Page 11

11

LIORA

I feel him.

It’s not sight. Not sound. Not scent. It’s something else . Something deeper.

A tremor in the thread that keeps tugging at my spine, even when I try to ignore it. A low, ancient vibration humming beneath my skin like a suppressed memory. Like something old just woke up —inside him . And I don’t know how or why, but I can feel it happening to him, just like it did to me last night.

I’m crouched beneath the crumbling arch of an abandoned bridge, hiding from the world, damp stone pressing into my back. But my magic is restless. Agitated. Stirred by him. I can feel it.

The wolf.

Dante.

I slam my palm to the earth beneath me, trying to ground myself, to lock the flaring power back down into the pit where I keep it buried. My runes pulse in warning, glowing faintly against my skin like a heartbeat echoing his.

I told myself I was done. That I got what I needed. That I’d walk away. Let him go before this turned into something that couldn’t be unwound and he ended up hurt. But magic doesn’t let go just because I tell it to.

And neither does fate.

My teeth grind together. “Godsdamn you.” I don’t know if I mean him or myself.

I stand, brush moss off my thighs, and look west toward the skyline. Toward him . I can’t stay away. I need to know if what I felt in that room—when our hands touched, when the magic cracked open like a fault line—was just mine…

Or ours .

I find my way back to his loft just after midnight.

The street’s quiet, fog curling through the alley like breath. His building looms above me, all cold concrete and locked doors. But the wards recognize me. They don’t stop me.

They should. But they don’t.

I climb the stairs slowly, second-guessing every step.

What am I doing?

I don’t knock. I push the door open like I belong here.

He’s in the kitchen, shirtless, drinking something dark from a tumbler, back turned. His tattoos catch the dim light—slashes of ink and scars down his spine, muscle tight and defined like rope beneath skin. There’s a tension in the line of his shoulders, like he knows I’m here.

He sets the cup down slowly. Doesn’t turn.

“You came back.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

Finally, he turns.

His gaze lands on me, heavy and unreadable. Eyes like winter storms—quiet, cold, waiting to break.

“You okay?” he asks.

“No,” I admit. “Not even close.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press.

I cross the room like I’m walking into a battlefield, every step careful. Controlled. I stop just a few feet away.

“I felt something,” I say. “The other night. With you And today, it felt like what happened to me was happening to you.”

He studies me, jaw tight but remains silent.

I nod slowly. “It’s not supposed to happen like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like... connection. ”

He takes a step toward me, careful. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Which, to be fair, he kind of is.

“Are you ever going to tell me your name, or do I have to keep calling you by what all the other dipshits call you on stage?”

I don’t answer. The questions catches me off guard and I know I’m ready to share that. Only Thorne has called me by my real name for a very long time. Him and Seraphiel, but it’s always come with a price when someone says it. So, I press my lips into a thin line and say nothing.

Then just as suddenly. he walks to the counter, grabs a fresh mug, and fills it. Brings it to me. This time, he doesn’t touch my hand when he passes it over. And somehow, that makes the tension worse.

I take a sip.

Still hot.

Still too sweet.

Still exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

He watches me, still as stone, eyes sharp and unreadable. I can feel the weight of the question he isn’t asking hanging in the air between us. My fingers tighten around the mug, heat seeping into my palms. He deserves an answer—something real. And gods, I hate that I want to give it to him.

No one knows my name. Not the truth of it.

Not in years.

They’ve called me a hundred things—Nightshade, monster, curseborn, witch—but none of them were me . Not really. And yet now… I want him to have it. I need him to.

Even if it’s stupid. Even if it makes everything worse.

I set the mug down slowly and lift my eyes to meet his.

“My name,” I say quietly, “is Liora.”

He blinks. Just once.

Then something shifts in his face. Something warm. Something careful.

“Liora,” he says, like he’s testing the sound. Like he’s trying it on in his mouth. And somehow it fits .

A shiver crawls up my spine. Hearing it in his voice—it’s different. Not a weapon. Not a leash. Just a name.

Mine.

Given. Not taken.

And suddenly, I don’t feel quite so alone.

“I came back,” I say softly, “because I needed to see if it was just me.”

His gaze sharpens. “It’s not.”

My pulse skips.

He steps closer, voice low now. “When you touched me… something shifted . Inside. Like something buried woke up.”

I nod. “I felt it too.”

We stand in silence for a beat.

Then I whisper, “I think whatever’s happening between us... it’s not just chance.”

“Fated?”

I snort. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“Me neither.”

Another pause.

“I’m not just fae,” I say even quieter. “I’m cursed.” I don’t know why I am saying all of this, but now I can’t seem to stop myself.

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

“I was born from a pact. Blood and starlight. My mother made a deal to keep herself alive, and I was the price. My power—” I shake my head. “It’s not stable. It’s not... safe. ”

He watches me. Not blinking. Not moving. Just listening.

“There’s a reason Seraphiel wants me. It’s not just power. It’s prophecy. He thinks I’m the key to ending the Veil. To breaking the divide between our world and his.”

“And are you?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But I’ve seen what happens when I lose control.”

Silence.

He sets his mug down and steps closer.

One hand lifts, slow as smoke, fingers brushing a piece of hair from my face.

“Thank you,” he says.

My brow furrows. “For what?”

“For telling me.”

“I didn’t tell you everything.”

“I know. But you gave me truth. That’s more than most.”

My breath hitches as his fingers graze my cheek. His touch is warm. Steady. And everything in me wants to lean into it.

I don’t. But I don’t pull away, either.

“I’m still dangerous,” I say.

“So am I.”

“I’m not what you think.”

“I don’t care.”

My throat tightens.

“Dante—”

But the word barely makes it out before he leans in and kisses me.

Not soft. Not shy. Like he’s claiming something. But this is a claim I seem to want, or my body does. It’s not like Serpahiel. Not at all.

And gods help me, but I kiss him back.