Page 185 of The Devil May Care

Fine. Two can play that game.

I turn my gaze to the door. It’s closed, but the faintest shadow moves past. A figure, slow and steady, like someone pacing the hall. The next moment, the same figure passes again, same angle, same stride, same tilt of the head.

I almost laugh. Almost.

My pulse spikes.

Every inch of me wants to move, to throw off the blanket and test the floor beneath my feet, but the pull here is too strong, too clever. The bed is warm. My muscles are heavy. The quiet in this room feels better than it should, like breathing too much perfume until you can’t tell it’s choking you. So, for now, I let it hold me. I keep my body loose, my breathing even, like I’ve been caught in its current again. But my eyes stay open, sliding to each corner of the room. Cataloguing every wrong note. The too-perfect fire. The not-quite Caziel. The wrong George. The looping shadow. The repeating crackle of the fireplace.

The stillness hums, trying to soothe me back under. I let it. I let it think it’s working. Because now I’m sure, this isn’t a bed in Caziel’s chambers. This isn’t a morning-after.

This is the Umbral trial.

And I’ve just found my way out.

I don’t move right away. Not when the air is still thick with that stay-here, stay-safe pull. If I break too soon, the magic will see me coming. Instead, I make myself breathe like I’m half-asleep. The way Caziel’s doing, only his isn’t real. It’s clockwork. Too perfect. I’m careful when I shift my foot under George. His tail flicks in slow, even arcs against my calf. George never moves like that. His tail is a barometer—whip-fast when he’s annoyed, slow and lazy when he’s plotting my death. This is monotone.

My fingertips trace the blanket, feeling for something out of place, but it’s warm and soft and the urge to burrow back in is strong. This isn’t normal exhaustion. My body is heavy with it, like someone pouredsand into my bones. The room hums in approval when I sink a little deeper into the pillow. I let it. Let it think I’m folding. But I’m not. I’m counting.One, two, three, four.

And on four, I speak. “Caziel?”

No answer. Not a flicker in his breathing, not a twitch in his hand where it rests near my hip. I turn my head toward him. His hair falls perfectly over his brow, not a strand out of place. His jaw is smooth, no hint of shadow from the night before. No embermark, his glamor back in place.

“Caz,” I try again, louder this time.

He blinks. Slow. Like the thought to do it had to be delivered to him from somewhere else.

“Mm.” His voice is low, drowsy. Believable. But the magic is learning me now. The next breath he takes isn’t quite as perfect. The rhythm is off by a hair, like it’s scrambling to make him seem more real.

I keep my voice casual. “What time is it?”

He doesn’t answer. I shift onto my back. The ceiling has the faintest pattern, shadows shifting like water, ripples moving outward. It’s mesmerizing. It wants me to stare at it until I forget why I was looking. I shut my eyes.

“I should get up.”

The blanket tightens over me. Not literally, but in the way a dream pulls you back when you try to wake. And that’s when I make my first move. Not big. Just my hand sliding toward the book on the bedside table. My fingertips brush the cover. It’s warm. Too warm for a book that hasn’t been touched. The air shifts again, like the room is aware I’ve figured out a seam in its stitching. I push harder.

“I need to go.”

The magic doesn’t like that. The fire flares, heat rolling over me, urging me to stay. Caziel’s arm slides back around my waist. It’s warm, firm, safe, exactly how I want it to be.

“Stay,” he murmurs against the back of my neck.

And for a second—gods help me—I almost do, but something in that voice rings wrong. It’s smooth, but not deep enough. Not weighted the way his words get when he means them. I turn my head, and for the first time since waking, I really look at him. The glamor is perfect. Too perfect. I’ve seen the real Caziel up close—flawed, sharp-edged, alive. Hehas horns, crimson skin, a playful tail. This mirage is polished. Like a painting.

The blanket feels heavier now. Not just heavier, alive. The weave sinks around me like a warm tide, pulling me deeper into the mattress. I try to shift my legs, but the bed adjusts under me, swallowing me inch by inch. My pulse spikes.

This isn’t a cradle. This is a coffin. The magic is done pretending to be gentle. I wrench my arm free, elbow knocking against the side table. A book slides off and hits the floor with a thunk, but the sound is muffled, swallowed by the thick air.

“Let me go,” I snap, though my voice sounds far away, like I’ve been dropped into deep water.

The sheet curls higher, twining around my ribs. I shove at it, fingers clawing for purchase, but the fabric keeps slithering, finding ways to trap my arms again. The mattress dips under me, sinking like wet earth. The more I struggle, the tighter it grips.

“Not today,” I grit out.

I twist hard, rolling onto my side, shoving one knee forward until I feel my weight tip. Momentum keeps me sliding me toward the edge of the bed. The magic resists, clinging to my calves, but I hook my arm over the mattress edge and throw myself off.

I hit the floor shoulder-first. The breath punches out of me. The sheet comes with me, still knotted around my legs. Fine. Let it. I kick forward on my side, tangling and untangling as I drag myself toward the door. The floor feels warped, sloping backward, as if the room is trying to tilt me into the bed again.