Page 103

This far down, the strip of time crystal turned into a row of individual, faceted stones, each as large as a man’s head and easily removed. Salt crusted inside the sockets. He’d have to clean it out before he could repair the enchantments that had kept the crystals from going dark after the Schism.

He got to work. Scraping salt, cleaning the stone, patching the containment web.

He settled into the rhythm—hands moving without thought—and time slid sideways.

The machinery was neat. Predictable. Every gear and crystal in its place.

He couldn’t remember the last time anything had felt that simple.

The second moon—a delicate sliver of light—sat high above the horizon when he finally emerged hours later, sweating and exhausted. The icy ocean air slammed into him, welcome for once.

He dropped to the sand and lay flat on his back, stretching beneath the moonlight. His body was wrung out, muscles aching. The work had kept him focused, but without it, the quiet came rushing back in.

His thoughts looped, circling that hollow place where she should’ve been. Where the bond used to hum.

Even here, he couldn’t get away from her.

His hand drifted low, slow and thoughtless, stopping just above his waistband. The sea breeze cut through the sweat still clinging to his skin, but it didn’t cool him off. Not where it mattered.

The silence in the bond left him starving. It turned every nerve into a live wire. It made him itch beneath his skin, behind his teeth, in places no one could reach.

It made him want . And there was never any end to it.

Every night, she was right there beside him—close enough to touch. But she hadn’t reached for him. Not once. Not even in her sleep.

And maybe… maybe he deserved the punishment.

At first, he was furious. She’d walked right back into the time loop—into a prison he’d nearly died getting her out of. She’d faced the grimble alone .

But the longer he sat with it, the more that anger cooled.

Because it hadn’t started with her.

It started with him.

Cori had sicced the grimble on herself—and yeah, that was fucked. But she only did it because he was reckless. Because he made a call without thinking it through. He’d naively assumed that if there was a cost, he would be the one to pay it.

As if the world ever worked that way.

He palmed himself through his pants, slow and firm. Just enough pressure to take the edge off the ache.

Truth was, she was better off without him. Not because she was stronger—though she was. And not because she’d outgrown him—though that thought gutted him too. But because he kept making the wrong calls. Kept getting in her way. And he didn’t know how to stop.

He didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t protecting her.

His hand kept moving, slow and firm over the fabric. He was already half-hard, pulsing into his own palm.

What the hell.

He gave in.

Undid the laces with one hand, rough and impatient.

Shoved his trousers down just enough to get his cock free.

One stroke. Then another. He exhaled through clenched teeth, closing his eyes—and just like that, there she was. Taly. No more walls, no silence. Just bare skin and the weight of her body sliding over his.

She was built to ride a man straight into the afterlife: a slim waist, strong thighs, and tits that bounced like a prayer being answered. His blood pounded as she notched him into place. As she eased onto him, tight and slick.

He never got tired of it—of watching his cock disappear into her inch by inch. Of the way her eyelids always fluttered as she took a moment to savor. The little twitches of her inner walls. How she wriggled, finding her seat.

He could see it all. Almost feel it as she began to move.

He could hear the sounds she made—those breathless little gasps, the way she whimpered when she found just the right angle.

How she clenched around him like she couldn’t bear to let go.

And then— fuck .

She tilted her head. Offered her throat. He could see the pulse there.

It was no secret that Fey liked to bite their mates. But sharing blood, sharing aether—he’d never done it. Never trusted anyone enough.

Never wanted anyone enough to wonder what their magic tasted like.

He jerked himself now, sharp and needy, matching the rhythm of her hips in the fantasy— grind, drag, clench. His breath came in gasps.

She tipped her head again—inviting. Exposed. Like she knew what he wanted and was daring him to take it.

And fuck it—he did.

He surged up in the fantasy, sank his teeth into her throat—and came. Hard . It tore through him, fast and brutal, like it always did with her.

He probably should’ve figured out what that meant back when the fantasy was Taly slipping into his bed in the middle of the night, straddling him without a word, and using him to chase sleep while he tried not to lose his fucking mind.

He’d told himself it was normal. A natural response to an objectively beautiful girl sleeping right across the hall.

Fist clenched, hips jerking off the sand, heat spilled over his knuckles. Each wave hit softer than the last. Until he was still. Spent. Breathing hard, but too tired to care.

The waves crashed nearby. He didn’t move. Just let the stillness sink in.

Somewhere, his mother would be weeping. All that precious seed, wasted on the beach, instead of going into someone approved.

And definitely not into Taly. Which, let’s be honest, was the only place he actually wanted it.

A flicker of memory—her beneath him, thighs spread, skin slick, while he trickled out of her.

That was all it took. One stray, errant thought. His cock twitched in his hand like it hadn’t emptied itself a minute ago.

“Gah!” He flung himself to his feet, ripped off the rest of his clothes, dropping them in the sand as he stalked toward the water.

If he couldn’t fuck her out of his system, maybe hypothermia would do the trick.

He dove into the surf.

The ocean was freezing. Perfect.

The cold knifed through him, numbed everything that still ached. Skye stayed out there, watching the aurora lights shimmer over the water until the heat in his blood felt manageable.

The wind met him with a sharp slap as he emerged—bare, dripping, and unbothered.

The moonlight painted his skin silver, catching on the sharp angles of his body.

Salt clung to him. His muscles were still tense, his jaw set, but he felt clearer.

Not calm. Not fine. But something closer to himself again.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

“Damn, Your Grace,” a familiar voice called from a nearby dune. “Next time give a girl some warning—I’d have brought my glamera.”

Skye didn’t flinch or speed up. He didn’t cover himself, just frowned at the nuisance as he walked by.

Cori grinned, raising her champagne glass in salute.

She was dressed for the ballroom, not the beach, in a long-sleeved gown with black and gold flowers embroidering the skintight mesh bodice.

The neckline was high. A thin gold belt cinched her waist. The full skirts were a puff of silk and tulle.

“Another party?” he asked.

Cori’s grin soured. “Yeah.” Her hair was loose, crowned with a thin strip of black lace across her brow that dripped strands of jet beads through her curls.

They shimmered in the aurora lights as she tipped her head back to finish off the glass.

“I hate parties. I wish people would stop inviting me.”

Skye reached the pile where he’d left his gear and started getting dressed, sand clinging to every damp line of his skin. The only sound was the rustle of fabric and the steady grind of his teeth.

“I take it this wasn’t a happy naked swim.” Cori refilled her glass, lodging the bottle back into the sand. “That’s sad.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Skye growled, stabbing his legs into his trousers. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the grimble.”

“Obviously.” She sipped her champagne. “But hey, since we’re keeping score—how’s your conscience after that little secret deal with your brooding, blood-soaked alter ego? If you’d asked, I could’ve told you he was more forearms than brains.”

Skye didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the surf as he buttoned his shirt.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, voice low. “Still figuring out how to live with that.”

“Good,” Cori said, taking another sip. “Welcome to the club.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, her kohl-lined eyes sweeping over him. She held out the bottle. “Want some? It’s no fun being sad and drunk alone.”

Skye sighed. Then dropped into the sand beside her. “Why are you sad?” he asked, grabbing the bottle and tipping it back for a generous swallow. It was good champagne. Expensive.

She considered a moment. “My… friend and I had a disagreement. He doesn’t approve of what I’m trying to do.”

“What are you trying to do?”

She huffed. “Nice try.”

His grip tightened on the bottle. Glass splintered. “And isn’t that just so fucking on point ,” he muttered darkly. “You don’t tell me anything. Taly doesn’t tell me anything. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am a masochist.”

Cori grabbed the bottle from him, dusting at the cracks spiderwebbing the glass. They came away like lint. “Don’t be an asshole. You know I can’t tell you the future. You don’t want me to—trust me. No one should have to live a life that’s predetermined.”

Skye exhaled hard. “Fine.” He shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t even care about the future. Just… give me something for right now. A riddle. A cryptic gesture. Anything. How do I get her to talk to me?”

Cori didn’t answer. Just sipped her champagne, eyes on the tide.

His jaw flexed once, like he was trying not to spit the words. “Right. Of course. Because making things any fucking easier would be too simple, wouldn’t it?”

He laughed, short and bitter. She hadn’t changed. Cori, Taly—he didn’t care what the hell she called herself. She was still shutting him out.