Page 20

I eat carefully, savoring every bite, still tasting him on my lips. The contrast between the warmth of the food and the fire still burning in my chest gives me vertigo. I don’t know how I should feel—about any of it. The meal should bring comfort, but the ache between my thighs and the storm churning in my chest makes it impossible to sit still. I bite into a piece of cheese; the sharp tang grounds me.

The door creaks open again. This time, a Nymph enters without knocking. She closes it behind her, saying nothing. Her gown whispers across the stone floor, the air around her humming with quiet magic. It's only now that I begin to grasp how powerful she might truly be. Not just a flower Nymph—but something older. Something more.

“You’re flushed,” she says softly, her tone unreadable. “Your color is back. My name is Tinetha.”

I nod, not trusting my voice just yet.

She sits beside me, like she’s done it a hundred times before. “He keeps people out,” she says. “But not you.”

“I don’t think I’m in,” I whisper. “I think I’m just a pawn.”

Nieve tilts her head, regarding me with ancient eyes. “A pawn he kissed?”

I open my mouth, but she lifts a hand before I can speak.

“I know it’s complicated. You want to protect yourself—I understand. But sometimes, protection becomes its own prison.”

We sit in silence for a while. Outside, the wind howls like it’s mourning something ancient. I realize how much I’ve missed silence without danger.

“Newt is waiting,” she says finally, standing. “She wants to check on you. Make sure the spell didn’t leave behind anything... lingering.”

My brow lifts. “Lingering?”

She nods. “Tristan’s magic is like poison. Some Fae enchantments weren’t meant to bind humans. They linger, like bruises on the soul.”

I follow her down the spiraling stone staircase. The castle feels different—quieter. The guards are fewer. The usual weight in the air has shifted into something heavier, something brewing in the distance. A storm not yet seen. We pass windows with fractured glass, hallways lined with stone cracked by time. I realize this place isn’t just ancient in age, but in memory.

Newt’s cottage smells of scorched herbs and the sharp sweetness of dried berries. The fire in the hearth crackles low, shadows curling across the ceiling like living things.

She stirs a thick concoction in her cauldron, glancing up with large bright eyes. “Well. You didn’t die. That’s a good start.”

“I don’t plan to,” I mutter.

She gestures to a chair. “Sit. This won’t take long.”

I settle in, and she places her fingers against my temples. Warmth spreads through my skull like sunlight pushing through stained glass. The tightness in my chest eases.

“There,” she murmurs. “Tristan’s poison is gone. But the damage he caused?” Her lips thin. “That lingers. He wanted you to fear your own strength.”

“I don’t have any power.”

Newt chuckles, low and dark. “They all say that. Right before they burn the world down.”

A chill moves over my skin. I don’t know what she means—but I know better than to argue.

“You were nearly blind, weren’t you?”

I nod, unsure how she knows.

“That doesn’t carry over into Nythia. The magic here… it corrects what your world couldn’t.”

Back in my room, night falls fast. The moons cast long shadows across the tower walls. I sit at the edge of the bed, a heavy blanket pulled over my lap. I try not to think of him. Not his lips. Not the way his eyes turned pitch black when I whispered thank you.

But I can’t help it.

I pace. Then I find myself by the window, staring into the ashen woods. Wondering if Malachi is curled somewhere beneath the stars. Wondering where Kainen is now. Wondering if he regrets kissing me. Or if he meant it.

Then the door opens again.

Not Nieve.

Kainen steps inside, soaked from a rain I hadn’t noticed had begun. Water glistens on his skin. His hair clings to his face, the braids dark and dripping. He’s shed his armor—what remains is a thin black tunic that clings to the ridges of his muscles. He looks tired. Agitated. Haunted.

“Why are you here?” I breathe.

He doesn’t speak.

He crosses the room like a storm rolling over a field. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

“I thought I could stay away,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my lips. “But I can’t.”

My body betrays me, arching toward him like it’s answering a command I didn’t give. I hate how much I want him. And yet... I do.

“You said you can’t give me flowers,” I whisper. “But then you gave me your lips. What’s that supposed to mean?”

His forehead presses to mine, his grip firm at the back of my neck.

“It means I’m cursed, Selene. And so are you.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “Then curse me.”

And then he kisses me—fierce, consuming, and binding me to him like a spell etched in flame.

His lips collide with mine, depriving my lungs of life. I misplace his tongue strokes among mine.

With fingers curling into the moist cloth clinging to his flesh, my hands travel up his chest. He moans low, raising me as if I had no weight. My legs circle his waist naturally. The fire lighting between us is nothing compared to the cold of his drenched garment.

He brings me to the bed and gently lays me down, a gentleness that runs counter to the force of his kiss. Dazed, I gasp for breath and yet hold the front of his shirt as he distances himself.

“I'm sorry,” he says in a low voice. “I wasn't meant to... I found myself unable to control...” His speech breaks like frayed rope. “I simply wanted to find out whether it was true.”

“If what was real?” I ask, hushed.

“You,” he states. “This curse. The way you give everything the impression of disintegration. Like I'm coming undone, thread by thread, by staring at you.”

His hand flies close to my face, not touching, just near. Like he worries if he does, I will vanish.

“Kaine...” I start, uncertain of what to say. I ought to ask him to stop. I'm not a pawn in his game against Therion. That he needs not my heart to prevail in a fight.

But then I reply, “Then unravel.”

Before he kisses me once again, I see a flutter of something dark and eager in his eyes. Slower still this time, further. Like he is learning from memory.

We squander time.

He undresses me somewhere between quiet and thunder, like I'm made of silk and bone and secrets. I feel naked—body, heart, soul. Like he has spent a millennium looking for me.

I shudder under him, and he stops.

Chest rising and falling under control, he continues, “I don't want to take anything you're not ready to give.”

My lips part. I should mention my uncertainty. Though I'm not.

I grab his hand and gently lay it against my heart.

“You already own it.”

He seems not to believe me and glances at me, like those words are something he never considered he would hear once again. His forehead turns to meet mine.

“Selene, you have no clue what you are inviting. Parts of me not meant for someone like you exist.”

“Then show me,” I say softly. “Show me who you are.”

And he continues to do so.

Kainen lowers himself with a respect that scares me, and when his lips touch mine once again, it is not simply a kiss—it is a promise.

That transforms everything.

Later, twisted in blankets and him, the smell of fire and pine still lingers on my skin. His arm wraps around my waist defensively, his breath steady on my shoulder.

I let myself act for a little instant.

I pretend I am not imprisoned in a tower inside a universe apart from mine.

I imagine myself not stuck between a monarch with a crown and a prince bearing a curse.

Assuming I'm his.

And it is mine as well.

But reality has razor-sharp fangs. And dawn finds a way in every morning.

Eyes closed, he stirs next to me with a low, raspy voice. “Don't go.”

I approach him. “I wasn't going to.”

He opens his eyes—stormy gray, the type heavens wear before a fight. “Excellent.” Because before things get better, they are going to become worse.

I tighten. “What do you mean?”

He sits slowly, running a hand over his wet hair. His braids have come free, threads like ink dripping over his cheeks.

“I picked up word,” he says. “Again, the borders were under assault. The armies of Therion sent shadow creatures—species not seen in Nythia in more than ten years.”

My blood runs cold. He is on his way to see you.

“For us,” Kainen corrects. “He will arrive quicker because of you.”

I remark sourly, “I'm bait.”

“No,” he says, voice like steel. “You were. That was before I came to understand anything crucial.”

My eyebrows raise. “And what's that?”

From the floor, he rises and tosses a loose black tunic. His back is illuminated by morning light, revealing profound scars cut across his skin—brutal memories of fights waged and endured. My chest hurts at the sight.

Kainen turns back; his face is unreadable. “Selene, you do not come from this planet. But you came here for a purpose. I also believe I know what it is.”

I get up gradually. “Tell me.”

Instead of responding, he walks to the mirror on the far side of the room.

“You came through this,” he says. “Do you still have it?”

I hum. “I have it in my trunk. Why?”

“Between worlds, there are quite a few gateways. Most are lost, broken. Still, mirrors vary from one another.” He turns to look at me. “Their creation came from the Bloodborne, the first magistrates. They could link worlds with a concept. Among their possessions is your mirror. You will inevitably be surrounded by their charm.”

In my chest, my heart pounds. Are you implying I am magical?

“You could be the final surviving connection to the Old Blood,” I'm suggesting. “Only one person able to halt the approaching events.”

Though it sounds empty, I chuckle. “That's ludicrous. I am just a college student who dropped through a mirror after losing her aunt.”

“Your aunt,” he replies, voice softening. “Did she ever talk about her hometown? About the history of your family?”

“No,” I say quietly. But she had books—unique ones. Stories of a forest that communicates, a blood stream, a prince created from shadows. They seemed to me just fairy tales.

“They were memories,” Kainen remarks. “Your aunt served more than simply a protector. She was watching out for you, preparing you.”

The air shifts. Something old stirs.

“You were not merely someone stumbling through a gateway. You were meant to go back.”

He reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine.

“I cannot guarantee what will be simple going forward. Maybe safe. But I promise, I will defend you with everything I have.”

I should bolt. Demand answers. Not to be carried into a narrative I cannot grasp.

But I grip his hand instead.

Then we deal with it together.

He lets out breaths as if he had been holding that one for millennia.

By evening, the wind tastes like an approaching storm.

The courtyard hums with preparations; armor is fastened tightly, enchantments spoken over metal, Fae warriors assembled around flickering flames.

Magnus points sharply from across the stone walkway toward me. “You're not staying behind, are you?”

I raise my chin. “No.”

He nods curtly. “Excellent. Even if the gods themselves visit us, you are safer by his side.”

I turn to see Kainen stroking Malachi's muzzle across the courtyard, silhouetted in firelight.

Going back is not possible.