Page 43

Chapter 42

Selestina

I t’s been a week since the attack, and the faces of my attackers remain a frustrating void in my memory, even with Nasarea’s help.

Her ability to comb through my memories has become less painful with each attempt, though the lingering sensation of her magic leaves me raw.

Still, we’ve found nothing. No faces, no names. Only flashes of movement, vague outlines on the edges of my mind, and the constant sting of my defeat.

The bruises are fading now, pale smudges against my skin now in muted greens and yellow. It no longer hurts to move, though the echo of pain still lingers if I stretch too far or twist too suddenly.

I'm healing, sped up by Nasarea, but the pace feels agonizingly slow一my body mending while my mind remains stuck in a cycle of unanswered questions.

Alexander's silence unsettles me the most. I haven't heard a word from him, no orders, no summons, nothing to show he was the least bit interested in this information I overheard. That alone raises my suspicions. Alexander is not the sort to allow something important to slip through his fingers, and by the way he insisted he knew what the kings spoke of, one would gather he was desperate for an answer.

His silence feels strategic and I wonder whether he knows something I don't.

The thought sends a chill down my spine. Did he know the kings were meeting? Did he know what they were planning? Is he as clueless as I am, or is he simply waiting for me to stumble onto something useful before revealing his hand? My gut tells me it's the latter.

Alexander never operates without a plan, and if he's not pressing me for answers, it's because he's already several steps ahead.

If he's withholding information, then so will I. If he's playing his games, I'll play my own. I don't need his commands to figure this out. The cryptic words of the kings about a prophecy keep ringing in my head, refusing to let me rest. Whatever they hide, whatever power they are afraid of, I will find out myself.

We are officially two weeks away from Día de Muertos. A two day holiday where we grieve those who we have lost to the Land of the Dead. It’s also the holiday where for two days straight, Tonalli’s sun doesn’t make an appearance and instead we celebrate in complete darkness with our twin moons.

Dust is swimming in the sunbeams of the library, coming through the high arched windows. Parchment and leather add a soothing perfume to the air.

I sit at one of the long oak tables, its surface worn smooth from centuries of restless scholars. Stacks of books surround me, their spines cracked and titles barely legible. The table feels like a battlefield, and I, the lone warrior, sifting through the wreckage of forgotten knowledge. I run my fingers over the yellowed pages, reading and rereading passages as I try to piece together something resembling the truth.

The books I’m pulling look as though they haven’t been touched in ages.

I trace the words on one particular page, the ink faded but still legible. A shiver runs down my spine, and I pull my cloak tighter around me despite the library's warmth. The descriptions are haunting, speaking of powers beyond my wildest imagination. Raising the dead. Tearing souls from bodies. It’s darker than anything I’ve ever encountered, darker than shadow magic, colder than elemental ice.

It’s the magic of death,

The words allude to a prophecy, though every source seems to dance around its specifics. The harbinger born of life and death. The one to unite or destroy.

Who is it about? Why are kings deeply involved in it? The pieces don’t fit, no matter how much I read.

I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. The poetry in some of the texts is beautiful, but it leaves me cold, unsettled. One verse lingers in my mind, refusing to let go:

“Life drained by breath,

Death raised by touch,

A soul that wanders is never enough.”

I close the book with a soft thud, leaning back in my chair. My gaze drifts to the vaulted ceiling, my thoughts spiraling…again.

The magic described here is no ordinary magic. It’s old and primal, the kind of power that reshapes worlds and leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

I feel like I’m on the edge of something, like whatever truth is hiding, is right beneath my grasp. But every time I think I’m close to a revelation, the ground crumbles beneath me.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts, echoing softly against the stone floor. I glance up, and bite back a groan.

Ugh. I don’t have time for his hotness.

Tomas strides into the library like he owns the place, uncaring of the hungry eyes that follow his every step.

He’s shirtless, his skin glistening with the sheen of exertion. His shorts hang low on his hips, the fabric stopping scandalously short, leaving little to the imagination. His red eyes are sharp and unrelenting, and when they lock onto mine, it’s as if the world around us falls away.

How the fuck is this allowed? Does the sanctity of a library hold no grounds here when faced with a prince? No shirt, really?

I can’t look away. My mind screams at me to do something—glare, roll my eyes, anything —but I’m frozen, caught in the force of his gaze. His confidence is magnetic, pulling me in whether I like it or not.

Tomas smirks as he approaches, his movements unhurried, every step a calculated display of power. “Princess,” he drawls, his voice smooth and teasing. “Hard at work, I see.”

Tomas drags the chair closer, his body is close enough that I can smell his smoky scent—a scent that clings to him like a signature. His grin is wolfish, sharp around the edges, but his eyes are soft, like they’re daring me to lean in just a little closer, tricking me so he can bite me .

“Do you mind me joining you?” His voice is low, a velvet drawl that feels more like a caress than a question.

I should say I do mind. I should get up and walk away. But I can’t seem to summon the words, so I shake my head. Resisting these princes gets harder by the day.

He chuckles. It’s not loud, just a breath of sound, but it ripples through me, pooling somewhere low in my stomach. He rests his arm casually on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing just barely against my shoulder. The contact is electric, sending sparks racing across my skin. I try to focus on the book in front of me, but the words blur, meaningless shapes on the page.

Tomas notices.

“You know,” he says, his voice a little closer, his breath tickling my ear, “you’re not very good at pretending to ignore me.”

I snap the book shut, more out of instinct than intent, and twist to face him. He’s already leaning in, his expression infuriatingly cocky. He’s too close—so close I can count the flecks of silver in his red eyes.

“I’m not ignoring you,” I say, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.

“No?” His gaze dips, lingering on my lips for a heartbeat too long before dragging back up. “Good. Because I’d hate to think I wasn’t getting through to you.”

Isn’t this just common sense? Look away, Selestina. Don’t fall trap to the vampire prince.

I can’t look away though. It’s this damn pull that I feel to each of the princes. They are my prey, not the other way around. I am supposed to know their every move and yet I can’t help unlearn everything I’ve ever been taught in the blink of a second when one of them pops up in front of me. It’s so frustrating. I’m not some simpering woman, who folds the second the hot guy shows up. Right?

I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Can you please put on a shirt? Some of us are actually trying to study.” I fold my arms over my chest, trying to pretend I’m unbothered by him.

His grin grows wider. “Am I distracting you, princesa?” He moves even closer to me, and I can feel his breath on my lips. “Do you need me to leave?” He says like a purr.

Rolling my eyes, I sneer, “Does that work on all of your fangirls?”

Tomas’ eyes widen before he bursts into a fit of laughter. For the first time since he crowded my space, I think I have made him speechless. I hear a scoff to my left and look up to meet a pair of flirty, obsessive, green eyes.