaissance Italy, I abandoned Braxton, leaving him wounded, bleeding, and alone, so I could run off with Killian, the golden-haired liar.

“I’m sorry,” I say, finding his gaze. Though I’ve already apologized, confessed all my sins, was it really enough? Could it ever erase what I’ve done?

“Don’t,” Braxton whispers, soothing my brow with a caring sweep of his lips. “We can’t continue to beat ourselves up for what’s already past. All we can do now is move forward. You and me, together.”

This time when we collide, there’s a tender fragility to our union that was absent last night. Instead of our bodies crushing and crashing and devouring as though we could never quite taste enough, feel enough, get deep enough, this time we meld into each other in a slow, languorous burn.

“I love you,” he whispers, maneuvering me until I’m settled astride him.

I gaze down at his beautiful face, my heart bursting with affection for him; I grip his shoulders and slowly lower myself.

“Tasha—” he groans, my name fading into a long, tortured sigh.

I press a finger to his lips, quieting him, before leaning in to replace it with a deep, stirring kiss.

“And I love you,” I say, searing the words into his mouth, into his soul, as the two of us become one with each other.

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

- Nietzsche

24

As I head to my room, I send a quick message to Killian.

Me:Wondering if you’re free to meet up sometime today?

I stare at the words on the screen, feeling my stomach churn with disgust. I can hardly believe I’m actually arranging a meeting with the person who murdered my father.

And yet, there’s no denying Braxton is right. For some reason, Killian is reaching out, and I’m in no position to ignore him.

Though I don’t fool myself into thinking I can trust anything he tells me, maybe I can at least gain some useful insights.