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Not the pain of impact, but the pain ofchoice. Of betrayal. His muscles jerk beneath me, not out of aggression but desperation—like he’s trying to push me away and pull me in at once. His eyes meet mine for half a breath, the whites blown wide with a sheen of panic, and I see it there.

Not rage.

Not vengeance.

Regret.

He mutters something under his breath—quiet, fractured, lost beneath the crush of dust and power still vibrating through the ground. But I hear it. Ifeelit. The syllables echo through the fragile remnants of silence between us.

“I’m sorry.”

It hits harder than his charge.

Because Caspian Vael doesn’t say sorry. Not for cutting deep. Not for leaving bruises. Certainly not for obeying orders.

But this?

This wasn’t his choice.

I feel the threads of my power strain at the edges of my limbs, humming with anticipation, waiting for my decision. I could possess him now. Strip Branwen’s influence away, if only for a moment. Bind him to my will and force his stillness. But doing so would takemorethan I’m willing to give right now. I already feel the weight of too many choices pressing against my skin—each claim I’ve made tugging at the seams of what’s left ofme.

He writhes under me again, not to break free but tofalldifferently—like he’s trying to collapse into the earth rather than intome. My grip tightens, forcing him to look at me again. He breathes hard through his nose, sweat and grit smeared across his jaw.

“You’re not going to make me kill you for her,” I murmur, just low enough for him to hear. “Not like this. Not when I haven’t finishedruiningyou yet.”

His laugh is broken. Dry. Cracked.

Caspian’s nose is bleeding.

Not from me—not from any hit I landed—but fromher. From the pressure building behind his eyes like his body is trying to reject what’s been stuffed into it. A command too tight to breathe around. A leash pulled taut by a woman who doesn’t understand the limits of flesh or soul. Branwen doesn’t care how far she stretches her toys—only how loud they snap when they finallybreak.

His breath saws out in short bursts as he tosses me off him, not with elegance but with desperation, like his own body is becoming something foreign. The way he moves isn't violent. It'swrong. Jerky. Misaligned. His hands tremble like he's tryingto hold them still with his own fury, but they're still obeying her. Still inching toward another strike neither of us wants to land.

I hit the ground hard, shoulder grinding into grit and cracked stone. The Hollow beneath us breathes like a living thing—wounded, ancient, always listening. My back arches as I roll to my feet, slow, careful, not because I’m weak, but because I know better than to meet madness with recklessness. I know what Caspian can do when he’s like this. I’vefeltit. And even though I’m the one who always walks away, I never forget the price.

He stands across from me now, chest heaving, lips parted around a breath he can’t seem to catch. The blood is still leaking from his nose in thin, dark lines. It doesn’t stop him, but it tells me everything. That he’s losing. That Branwen’s in his head, pushing deeper, wearing him like armor and calling it love. He was never meant to serve. Not her. Not anyone.

We were kings in our own right.

And now we’re fighting in the dirt likedogs.

Because one woman can’t stand the idea of not holding the reins.

I’ve known him longer than anyone. I’ve seen him seduce rooms into silence, manipulate kings into giving him their crowns and act like he was doingthema favor. But this—being forced to strike out against the few people he hasn’t hollowed for pleasure—it’sunmakinghim. And I’m the only one left standing between what’s left of him and total ruin.

He lunges again, too fast to fully block, and I let his shoulder slam into my ribs. We crash into another heap, more gravel biting into my palms, his weight crushing the air from my lungs as he pins me down. Not to hurt me. Tostophimself.

He braces a hand beside my head, blood dripping from his nose onto the stone between us. His other hand fists in the collar of my shirt, knuckles trembling like he’s holding back something that could level everything around us.

“I don’t want to do this,” he chokes out. The words are low. Fractured. Carved from pain he’d never willingly show anyone but me.

“I know,” I say, voice calm even as my ribs scream in protest.

Something inside himcracks. A muscle twitch he didn’t mean to show. He shudders once—just once—and then shoves off me like I’ve burned him. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t speak. Just turns his back and clutches his sides like he's trying to hold himself together with the same hands that used to build pleasure like art.

I sit up slowly, brushing blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

We’re best friends.