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But I see it.
And I win.
Keira asks to speak to me alone. I want to laugh in her face. Tell her to fuck off, the way she deserves. But I don’t. Because curiosity is its own sickness. And I’ve never been good at resisting poison that comes in pretty packaging.
She waits until the others disperse, until even Lorian offers her a sharp glance that borders on warning. She ignores it. Of course she does. Keira’s always loved being on the edge of disobedience—without ever paying the price for it.
I follow her into one of the ruined parlors, where the ceiling bows inward like the house itself is tired of surviving her.
The door shuts behind us.
She doesn’t speak at first. She just removes her hood, shakes out rain-dark hair, and turns to face me with that fucking smile.
The same one she wore the last time I saw her. Right before she tore out my heart and handed it back like a broken trinket she couldn’t bother to repair.
“Ambrose,” she says, like it’s still hers to use.
“You’re three syllables too close to me,” I murmur. “Step back or say something worth the risk.”
She laughs. Not loud. Not bitter. That low hum she always used when she thought she’d already won.
“I thought you’d be angrier,” she says, drifting further into the room. “You always led with vengeance.”
“No,” I correct smoothly, “I led with precision. You just mistook the blade for something personal.”
Her gaze flicks to the side. Not shame. Strategy. She’s checking her angles. Measuring what she can salvage. What she can still control.
“I didn’t know about Luna,” she says after a moment, and I almost roll my eyes.
“Didn’t you?” I drawl. “That would make you the only immortal in this realm who didn’t. But then again, selective ignorance has always been your favorite alibi.”
Keira doesn’t flinch. But she comes closer, which is worse. She stops two steps from me, and I feel the familiar tug in my chest—the one I’ve spent months pretending doesn’t twist.
Her bond still hums beneath my skin. Not active. Not allowed. Butthere. Like a loaded gun with a broken safety.
She reaches for me.
I catch her wrist mid-air.
“Don’t,” I say, voice low, lethal. “You don’t get to touch what you discarded.”
“I didn’t discard you.”
“No?” I raise a brow. “Because it felt a lot like being gutted and left to rot.”
Keira's lips part. The act begins. The part where she pretends regret. Where she builds scaffolding around her actions with excuses carved from silk and sorrow.
I cut her off.
“You want to know the real problem, Keira?” I step in now, closing the space between us like a closing fist. “It’s not that you chose power. It’s that you thought I would beg to be part of it.”
Her breath stutters. Just slightly. Just enough.
I lean in.
“And now you’re here,” I whisper against her ear, “pretending this is about some council protocol, when what you really want is to see if I still bleed for you.”
My mouth curls into a slow, humorless smile.