Page 7

7

LIORA

I haven’t really slept, not since the alley anyway. But sleep’s overrated anyway.

Every time I close my eyes, he’s there.

Not the alpha.

Seraphiel.

Standing on the brim of some half-burned memory, wings like torn smoke, voice like silk dipped in blood. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough to make my spine lock and my pulse crawl.

He watches me like I’m a flame he lit a thousand years ago and forgot to put out.

Tonight’s no different. I curl up on the floor of the old theater I’ve been squatting in, surrounded by rusted scaffolding and broken velvet seats. The bones of the place are still good. Magic hums through the foundation, quiet and old. I can hide here for a little while.

But even in the stillness, something’s wrong. Because even though my dreams are haunted by Seraphiel, he’s not the one I can feel and sense in my waking hours.

And right now, as I feel the need to protect myself, I feel him again. The wolf.

I don’t even know his name, but he’s there —on the edge of my senses. A burn. A whisper. A magnetic pull that makes me feel like I’m stitched to him by thread and thunder.

It’s been two days, and I still feel him. Which is not how this is supposed to work.

Fae don’t bond. Not like shifters do. We enchant. We beguile. We don’t... connect . That shit’s for mortals and wolves and fools.

But I feel it anyway. That pulse in my chest like I’m walking downhill too fast. That need to see him. To know him. To?—

No.

I shove the thought away and push to my feet, ignoring the ache in my ribs. The healing’s slow this time. Whatever I pulled out of the shadows during the alley fight—it took more than I meant to give.

I’m off-balance. Too raw.

And it’s making my magic stir.

I throw open the side door to get air, only to stop cold halfway down the alley. Because the sky isn’t sky anymore. It’s glowing . Not with moonlight. Not with stars. With fire.

Not literal fire, but magic—burning, creeping across the horizon like spilled gasoline catching a spark.

I freeze, hand tightening around the knife hidden in my jacket. My magic flares, unbidden. A second later, my vision cracks . I’m not in the alley anymore.

I’m in a hall of black stone and gold-veined marble, where shadows whisper in a language older than anything living. I know this place. I’ve dreamed this place.

The Court of Ash.

Seraphiel’s throne looms empty—but something stirs in its shadow.

“I warned you, Liora,” says a voice that is not a voice. “He will not save you. No one can.”

I spin, heart hammering, magic buzzing against my skin like bees trapped beneath it.

“You don’t own me,” I snap.

“You are mine by pact and prophecy.”

“You’re a nightmare with a god complex.”

A slow laugh coils around my spine. I can’t see him—but I know he’s near.

“The wolf cannot protect you. Like I said, no one can. They never could. Not in New Orleans. Not now.”

Pain lances through my chest at the memory.

Flashing lights. Screams. Blood painting the floor. Power tearing through flesh like paper. Twelve dead. Their names buried beneath headlines and classified reports.

I fall to my knees. Gasping. Shaking. The vision shatters and I’m back in the alley. But I’m not alone.

He’s here. Not Seraphiel. Not the wolf. The enforcer .

Shit.

I barely have time to roll before the blade whips past my head, slicing into the brick where I just stood. It’s not steel. It’s bone, carved with symbols I’ve only ever seen in death rites. I twist to face him.

Tall. Gaunt. Skin the color of bruises. His eyes glow black with pinpricks of white like stars in a void. His smile is too wide. His fingers are claws .

“Pretty little puppet,” he coos. “Running won’t help. And I have to teach you once again, you can’t talk to your Lord that way.”

“I’m not running,” I spit, throwing a blast of shadow at his chest. It hits, but barely slows him. He stalks forward, dragging the blade along the wall.

I dive left, snatching a rusted pipe from the ground. Not enchanted. Not ideal. But it’ll do.

He lunges and we clash.

It’s fast, brutal, messy. I dodge two of his strikes, but he takes a shallow slice across my hip. Blood slicks my side, hot and wet, and my tattoos scream against my skin.

I slam the pipe into his ribs—feel bone crack—but he just laughs .

“You taste like prophecy,” he hisses, eyes gleaming. “He’ll be so pleased.”

“You first,” I growl.

My power erupts.

Runes blaze. Shadows writhe. My feet lift from the ground as darkness pours from me like a living storm—and I blast him backward, through the brick wall and into the next building. But it hurts . Too much. Too fast.

I fall to the ground, vision blurring, breath ragged.

“Shit,” I gasp. “Shit, shit?—”

Footsteps.

Fast.

No—

He rounds the corner just as I try to disappear.

The wolf.

Our eyes lock. He sees the blood. He sees me .

“Nightshade?”

His voice cuts through the haze. A snarl and a question.

I stumble back, power flickering. I didn’t know he even knew my stage name. Not good.

Even bleeding, even gasping, even on the edge of blackout—I feel the pull. That magnetic gravity that makes my magic sit up and notice . Like he’s not just a person, but a force. A law written in flesh and fury.

He’s all shadow and steel, moving like he’s been carved out of war. Broad shoulders tense beneath a worn black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show thick forearms inked with faded tattoos—pack markings that’ve been clawed out but not forgotten. His clothes are simple, tactical—dark jeans, boots heavy with purpose. Nothing fancy. Everything deadly.

Ice-gray eyes sweep the alley, land on me—and stay . They don’t flinch. Don’t question. They just see , sharp and full of something I can’t name. Not pity. Not shock. Something like recognition.

He looks like he was made to stand between monsters and the dark. Like he’s not afraid of what I am.

And gods help me, that’s the most terrifying part.

His mouth is hard, jaw clenched, but his gaze softens—just a flicker—as it lands on the blood soaking through my shirt.

And suddenly the air around me shifts, but not with magic. With him.

Everything about him is heat and control. Rage bottled under skin. The kind of man who doesn’t need to say he’ll fight for you. You just know .

But that’s a lie. No one fights for me.

Not against Seraphiel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I can handle it.”

“No,” he says, stepping forward. “You can’t.”

He reaches for me.

I go to pull away, to disappear into the shadows, but I can’t. I have nothing left. Not after the fight. Instead, when I try, my vision gets blurry and my knees give out, the pain now throbbing full force of what I just went through.

Before I can do anything more, I feel his arms around me, catching me before everything goes dark.