Page 35

Lucien is acting weird. And not in the usual glacial, cold stare, power-thrumming-from-his-skin kind of way. No. He’s sweating. Lucien Virelius, the embodiment of polished ruthlessness, looks like he’s about to pass out. He keeps wiping his palms down the sides of his slacks like a nobleman who just realized he’s at a party without his pants. His posture is too stiff—even for him—and I swear his eyes keep flicking to my mouth like it might say something that could kill him.

Which is rich coming from the man who commands armies with a word.

Gods. He’s trying to flirt, isn’t he? No. No, that’s not possible. This is Lucien. He doesn’t flirt. He wounds. He destroys. He calculates outcomes three moves ahead and makes you grateful for your own demise.

But right now? He looks like he’s on the edge of saying something soft.

Or worse—earnest.

And I’m... flustered. Dammit. Not because I’m surprised. I’ve felt the shift. The weight of his gaze these past few days hasn’t been the same as it was in the Hollow’s early hours, when he still hated himself more than he hated me. He’s been watching like he’s searching for something he lost and can’t decide whether he wants it back.

But now he’s close, and I’m not ready for the way it makes my skin buzz.

So I do what I always do when I don’t know what to feel.

I fuck with him.

I arch a brow, letting the pillar go, and turn to face him fully, folding my arms slowly—deliberate, like I’m weighing something important. I let my eyes sweep over him. Hair immaculate as always, jaw clenched to the point of snapping, every inch of him fighting for composure that’s already long gone.

I lean in just enough to watch him flinch.

“You alright there?” I ask, tone light. “You look like you’re about to confess something truly tragic.”

His jaw tightens.

Good.

I step closer—two inches, maybe three—enough to let my magic curl toward him like smoke under a locked door. Not a push. Just a reminder. I’m here. I feel him.

“You’ve got that... hunted look in your eye,” I murmur, dragging the words out like silk. “Something on your mind?”

He doesn’t move. But his hand twitches again—faintly. Wipes down his thigh like it has a mind of its own. Again.

Gods, he’s so bad at this.

“Is this your version of a compliment?” I ask, softer now. “Because you’re usually more terrifying when you’re trying to get my attention.”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

No words.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. He’s trying. Genuinely trying. And he’s awful at it. And because I am apparently no better, I can feel the flush creeping up my neck.

He still hasn’t looked away. And now that I’m standing in front of him, it’s harder to breathe. Not because I’m afraid. Not because of the gravity of what might be happening here. But because I want to step closer. Just a little more. Just to see what happens if I touch him now, when he’s not cold, not cruel—but wide open in a way I don’t think he knows how to be.

And maybe I should be merciful. Maybe I should tease him gently, give him a way out, let him retreat into that armor he wears so well. But that’s not who I am.

So I tilt my head and say, “You know, if this is your idea of seduction... I’m strangely impressed.”

Lucien blinks.

“You’re sweating,” I add, lower now, just for him. “Want me to hold your hand?”

That earns me the sharp, strangled sound of a breath he clearly didn’t mean to release. His face—gods, his face—goes taut, and for one glorious second, I think I’ve broken him.

And then he says—

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse.

I smile, just barely, and step around him with all the grace of someone who absolutely won this round. But I make sure to let my shoulder brush his arm, light enough to feel deliberate. Heavy enough to leave him thinking about it.

Let him sit with that.

Let him stew in the heat of his own undoing.

Let him want me, and not know what to do about it.

He trails behind me like he doesn’t mean to, which is already a lie. Lucien doesn’t trail. He stalks. He commands. He studies his surroundings with a predator’s discipline. But now? He’s following me like a tether’s been wrapped around his throat, like the space between us is narrowing with every step and he can’t remember why he should fight it.

I can feel the weight of his gaze. Not overbearing. Not possessive.

Focused.

Deliberate.

Hungry.

I stop at the next pillar. Another imperfect carving. The crest etched into its surface is a warped version of Silas’s—too symmetrical, the chaos bled out of it like someone didn’t understand how much madness belongs in his magic. I don't need to check mine. I’ve memorized all of them. But gods, Lucien is behind me, and the air between us is hot with everything he’s not saying.

So I decide to say it with my body.

I lift the hem of my shirt. Slow. Controlled. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’m just cross-referencing marks and not setting the world on fire with a flick of cotton.

The bond crests are tattooed across my skin in their sacred, personal chaos—Silas’s inked near my ribs, Elias’s curling down beneath my heart, Riven’s scarred like it was burned into me by war itself. They all exist in the constellation of my body like stories carved into flesh. Proof of what we’ve survived. Who we belong to.

But I’m not really looking at them. I’m watching him watch me. Lucien stills. I can feel it—not in sound, but in energy. Like the entire room pauses with him.

He doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly, he does. And when I glance back—just a flicker over my shoulder—I catch him. Eyes locked on my chest, mouth parted slightly. Not in shock.

In longing.

And then he does something that shouldn’t ruin me. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. Not hard. Not biting. Just—pressed. Like he’s trying to hold something back and it’s slipping through the cracks in him anyway.

And fuck me, that does something to me.

Lucien Virelius doesn’t lose composure. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t want where others can see it.

Except he is.

And I’m letting him.

No—I’m inviting him.

I let my fingers skim the crest inked beneath my collarbone, where his would go if he ever gave in. Where it aches to be. He’s already burning.

When I finally lower my shirt, slow and measured, I feel the tension crack in the space between us. Like the shift in gravity when two stars pass too close. He still doesn’t speak. But gods, the way he looks at me says everything he won’t. I turn back to the pillar and pretend to study it, even as heat crawls up my spine.

He clears his throat. Loudly. Like that’s going to erase the way his gaze dragged over me like worship and war all at once. Then comes the soft thunk of his palm against the pillar beside him, followed by the long, slow exhale of a man trying to remember how to breathe. His body shifts, and I don’t need to look back to know he’s leaning into it now—shoulder pressed to the carved stone, posture forced into something relaxed even though he’s unraveling by the second.

Lucien. Undone. By a glimpse of skin.

Gods.

It’s almost cruel how much I enjoy this.

I keep my expression neutral, lips pressed together as I inspect the wrong crest like it’s the only thing that matters. But I can feel the pull of him behind me. His magic isn’t touching mine, not directly—it wouldn’t dare unless he let it. But it’s circling. Wary. Tight. Like a beast pacing behind a locked gate.

I let the moment hang. Let the silence grow just tense enough to squeeze. Then I glance back, just enough to catch him out of the corner of my eye. And there he is—trying and failing to look like he didn’t just have a mental collapse over my body.

His jaw is sharp. Set. But the muscle twitches when I meet his gaze.

“Something wrong?” I ask, innocently.

His eyes flick to mine, then drop a fraction—to my mouth.

Dangerous choice.

“No,” he says, voice a shade too low. His fingers tap twice more against the stone beside him, rhythm erratic. “Just... making observations.”

“Observations?”

He nods once, curt. Controlled. Like he’s snapping his own leash back into place.

I take a step toward him. Casual. Deliberate. “You sure you’re alright? You looked like you might combust for a second.”

Lucien doesn’t flinch. But his eyes flash—briefly—and then his voice drops another octave, smooth now. Back in his territory.

“I don’t combust,” he says. “I calculate.”

I raise a brow. “So that wasn’t combustion. That was math.”

His gaze dips again—to my chest. Just for a second. Then back up. The corner of his mouth lifts the barest fraction. “Advanced math.”

I smile. Slow. Dangerous. “Want another look? For your calculations.”

He swallows—swallows—and that’s when I know I’ve won.

Again.

And just as I start to turn away, I murmur under my breath, “You’re lucky I didn’t take the shirt all the way off.”

Behind me, I hear the scrape of his heel shifting against the stone floor. No response. But the energy that ripples through the room between us is thunderous.

He’s trying to hold on to his self-control.

And it’s fraying.

I move to the next pillar without another word, heart hammering a little too fast now, the heat of him still lingering on the back of my skin. Because as much as I love breaking Lucien Virelius—What scares me more is how much I want him to stop letting me.

The pillars stretch in every direction like the ribs of a long-dead beast, ancient and half-buried in the marrow of this cursed cathedral. Their carvings hum, faint and constant, a magic older than the Hollow and more deliberate than Branwen ever was. I’ve been walking them in a spiral, not random, not methodical either—just listening. Feeling. Waiting for the pull. Because one of these pillars doesn’t just carry our crests. It remembers me.

And when I reach it, I know.

Not because it glows. Not because it burns or sings or hisses secrets in a forgotten tongue. It’s subtler than that. The moment I stop in front of it, my blood goes still in my veins, like something sacred has just recognized me. As if I’ve found the keyhole carved to fit the ruin I’ve become.

The stone is cool under my palm. The carvings on its face spiral outward—six crests etched in a perfect, ancient ring. I recognize every single one of them with the kind of visceral familiarity only a body can know. Elias’s slow spiral, deceptively simple until you feel the weight beneath it. Silas’s jagged, erratic madness, pulsing with magic even now. Caspian’s, sharp and sensual, all curves and cruel edges like his smile. Riven’s, violent and sacred, the sword wrapped in fire and wire. Ambrose’s, cold and coiled, his hunger etched into every perfect, gleaming line. I’ve lived these sigils. I’ve bled with them burned into my skin.

My voice is steady when I speak, but my mouth is dry. “Lucien.”

He’s already moving before I finish his name. His presence wraps around mine like a storm held in too small a bottle. It makes the air dense, like my body is too aware of him now to focus on anything else. He stops beside me, quiet, unreadable, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him.

I don’t look at him yet. I keep my eyes on the stone. “I need your crest.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Not hostile, just loaded with something I don’t want to name.

“You haven’t memorized it?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual—not soft, but not sharp either.

I glance over my shoulder, meet his gaze. “You’re not tattooed on me.”

The words hang between us, and I don’t soften them. I don’t offer him a way out. He’s not marked. Not yet. He never asked to be. And I never offered. Something flickers in his eyes, not hurt, but calculation giving way to something older, something less guarded.

“Here,” he says, and then he unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve, rolling the fabric up his forearm in one fluid motion. There, inked in black so deep it almost shines, is his crest. Dominion. Severe, precise, coiled power ready to command. The ring of flame is barbed and brutal, as clean as the violence in his voice, and I know the second I see it that this is the final piece.

I step back and tilt my head toward the stone. “Tell me if it matches.”

He studies it. Then, with that same deliberate calm he always uses when the stakes are highest, he nods once. “It’s perfect.”

One pillar.

This one.

Lucien’s voice finally breaks the silence. “Are you sure?”

I look at him—not at the crest, not at the magic—but him. And I nod.

“Yes,” I say, but it doesn’t sound victorious.

It sounds final.

Because now we’ve found the right door. Which means the only thing left is to decide if we’re brave—or broken—enough to walk through it.

The moment I press my palm to the pillar, something shifts. It’s not obvious—not a blinding flash of magic or a storm breaking open in the room. It’s subtler than that. A resonance that curls through me like heat rising off stone after dark. Like recognition. Like home.

I pull my hand back slowly, skin tingling where the stone kissed it, and take a single step back—not out of fear, but reverence. The glow beneath the carvings doesn’t fade, doesn’t dim. It pulses once, steady and sure, and I feel the magic in my body answer with the same rhythm. Every crest inked beneath my skin stirs. Silas’s erratic surge of chaos. Elias’s low, creeping hum. Caspian’s decadent heat, slow and rich. Riven’s fire, already rising. Ambrose’s cold magnetism, wrapping around the rest like armor.

This is it. The one.

Not because I want it to be.

Because it knows me.

I draw in a breath, hold it a second longer than I need to, and let it go. Then I lift my chin and call out, “Here. I need you all here.”

My voice doesn’t echo, but it doesn’t need to.

They come.

Elias appears first, sauntering out from behind a crooked column, flipping a coin I’m ninety percent sure he stole from Silas, which Silas probably stole from a dead dragon. He stops beside me without fanfare, eyes on the pillar, brows furrowed deeper than usual. He doesn’t say anything right away. Doesn’t joke. Which tells me more than words ever could.

Riven’s next, solid as stone, the heat from him always a little too intense, like his magic forgets I’m not trying to burn. His hand brushes mine as he steps into place beside me, not soft, but not rough either—more like a claim than a touch. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. His presence is a constant in me now. We both feel it.

Caspian doesn’t hurry. He arrives like desire personified, slow and deliberate, gaze cutting a path across the stone carvings before drifting to me and staying there just a little too long. His voice is velvet-drenched steel when he finally speaks. “You’re sure?”

I nod, eyes locked on the crest that matches his perfectly. “I’m sure.”

Ambrose is quieter. He circles like a wolf testing a fence, studying the pillar with that calculating gaze that always makes me feel like I’ve already said yes to something he hasn’t asked. He takes it in, crest by crest, and finally stops opposite me, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t challenge it. He never does when he’s already decided the answer for himself.

And then Silas.

Of course he arrives last, bouncing a coin between his fingers and grinning like he’s got some private joke simmering just beneath the surface of his magic. His eyes drag over the ring of sigils and stop on his own. “Knew it’d be this one,” he says, leaning a little too close to the stone, fingertips grazing the edge of the carving. “Look at that—chaos looks damn sexy in stone.”

“Everything about you is chaos in stone,” Elias mutters, without looking away from the pillar.

Silas gives me a wink as he steps in beside me, always too close, always brushing against me like he thinks I won’t notice, like he’s daring me to.

We form a circle without meaning to, all six of us facing the pillar that chose us. The heat from the stone rises, not searing, not hostile—just present. Like it knows it’s been seen. Like it’s been waiting.

The crests carved into the pillar are perfect. No flaws. No wrong curves. No lies.

This is the door.

Not metaphorically.

Not magically.

Literally.

And still, none of us move to touch it again. And for once, none of us are in a rush. We stand in the quiet, all of us braced against the same impossible truth: the Hollow is dying, and this may be the only exit left.

But choosing it?

That’s not the same as surviving it.