Page 7

I meet her gaze, let the moment stretch just long enough to watch her breath hitch, then flick my attention to Silas.

"Tomorrow," I say coolly, standing again, "you’re cleaning every last one of those frogs out of my room. Alive or dead."

Silas groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. "They were a gift, Ambrose. You’re so ungrateful."

I glance down at Luna one last time, let my gaze drag slow over the mess of her—mud-streaked, breathless, dangerous.

"You’re both disasters," I say quietly.

And then I turn, slipping back toward the door.

Because if I stay any longer, I’ll do something stupid. Like lie down in the mud beside her. Like let her win.

And I’m not ready for that.

There are exactly three places in this house I consider tolerable. My room. The balcony above the cathedral ruin. And the small study Orin’s claimed as his den, which somehow always smells of old parchment and dried blood.

But my room is now a swamp.

And I’m not in the mood to burn it down. Yet.

So I make my way to the second-worst option: Silas’s room. The crown jewel of aesthetic atrocity. His bed’s draped in fabrics that clash so violently they could be declared war crimes. The air smells like sugar and something faintly demonic—probably his cologne, or one of those experiments he insists isn’t illegal because we’re in a "non-jurisdictional magical plane."

Still. It’s clean.

And I’m not above revenge laced with petty pleasure.

I strip down to my undershirt and pants, toss my ruined shirt over the back of his chair, and sprawl across his bed like I fucking own it. One arm tucked behind my head. Legs crossed at the ankle. The queen-sized monstrosity creaks beneath me—too soft, too wide. Everything about it feels excessive, indulgent.

Just like him.

Perfect.

I wait. The clock ticks past two before the door creaks open.

Silas slinks in, mud-streaked and grinning to himself like he’s just won a goddamn war. He flicks the lantern on—and freezes.

He sees me. Stretched across his bed, calm as death. One brow raised. Not moving.

“Absolutely not,” he says immediately, voice low and horrified, like he’s seen a ghost. “This is sacred ground.”

I don’t blink. “It’s real estate. I’ve claimed it.”

“You can’t just—”

“I did.”

Silas throws up both hands. “This is a hate crime.”

I smile—slow, teeth barely bared. “Consider it hospitality. You ruined my room. I accept your bed as reparations.”

He paces two steps, gestures wildly. “There’s seven other options.”

I let my gaze rake over him. Mud on his thighs. Leaves in his hair. Something still wet on his sleeve. “You think I’m sleeping in a communal space? With Elias’s snoring and Riven’s nightmares?”

“Cas snores too.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with sadness incarnate either.”