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Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s regret in her gaze, threaded through the lines of her mouth like she can’t decide whether to apologize or argue with me again.

“I’m sorry,” she says, soft. Not for the blood. Not for the knife. “For not moving.”

I hiss as she presses harder into the wound, biting down on a curse. Her touch is brutal, but her voice is gentle, like she thinks the contrast makes it okay. “I didn’t want this to happen,” she whispers, eyes scanning my face like I’m supposed to believe that’s enough. “I thought… I thought he wouldn’t—”

I laugh. Dry. Bitter. Ipushher back.

Not hard. Just enough to make her stumble, enough to make sure she feels the heat behind it. Her hands fall from my side, red and trembling, and the wound starts bleeding again—but I don’t care.

“You thought?” I spit. “You thoughtwhat, exactly? That he’d remember who he is? That the man with knives for fingers and a leash around his spine would come charging at you out of love?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. She doesn’t look at me.

Good.

Because I can’t take herlookingat me right now.

“He’s not done,” I snap, rising to my feet. The wound screams, but I don’t let it slow me. “And if you think that moment of hesitation saved you, you’re dumber than I thought.”

I feel it before I see it.

Caspian.

His magic returning like a wave crashing against the shore—faster now. Meaner. The air changes, the Hollow pulling tighter around us as his energy hones in, singular andhungry. Lust warped into something unrecognizable. He’s coming back.

I step in front of Luna again, dragging her behind me without ceremony.

“You want to die for your ideals, fine,” I mutter. “But you’re not dying while I’m still bleeding for you.”

Riven

Lucien looks pissed. Not in the usual way—where his irritation is measured, folded neatly behind a polished glare and a sharp comment that cuts deeper than a blade ever could. This is different. He’s flat on his back, dirt streaking his jaw, blood drying under one nostril, and the fury burning in his eyes isn’t about pain.

It’s aboutposition.

He’s furious that he’sbeneathme.

That I put him there.

His pride—more brittle than bone, more volatile than my rage—can’t handle being pinned. But the bastard isn’t trying to get up either. Which means something else is going on beneath all that pristine arrogance. Something that has nothing to do with Branwen’s leash.

His breathing slows.

That tells me more than anything.

If she were in his head right now—if her hand was still wrapped around his spine like a leash—he wouldn’t be stilling. He wouldn’t bethinking. He’d be snarling. Lashing out. Throwing magic like words he’d regret later.

But he’s not doing any of that.

And that nosebleed? It’s stopped. Branwen’s magic always bleeds them when she’s pulling strings too tight. It stops when she’s distracted. Redirected. So I know she’s focused onsomeone else now. Probably Caspian, considering the roar of corrupted lust still vibrating through the Hollow.

So for now—Lucien is lucid.

Which means we’ve got seconds.

“You done?” I mutter, voice low and rough, holding my arm braced across his chest, not pinning him fully—justremindinghim I could.

Lucien exhales through gritted teeth. His eyes flick to mine, burning with something smarter than anger. Calculation. Familiar.Friendship, even. Beneath all the titles, all the power—Lucien has always been the one whosees. The one who keeps count while the rest of us burn.