Page 63

ASH

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I lean against the corridor wall outside the interrogation chamber, trying to process what just happened. The three courts know everything now. My secret’s blown. Davis is captive. And tomorrow?—

Tomorrow I face trials that could end with my execution.

Tomorrow might be my last day breathing. Ice crystallizes in my veins at the thought, making every heartbeat feel borrowed. I’ve faced death before, but never with so much left undone. Never knowing I might die without ever really living.

The Academy corridors feel different now, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every shadow could hide an assassin. Every footstep could belong to someone sent to eliminate the Wild Court threat before trials even begin.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was Professor Morgan teaching combat techniques.

Now I’m Ashlynne Moonshadow, last heir of a bloodline three courts spent centuries trying to eradicate.

“Breathe, root-born.” Whispen’s voice floats beside my ear, his blue light dimmed to something less conspicuous. “The storm has passed. For now.”

“Has it?” My voice comes out raw, scraped thin by hours of magical assault and political maneuvering. “They wanted to kill me in that room. Would have, if not for the Morrigan.”

“But they didn’t. You survived. The protection held.”

Barely. When those three-court magics hit me, trying to strip away what they thought was glamour, I felt my very essence nearly tear apart. Only the Morrigan’s intervention stopped them from accidentally committing regicide through ignorance.

The debt bond on my wrist pulses suddenly, silver thread that connects back toward the northern tower. Kieran felt my distress through whatever magical connection we’ve forged.

Before I can decide whether to follow that pull, arctic air sweeps through the corridor.

“Troublesome thing.”

The voice slides between my ribs like silk-wrapped steel. I turn to find Kieran materializing from shadows, winter-pale eyes cataloging me from head to toe.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he says, moving closer.

“Feel like it too.” I push off from the wall, legs steadier than expected. “Your father’s representatives were... thorough.”

“Lord Malachar is many things. Gentle is not among them.” His jaw tightens. “What did they do to you?”

“Tried to strip away magic they thought was concealment. Would have killed me if the Morrigan hadn’t intervened.” The words taste like copper and near-death. “Turns out attempted regicide through ignorance is still regicide.”

Something dangerous flickers across his features. “They nearly?—”

“But they didn’t.” I step closer, drawn by the steady cold radiating from him. “I’m alive. Exposed, politically fucked, and probably marked for assassination, but alive.”

Those pale eyes search my face, looking for damage beyond the physical. “What do you need?”

The simple question nearly breaks me. Not what I owe, not what’s expected, not what serves court politics. What do I need?

I don’t answer right away. I’m watching him—this cold, composed male standing too still, too silent.

And then I see it. The tremor in his fingers, the pulse fluttering too fast in his throat.

He’s not okay either.

“Kieran,” I whisper.

He looks away like it hurts to meet my gaze. Like he’s afraid I’ll see how close he is to shattering.

My throat tightens. I grip the wall to keep from sinking to the floor. The corridor tilts slightly—either the lighting or my sense of self is fracturing.

No one’s asked me that in years. Not since before the betrayals. Not since before Davis rewrote my idea of choice.

And the fact that Kieran—cold, deadly, Unseelie prince Kieran—is the one asking?

Maybe that’s what undoes me.

“I need to stop thinking about tomorrow. About trials that might be my execution. About dying without ever...” I swallow hard. “I need to feel alive, Kieran. Really alive. If tonight’s all I have, I want it to matter. I want to remember what I’m fighting for.”

Understanding flashes across his features—not just desire, but recognition of the same desperation clawing at his chest. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t demand compliance. Just turns and walks toward the northern tower, shadows parting before him like willing servants. The choice is mine.

I follow.

His quarters are exactly what I expected—elegant, controlled, cold enough to see my breath. But tonight, warmth radiates from the fireplace, and soft lamplight replaces the usual harsh illumination. He slowly shuts and locks the door before facing me.

I expect hunger in his gaze. Lust. What I don’t expect is hesitation. Pain.

He swallows hard, like he’s holding back something sharp.

“This isn’t how I imagined this,” he says, voice gravel-edged. “I thought there’d be time. A real choice.”

“I still have one,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“What if I don’t survive tomorrow?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “What if I die in those trials without ever really living?”

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, then stops a breath away. His hands stay at his sides. His voice is low, ragged. “You deserve more than desperation in the dark.”

He exhales, as if it kills him to say it. “But if this is all we have... I’ll give you everything. And still wish it was more.”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair positioned between firelight and shadow. “You’re shaking.”

I am. Adrenaline crash combining with magical exhaustion from hours of three-court assault. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.

The room spins slightly, emotional exhaustion mixing with magical overload. The weight of tomorrow’s trials presses against my consciousness like a physical thing.

“Too much,” I whisper, pressing my hands to my eyes.

Arctic air sweeps across my skin as Kieran moves. His presence settles beside my chair, close enough to feel his controlled power but not touching.

“Let me help.”

“How?”

“Trust me.”

The words should terrify me. After today’s revelations about who’s been manipulating my life, trust feels like a luxury I can’t afford.

But this is Kieran. Who risked his father’s wrath to save me from boundary hunters. Who shared the secret of his treasure despite every political reason not to. Who looked at me like I mattered more than thrones or crowns or centuries of careful maneuvering.

“Okay.”

Frost blooms in the air around my temples as his fingers hover just above my skin—not touching, but close enough for his natural cold to provide relief from the burning pressure in my head.

“Better?”

“Better.” The word emerges on a sigh that sounds more human than I’ve felt in hours.

“You should clean up,” he says quietly, noting the way I keep rubbing at my wrists where magical restraints held me during the interrogation. “Hot water might help ease the magical strain.”

The suggestion makes sense. I can still feel the residual energy crackling under my skin from the three-court assault, making my nerves feel raw and oversensitive.

The bathroom helps. Hot water eases some of the tension in my shoulders and the magical strain from hours of three-court assault. But when I catch sight of myself in the mirror—the same face, but with eyes that hold knowledge they didn’t have this morning—the weight of it hits fresh.

Tomorrow, I stop being Professor Morgan forever. Win or lose, the woman who walks out of those trials won’t be the same one going in.

I emerge wearing one of his shirts—dark silk that hangs to mid-thigh and makes me feel smaller, more vulnerable than usual. The fabric slides against my bare skin like a caress, still holding traces of his winter-storm scent.

Kieran looks up from where he’s been feeding the fire, and his breath catches audibly. Those pale eyes track the way silk clings to my curves, pupils dilating as he takes in my bare legs, the way his shirt gaps just enough to hint at what’s beneath.

“Troublesome thing,” he says, voice going rough with something that sounds like reverence and pure hunger. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Still causing trouble,” I manage, fire climbing up my neck at the naked want in his voice.

“Good.” He rises, moving toward me like I’m prey he’s been stalking. “I’d be worried if you stopped.”

The air between us crackles with tension so thick I can taste it—winter frost and desperate need and something deeper that makes my newly awakened magic pulse in recognition.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he continues, stopping just close enough that I can feel the cold radiating from his skin. “Standing there wearing my shirt like you belong to me, making me want things that could destroy us both.”

“What if I want you to show me?” The words slip out before I can stop them, honest and desperate and completely unlike the controlled soldier I’ve been trained to be.

His control snaps audibly.

Kieran moves with inhuman speed, crossing the final distance until he’s close enough that his frost-touched fingers can frame my face. He stares at me like I’m something precious and dangerous, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.

“You’re playing with fire, troublesome thing.”

“I thought you were ice.”

His smile turns predatory, sharp enough to cut. “Ice burns just as fierce. And I’ve been burning for you since the moment you walked into my academy.”

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine with desperate hunger. This isn’t the careful exploration from before—this is possession and claim and three centuries of control finally shattering.

He tastes like winter storms and dark promises, his tongue exploring my mouth with ruthless precision. His teeth catch my lower lip, biting hard enough to make me gasp, and he swallows the sound like he’s starving for it.

“Mine,” he growls against my throat, teeth scraping skin that’s suddenly too sensitive. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yes,” I gasp against his mouth. “Tonight, tomorrow, however long we have. If I die in those trials?—”