Page 38

Finn

The silence in this corridor is different.

Not the comfortable kind that settles between jokes, or the expectant pause before I say something brilliant and slightly inappropriate. This is the hollow kind. The kind that echoes back everything you don’t want to hear.

I’m perched on a stone ledge that overlooks the sanctuary’s eastern wall, legs dangling like I’m twelve years old again, hiding from responsibilities that feel too big for my hands.

The departure preparations buzz in the distance—voices calling, leather creaking, hooves striking stone.

All the sounds of people who belong somewhere, doing something that matters.

I should be down there.

I’m not.

Because about an hour ago, I felt Kaia and Aspen’s bond lock into place like the final tumbler in a lock I’ll never have the key to.

And now? Now the phantom taste of her is gone from my mouth, the echo of shared pleasure has faded from my skin, and all that’s left is the cold understanding that I just experienced the most intimate moment of someone else’s life .

Someone who isn’t me.

Someone who chose someone else.

“Should’ve brought popcorn to the soul-bond climax,” I mutter to the empty air, but the joke falls flat even to my own ears. Nothing’s funny when you’re the punchline.

My chaos magic sparks restlessly around my fingers, little bursts of color that die as quickly as they form. Even my power seems confused about what to do with all this… feeling . This stupid, messy, inconvenient ache that won’t go away no matter how many times I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

It does matter. That’s the problem.

The bond is still there, humming in my chest like a wire that’s been pulled taut but not snapped. I can feel the others, Kaia’s contentment, Aspen’s quiet satisfaction, even the distant pulse of Kieran’s ancient magic. We’re all connected, all part of this grand mystical design.

So why do I feel so alone?

Footsteps echo down the corridor, measured and familiar. I don’t turn around. Don’t need to. There’s only one person who moves through shadows like he owns them, who finds hiding spots like he invented them.

“Did you draw the short straw,” I ask without looking back, “or just get bored of brooding in doorways?”

Malrik doesn’t answer immediately. Just stands there, close enough that I can feel his presence like a question mark against my back. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual.

“You weren’t at the courtyard. ”

I shrug, still staring out at the darkening sky. “Didn’t want to spoil the magical sendoff. Nothing ruins group photos like the guy who’s having an existential crisis.”

Silence. The kind that suggests he’s not buying my bullshit.

“Besides,” I continue, forcing levity into my voice, “someone had to make sure this place doesn’t fall apart while you’re all off playing hero. I’m really more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy anyway.”

“No,” Malrik says simply. “You’re not.”

The certainty in his voice makes something twist in my chest. I finally turn to look at him, taking in the way shadows cling to his shoulders like they can’t bear to let him go, the silver eyes that see too much.

“What do you want, Malrik?”

He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “I felt it too.”

My breath catches. “Felt what?”

“The bond locking. The ache of being outside it.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “The way it felt like watching the door close on something you didn’t know you wanted until it was gone.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. “Yeah, well,” I manage, my usual grin feeling more like a grimace, “you don’t seem the type to come in your pants from someone else’s orgasm.”

I expect him to flinch. To step back. To give me the distance I’m begging for without actually asking.

Instead, he says, “And yet here I am.”

I stop breathing entirely.

The air between us shifts, thickening with possibilities I’ve been shoving down for weeks. Months, maybe. The way his eyes linger on my mouth when he thinks I’m not looking. The careful distance he maintains, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he gets too close.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. “With her. With you. With any of it.”

“You don’t have to know,” he says, stepping closer. “You just have to stop running.”

Something breaks inside me. It’s not clean, not pretty, but like ice cracking under too much pressure.

I surge forward, closing the distance between us, and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s angry and desperate and too honest, tasting like all the words I’ve been swallowing for months. For a heartbeat, he goes perfectly still, and I think I’ve made a catastrophic mistake.

The bond between Kaia and I pulses once in my chest. A reminder of what I can’t have, that she chose someone else—

Then his hand cups my jaw, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss with a precision that steals my breath.

The bond’s ache fades, smothered by something else entirely.

Something that’s just mine. It’s not rushed or frantic like mine was.

It’s deliberate. Devastating. Like he’s been thinking about this for a very long time.

I fumble, overwhelmed by the sheer intent behind his touch. The way he’s not just kissing me but claiming something, staking a quiet flag in territory I didn’t know was disputed.

He walks me back until my shoulders hit the stone wall, but it’s not about dominance. It’s about grounding me. Anchoring me to something solid when everything else feels like it’s spinning apart.

“If you’re going to walk away again,” I breathe against his mouth, “do it now. ”

His silver eyes meet mine, and something shifts there—decision, maybe, or surrender.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not this time.”

The kiss that follows is different. Slower. Deeper. I can taste the promise on his tongue, feel it in the way his fingers thread through my hair. My chaos magic responds, sparking between us in little bursts of light that make the shadows dance.

His shadows reach for mine, twining together like they’ve been waiting for permission. The sensation is intoxicating, not just physical contact but something deeper, more fundamental. Like recognizing a piece of yourself you didn’t know was missing.

I arch into him, desperate for more contact, more connection, more anything . His mouth finds my throat, and I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Finn,” he murmurs against my skin, and the way he says my name, like it’s important, like it matters, nearly undoes me completely.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us. Heat builds where our bodies press together, the kind of tension that makes breathing optional and thinking impossible.

He lifts his head to look at me, and what I see in his expression makes my heart stutter. Want, yes, but something else too. Something that looks dangerously like care.

“We should—” I start, but he silences me with another kiss, softer this time but no less devastating.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, his hands still tangled in my hair.

“We should go,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t move away .

“Should we?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Instead of answering, he straightens my shirt with careful hands, his touch lingering longer than necessary. The simple gesture feels more intimate than everything that came before it.

“We’re still going to pretend nothing happened, aren’t we?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

“Only if you ask me to.”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t want to pretend. I want this, whatever this is, to be real.

We walk back toward the courtyard together, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. There’s a new tension between us now, quiet and dangerous and completely undeniable.

And for the first time since the bond locked without me, I don’t feel quite so alone.