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Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile. “I’ll let you know once she’s paid.”

I shake my head, already regretting every decision I’ve ever made that led me here, watching the woman I love hold out her hand so I can pay off the girl I accidentally killed after the worst thirty seconds of my life.

This realm is cursed.

I’m cursed.

“How mad are you?” I ask carefully, running a hand through my hair like that’ll somehow fix the mess I’ve made—not my hair, the actual disaster that is my life. The tips of it are still green, courtesy of Ambrose, because apparently I can’t go one week without someone reminding me I’m a walking catastrophe. Fitting, really.

Luna doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at me, arms folded, expression flat in that way that’s never actually flat. It’s sharp, because she knows exactly how to gut me without a blade.

“If you had to scale it,” I try again, voice lighter, like maybe joking about it will make it easier to survive, “like, one to me-forgetting-your-birthday, or one to you-finding-out-I-once-slept-with-a-psycho-who-now-wants-blood-money?”

She snorts, rolling her eyes so hard I think they’re about to fall out of her head. “How could I possibly be mad?”

There’s a pause.

Then she adds, voice sweet as sin, “You lasted thirty seconds.”

I groan, dragging both hands down my face because I walked into that one. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

I peek through my fingers, catching the glint in her eyes—the way she’s smiling now, too sharp, too pleased with herself.

“You know,” she continues casually, “you could make it up to me.”

I lower my hands, suspicious. “How?”

She leans in, like she’s about to share a secret, voice dropping to that particular cadence that’s always dangerous when it comes from her. “Later,” she says, “when we’re back home… you can make me a clone.”

My brain stalls.

She grins wider, absolutely shameless. “You. And you.”

It takes me a second to recover. I grin slow, wicked, because that’s the thing about her—she knows exactly how to ruin me without trying.

“You’re lucky I’m a giver,” I mutter, voice rough now, leaning in like I’m about to bite. “I’ll even let you pick which one’s the real me.”

Her gaze flicks to my mouth and back. “Oh, I’ll know.”

“Will you?” I murmur, letting my fingers ghost over her wrist, because she loves when I play like this—like she’s the only person who could possibly handle me.

She hums low in her throat, smile all teeth. “One of you owes me gold. The other one’s going to owe me more than that.”

My pulse trips, stupid and messy in my chest, and gods, I love her.

“Tell me when,” I murmur. “I’ll split myself in two for you.”

She grins, wicked and bright, and walks away like she hasn’t just set me on fire.

And fuck, do I want to burn.

Lucien

The problem isn’t Silas’ stamina. Gods know, if that were the problem, we’d have solved it years ago—probably with a potion or an exorcism. No, the real problem is that the past won’t stay buried. And now it’s clawing its way back into our village, one ill-advised, regrettable decision at a time.

I pace the length of the decrepit sitting room—the one we’ve claimed as our makeshift war council, even though it’s held together with rusted nails and spit. The others are already seated, scattered around the room like a portrait of dysfunction: Orin leaned back, watching me like he’s already predicted this entire conversation; Elias slouched low in his chair, chewing on something he probably stole off a tavern tray; Riven standing in the corner, arms crossed, that permanent scowl carved deep into his face.