Page 37

Kieran

The library was where I always ended up.

Even before the locket. Before the betrayal. Before the Rite.

There’s something about silence wrapped in parchment, the smell of old bindings and older secrets, that quieted the thoughts no spell ever could.

The villa’s library took up the entire northern wing. I hadn’t even realized it at first—Silas had said nothing, of course. Just let me wander until I found the narrow door tucked behind a faded tapestry of Prometheus stealing fire.

The space beyond it was cathedral-like. Cool and dark.

Endless rows of carved shelves stacked with books, scrolls, and relics that pulsed faintly with old magic and forgotten names.

Candles burned low in sconces shaped like serpents.

A massive stained-glass window bled soft light onto the polished floors in shades of gold and wine.

It was quiet.

And I needed quiet.

I sat in one of the alcoves tucked between the shelves, a thick volume on binding sigils open but unread in my lap. My thoughts kept circling back to that room— his room. The string maps. The names. The fact that mine wasn’t crossed out.

He’d looked for me. For years.

I didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

Footsteps padded in from the hall, light and tentative.

Then—her voice. Soft. Breathless.

“Oh… wow.”

I didn’t even need to look. I knew it was her.

But I looked anyway.

Dahlia stood in the arched doorway, bathed in a soft slant of amber light. Her lips parted in a reverent little oh , eyes sweeping over the shelves like they were sacred. She took a slow step forward, then another, fingers brushing over the spines as if afraid she might wake them.

And gods help me—she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Not because of her hair, though it fell around her shoulders in loose, ink-dark waves that caught the candlelight like silk.

Not because of her body, though her curves fit against the world with the kind of softness that made you want to lean in.

Not even because of the way she moved—careful, curious, like she belonged in this place more than any relic ever could.

No. It was the way her eyes lit up.

Like the words were alive.

Like the room was breathing for the first time.

She reached out and picked up a thick, crumbling volume with reverence, smiling like she’d just stumbled upon a forgotten god.

Her sweater slipped off one shoulder as she turned in the light, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest hint of a scar.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, completely unaware I was watching her like a man starved.

And in that moment, I realized the truth.

I loved her.

Utterly. Hopelessly. Completely.

Not just for freeing me. Not just for feeding me soup or yelling at me when I tried to eat her rabbit. But for this —this impossible softness she carried like armor, this hunger for knowledge, this kindness that defied logic, that refused to give up on me, even when I didn’t deserve it.

She was magic.

And she didn’t even know it.

“Find something interesting?” I asked, voice rougher than I meant.

She startled slightly, then turned toward me with a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“I figured.” I closed the book in my lap and nodded toward hers. “That one’s about forgotten pantheons. The section on dream-gods is decent.”

Her smile widened as she held it close to her chest. “This place is unreal. I’ve never seen this many first editions in one room. Half of these would be in vaults.”

“They probably were,” I muttered. “Silas isn’t great with rules.”

She turned in a slow circle, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s like being inside a living story.”

“You are,” I whispered. Not sure if I meant the library. Or her. Or us.

She didn’t hear me.

She was already reaching for the next book.

And gods, I didn’t stop her.

I just watched—quiet and spellbound—falling faster than I ever meant to.

She’d gathered a stack of books in her arms like she was preparing for a siege.

Old tomes bound in cracked leather. A few delicate scrolls nestled between hardcovers. One absolutely ancient volume that looked like it would disintegrate if she breathed on it too hard. She was beaming. Actually beaming.

I watched her walk toward me with the stack pressed to her chest, her sweater sleeves shoved up and a bit of her hair tucked behind one ear with a quill she must’ve stolen from one of the desks. It shouldn’t have been distracting. And yet.

She set the stack down gently on the carved wooden table beside me, then dropped into the chair across from mine, eyes searching my face.

The smile faded, just a little. Enough to tell me the shift had come.

“He didn’t give up on you,” she said softly.

I exhaled slowly, nodding once. “I know.”

Her fingers brushed the corner of a page, but she wasn’t reading now. She was studying me.

“I talked to him,” she added, voice quieter now. “After you left.”

Of course she had. Of course she would.

“And?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“He’s a lot of things,” she said, folding her hands. “Smug. Infuriating. Possibly cursed by interior design. But when I brought up that room, he didn’t lie. He didn’t deflect.”

She paused. “He said he never stopped looking back.”

I looked away, jaw tight.

“And then,” she added, tilting her head, “he said something kind of surprising.”

I arched a brow. “Let me guess—he offered to sell me to a merchant in exchange for an enchanted mirror.”

She gave me a half-smile. “Not quite. He said—he’d be glad to have me as a sister-in-law.”

That made me snap my gaze back to hers.

“What?”

“He said I’m not like the women who’ve turned your head before.” She shrugged, trying too hard to play it off as casual. “That not many people would hand-feed their enemy. Or show him kindness after what he did.”

My chest tightened. “You’re not like the women I’ve known. You’re…” I paused, the words sticking like burrs.

She didn’t push. She just waited.

“And you believe him?” I asked instead. “About the grief? About that room?”

“I do,” she said, simply. “Because he didn’t tell me what he thought I wanted to hear. He told me what he didn’t want to say. There’s a difference.”

I leaned back in my chair, staring at her, at the way the candlelight caught the gold flecks in her eyes. At the way she folded her fingers in her lap like she needed to anchor herself to something.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I said quietly.

“You don’t have to,” she replied. “But maybe you can stop being the only one holding the knife.”

That hit harder than I expected.

We sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t press too hard. She flipped open one of the books and turned it toward me—a page filled with sketches of an ancient altar.

“Want to help me dig through this madness?” she asked. “You know, if you’re not too busy brooding in dramatic shadows.”

I smirked. “Only if I get first pick of the cursed scrolls.”

“Deal,” she said, smiling again. “But if I open something that summons a demon, I’m blaming you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

And just like that, the weight didn’t lift—but it settled. Easier to carry. Like maybe I wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

Not really.