Page 49

The figures grew bigger, becoming life-sized. Past met present, and the larger figures of Carson and Ayla walked from the carriage, side by side. They approached the grave, now empty, a pile of dirt at its side.

Ayla stared at Carson’s ghost, her lips forming a tight line. She quivered. Once again, the visual retelling froze, waiting for her direction to continue.

“I can’t.” Ayla flung her face into her hands. She dropped her chin to her knees and rocked like a child seeking their own comfort.

“This time, you’re not alone.” I reached out, offering her my embrace.

She leaned in, and I wrapped my arms around her. For a moment, she tensed, restrictive for a final beat, before shuddering, surrendering in my arms.

This touch was different from before. I had healed her with ashflower—we had kissed and pawed. But I hadn’t comforted her, not like this.

Her scent turned sweet as she sobbed. Whatever circumstances had brought Ayla to me, her companionship contradicted my belief that my death was likely, a necessary sacrifice. If Ayla had lived through this—I could find my way too.

The water figurines remained, suspended in their walk from the road to the grave. Ayla sniffed, cleared her throat, and continued, “He brought me here. He was supposed to kill me, bury me. It may have been luck that saved me—that he hadn’t administered more of the drug. Maybe I survived because he underestimated me.”

The figures spun into action. Past Ayla struggled when she saw the grave, but by then, Carson already had the upper hand. She was nestled into the crook of his arm, and it was easy for him to wrestle her to the ground. She fought, her reflexes and strength stunned, dazed by her circumstances. He overtook her.

My stomach twisted, but I couldn’t flinch; I held Ayla still as she shivered.

Carson had Past Ayla pinned. He sat on her hips, holding down her wrists. She squirmed, failing to push him away as he brought her wrists together. He pressed them down with one palm, and with his freed hand, he grabbed his dagger.

Past Ayla resorted to begging. “Don’t do it, Carson!”

“Carson,” he cackled. “What a joke. I’m no lord.”

Ayla shook.

He continued, speaking as an assassin so confident in his kill he could boast, “When I was hired to kill you, I thought it would be more difficult. Wooing someone as jaded as you? Overcoming a trained part-fae in combat? I thought I’d have to work at it, but this? You were easy, so desperate for love.”

While bragging, he hadn’t noticed how Past Ayla had shifted, slow and subtle. She pulled her feet closer to her hips, prepared to pin his legs. She slid her bound hands to the side, finding leverage.

He smiled, lifting his knife—

She sprung. In one punching motion, she twisted, pinning him. Caught by surprise, the assassin lost his grip on the knife. The blade flew out of reach.

In my arms, Ayla breathed. “I can’t believe I pulled it off. There’s still a part of me that believes I should have died that night.”

“You survived,” I whispered, hugging her tighter. “You’re still here. And I’ve… I’ve got you.”

I blinked, realizing what I had said. I wanted to deny it. Could I truly support her? I had failed others.

I had made mistakes and learned from them. With Ayla in my arms, I vowed to do better.

Ayla snuggled closer. “Thank you.”

She let me hold her as the play of the past unfolded.

The assassin broke Past Ayla’s hold, and they both darted for the knife. She was faster. When it came time for the killing blow, she hadn’t hesitated—she drove the knife straight into his heart.

My Ayla twitched, squirming at the sight.

“If you hadn’t killed him, I would have done it for you,” I whispered.

Past Ayla stood there a long time. Not moving. She may have stayed there longer, but—

“Is it done?”the coachman called into the rain.“Let’s go. It’s too wet.”

Past Ayla twitched, reflexes taking over once again. Deepening her voice, she answered, “I’m burying the body now.”