Page 7

Down below in the courtyard, she stood with Petra and Milo, laughing about something. Her head tilted back, curls bouncing, one hand pressed over her stomach like she couldn’t breathe from giggling too hard.

And something twisted in his chest.

That laugh hadteeth. It dug in and lingered. He’d heard it through stone walls, echoing down the stairwell, like sunshine sneaking through locked shutters.

He turned away sharply.

He didn’t have time for this.

He didn’t have time for her.

But no matter how deep he buried himself in pack disputes and regional diplomacy,Lyra Ravenshadekept getting past his defenses like her very magic was designed to slip between the cracks.

It had beenfour days. Four days of her working quietly in his space, not doing anything overtly wrong, if you didn’t count the enchanted scroll that briefly started singing sea shanties—but also not doing anything to help him forget the pull.

She was everywhere.

Laughing with Petra. Trading herbal tips with the dryads. Sneaking muffins onto desks like some kind of pastry vigilante.

And always, she smelled like warmth and magic and trouble.

Jace had tried avoiding her. He took alternate hallways. Rescheduled his office hours. Communicated via notes delivered by staff who now raised their brows at him with just enough suspicion to be irritating.

But then he’d catch her humming in the archives, or feel her magic dancing in the air like sunlight through leaves, and suddenly the claws under his skin wouldn’t rest.

So he kept his distance. Mostly. Except when absolutely necessary.

“Lyra,” he’d barked earlier that morning, stepping just inside the door.

She’d jumped, nearly knocking over a teetering stack of grimoire translations.

“Morning to you, too,” she’d mumbled, cheeks flushed.

“You’re meant to be sorting incident reports by tier level. That stack’s from last year.”

“They were nostalgic,” she replied, brushing parchment off her lap. “Also, your filing system is aggressively grumpy.”

“I’m not interested in color-coded chaos.”

She’d smiled, slow and sweet. “Shame. I am.”

And then, just like that, she’d gone back to work, all breezy competence and humming mischief.

And he’d stood there too long. Again.

Now, hours later, Jace was back in his office, chair angled toward the fireplace though he didn’t care about the warmth. His desk sat untouched. His inbox overflowing. But he wasn’t reading field notes or reviewing security rotations.

He was brooding.

Which, fine, he excelled at brooding. Had it down to an art. But this felt… personal.

A knock broke his focus.

Calla Monroe stepped inside like she owned the place, which wasn’t technically true but close enough considering she’d helped half the staff with potions or hex reversals at some point. Her wild braid swung over one shoulder, and she carried a satchel that always smelled faintly of sage and secrets.

“Got that tincture you asked for,” she said, tossing a small vial on his desk. “For the ward flare-ups near Echo Woods.”

“Appreciate it.”