Page 18

I scrub a hand down my face and mutter under my breath, "What the hell just happened."

Because I’m not sure if I’ve just been courted, cursed, or conscripted into a goddamned ritual marriage. And I am definitely too embarrassed to ask.

I don’t know how long I stand there after Orin leaves—just staring at the door like it might open again and offer me an explanation, something simple, something human. It doesn’t. Instead, there are two bouquets sitting on my desk like a spell half-finished. One living. One dead.

I drag a hand over my face, huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh, and then bolt for the hallway before anyone else can knock, or worse, decide they want to "formally observe" me next.

I don’t go downstairs. I don’t go to Elias or Silas, because I already know how that’ll go. Silas will turn it into some kind of romantic disaster. Elias will make it worse, in that dark, snarky way of his, like the mere idea of me being courted will make him self-destruct.

No.

There’s only one person I can go to for this. I close my eyes, slipping under the thrum of my own heartbeat, slipping into the place where the bond lives—silver-threaded, bruised at the edges but still warm, still alive.

Caspian.

It’s faint, like everything in him is these days. His presence curled in on itself, too quiet, tucked somewhere away from all of us.

I follow the pull. Find him exactly where I knew he’d be. The second-floor study, the door cracked open just enough to say he doesn’t want to be left alone, even if he’s pretending otherwise. I knock once, lightly, pushing the door open without waiting for permission.

Caspian doesn’t look up from where he’s seated in the corner chair, legs pulled beneath him, a book resting on his lap that he’s not really reading. The way his body folds in on itself makes something soft ache behind my ribs—because I remember when he used to take up all the space in a room without trying.

When he used to smile.

His head tips slightly when he feels me cross the threshold, eyes flicking up from beneath the sweep of dark lashes.

"You’re stomping," he murmurs, voice low and rough like it’s been pulled through sandpaper.

"I’m not stomping."

"You stomp when you’re overwhelmed."

I stop at the edge of the rug, folding my arms over my chest like it’ll keep me together.

"Orin was just in my room."

That gets his attention. Caspian’s gaze sharpens, the book forgotten, shoulders straightening slightly beneath the oversized cardigan he always ends up in these days.

"And?" he prompts, careful.

"He brought me flowers."

Caspian’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Almost.

"Two bouquets," I add. "One alive. One dead."

He hums low in his throat like that explains everything.

"It’s a courting ritual," he says simply, like this is obvious.

"It’s a what."

Caspian finally looks at me properly, gaze warm and tired but clear. "Orin’s ready to bond with you."

The words land like a fist between my ribs, sharp and unexpected.

I blink at him. "What?"

"It’s old magic," he continues quietly, voice smoothing into something softer, like he’s explaining something dangerous to a child who hasn’t learned to flinch yet. "From where he’s from. From what we used to be."