Page 14

ELIAS

I should’ve killed her.

That’s the refrain echoing in my skull as I pace my sanctuary like a caged animal.

I should’ve ended it. Cut the cord. Burned the thread. Whatever the hell this thing is between us—it should’ve been over the second I had her pinned. One move. One twist of the blade. And it would’ve been done.

But I didn’t.

Because I’m a fucking idiot.

I slam my fist into the stone wall again. The skin splits. I heal. Doesn’t stop the ache.

I haven’t left this room since the ruins. Not because I’m scared. No, fuck that—I’ve never run from anything in my life. I just… I can’t trust myself out there. Not with her scent still burned into my damn synapses.

And the dreams?

They’ve only gotten stronger.

But I don’t talk about that.

I drown it instead.

The bottle of whiskey I stole from a black-market bar in Prague last year is half-empty. The burn in my throat’s the only thing I feel that isn’t tied to Kaia Draven.

I drop into the chair by my desk, drag the cracked stone tablet onto the table, and scowl at it like it’s personally responsible for my unraveling.

Which, to be fair, it kind of is.

The runes glow faintly, pulsing in that slow, rhythmic beat I’ve come to recognize as Fae-coded script . But it’s fractured—part prophecy, part warning, part memory.

And the one symbol I can’t translate?

Looks a hell of a lot like the one that flared behind Kaia’s shoulder before she tripped the trap.

I stare at it. Memorize every edge. Every line.

She’s tied to it.

And if she’s tied to it…

She’s not human.

Not fully.

I drag open one of my old archives, scan through a dozen dusty volumes and half-rotted scrolls from the days I ran with the hybrid underground. There’s references to “Heartwood Lineage.” Fae-born mortals. Blessed and cursed.

Bound.

Marked.

I light a cigarette with shaking fingers, puff out smoke, and mutter to no one. “So what the hell are you?”

The Order’s whole purpose is to eradicate anything with magic. Supernaturals are the enemy. End of story. That’s their gospel. I’ve seen what they do to mixed-bloods. Hell, I was almost dissected at sixteen when they got close enough to snatch me.

So why’s she in their ranks?

Why would they train someone like her?

Unless she doesn’t know .

A cold wave settles over me.

She doesn’t.

She has no fucking clue what she is.

Which means someone hid it from her. Maybe even her parents. Someone powerful. Someone desperate.

And now it’s waking up, and she’s wrapped in a prophecy she can’t read, hunted by the same people she calls family , and somehow tangled with me in the middle of it.

Fuck. Me.

I take another swig from the bottle and slam it down.

This is why I don’t get involved. Why I keep walls up and feelings buried. Why I sleep in bunkers and keep weapons under my pillow.

Because attachment gets you killed.

Because love gets you hunted.

And she’s the goddamn epicenter of a coming storm, and I am not about to let myself get pulled under.

Even if every inch of my soul is already soaked in her.

I drag the cigarette down to the filter, snuff it out on the table, and grab my notebook.

If I can break the rune…

If I can find out what the hell she is, what the prophecy actually says—maybe I can sever this bond before it guts us both.

Because I know this much for sure:

I can’t stay away. That much has already been proven.

But if I don’t figure this out soon, she’s going to be the death of me.