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DThe evening came slowly, the autumn sun bleeding into dusk through the tall windows of the Voss Estate. The house had transformed while Reyen was in the pool room, running a cue over the felt and listening to Nic and Kiaan talk about everything and nothing—football, the weather, the merits of different whiskey brands. Normal things. Things that didn't involve chains or blood or ancient magic.

He was on his second drink when he heard the first burst of laughter from outside.

It was Nami's laugh—bright, unguarded, the same laugh she'd had before she'd died. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease at the sound. He set down his cue, crossed to the window that faced the back garden, and looked out.

The garden was lit with string lights, warm and golden, draped between the trees and along the stone path that led to the old gazebo. A fire pit had been set up, its flames low and crackling, casting dancing shadows across the grass. And gathered around it, wrapped in the evening chill, were the women.

Nami was in a deep emerald corset, her blonde hair swept over one shoulder, a glass of something dark in her hand. Sierra wore deep burgundy, her curves accented by the boning, her laugh carrying across the garden as she gestured with her free hand. Lily and Grace had joined too—Lily in navy, Grace in black, both of them leaning into the warmth of the fire with the easy comfort of old friends.

The evening air hit her skin the second she stepped through the back door, cool and sweet with the smell of woodsmoke and wet grass. Navira kicked off her heels without breaking stride, leaving them where they fell on the stone path, and bunched the blush fabric of her dress in both hands as she broke into a run.

The garden came alive around her—string lights swaying in the breeze, the fire casting long shadows across the lawn, the sound of Sierra's laugh cutting through the night like a bell. Nami saw her first. Her face split into a grin, and she raised her glass in a toast that sent wine sloshing over the rim.

"There she is!"

The girls turned as one. Lily let out a low whistle. Grace's eyebrows climbed. Sierra cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, "Look at you!"

Navira laughed, breathless, her curls bouncing as she slowed to a stop at the edge of the firelight. The dress felt like something out of a dream—the way the lace caught the amber glow, the way the tulle whispered against her calves. She hadn't worn anything this pretty since the ball. She hadn't felt this light in weeks.

Reyen's gaze caught her from the window. She saw him standing there, the cue still in his hand, his silhouette framed by the warm light of the pool room. Even from this distance, she could see the way his jaw had gone slack, the way his eyes traced the line of her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the fall of her hair. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, looking at her like she was the first beautiful thing he'd seen in a century.

Nic appeared behind him. Then Kiaan. Adrian stepped up beside them, a beer in his hand, and followed Reyen's stare to the garden. A low whistle escaped him.

"Well," Adrian said, loud enough to carry through the window. "Just have babies already. You're clearly in love with her."

Reyen didn't answer. Didn't take his eyes off Navira. But the corner of his mouth curved, slow and private, and he set the cue down without looking.

Navira felt that look even before she turned to face the girls. It sank into her chest, warm and steady, settling somewhere beneath her ribs where his magic had already made a home. She let herself feel it for one heartbeat, then two, then she grabbed Nami's hand and spun her into the open.

"What are we waiting for?"

The music started before anyone could answer—something with a beat, something that made the string lights seem brighter. Sierra grabbed Lily's wrist and pulled her into a twirl, and soon the garden was full of spinning skirts and bare feet on cool grass. Navira lifted her hem and ran, laughing, her hair streaming behind her as she wove between the girls, dodging Grace's outstretched hands and ducking past Nami's attempt to catch her.

The boys drifted out of the house one by one. Kiaan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Nic followed, his hand finding Nami's as she passed, tugging her close for a kiss that made Sierra groan theatrically. Adrian dropped onto one of the benches, nursing his beer, his eyes tracking Sierra with a softness he tried to hide. And Nash—Nash came sprinting out of the side door, still in his work shirt from the office, his tie loose around his collar.

"I'm not missing this!" He skidded to a stop beside the fire, breathless, and threw an arm around Grace's shoulders. "How long was I in there?"

"Long enough to miss her entrance," Grace said, nodding toward Navira. "She looks like a fairy tale."

Nash grinned. "That's my sister."

Reyen was the last to step outside. He didn't lean on anything. He just stood at the edge of the garden, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold like he was afraid it would vanish if he blinked. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, softened the darkness in his eyes. He looked almost young. Almost content.

Navira caught his gaze and smiled—real, open, easy. He smiled back, small and crooked, and something inside her loosened.

Then the song changed.

The first notes of "Say It Say" rolled through the speakers, a slow, aching melody that cut through the chatter like a knife. Sierra's head snapped up. Nami's hand flew to her mouth. Lily let out a gasp of recognition, and Grace grabbed Nash's arm with a squeak.

"Nami, you did not—" Sierra started.

"I absolutely did." Nami was already reaching for the microphone one of the boys had set up by the fire pit. She grabbed it and tossed another to Sierra, who caught it one-handed. Grace caught the third, laughing. Lily fumbled hers but held on. Deliah appeared from the side door, a mic of her own already in hand, a knowing smirk on her face.

Navira watched the girls fan out, each finding their spot around the fire, and something old and familiar stirred in her chest. The song swelled—the kind of song that asked you to feel, the kind that lived in your ribs and climbed up your throat until you had no choice but to let it out.

Then Nami threw a microphone to her.

Navira caught it, the plastic cool in her palm. The first chord hit. Sierra's voice rose on the opening, smooth and confident. Grace joined in, softer, harmonizing without trying. Lily's eyes closed as she swayed. Deliah's voice came low and rich, adding a layer of warmth that made the song feel like an embrace.

And then Navira opened her mouth and let go.

The words fell out of her like they'd been waiting—like they'd been living in her lungs since she was a girl, singing in the back of Grams' car on summer drives, singing in the shower when she thought no one was listening. The song took over her legs, her arms, her voice. She didn't try to control it. She just let it rise, filling the garden, climbing toward the stars.

Tell me you love me—say it, say it

The girls turned toward her, one by one, letting their voices fall until only hers remained. Sierra's eyes glistened. Nami pressed a hand to her chest. Grace smiled, soft and knowing, and Lily wiped her cheek with the back of her wrist.

Navira closed her eyes. The fire crackled. The grass was cool under her bare feet. The music poured through her, warm and aching, and she let herself feel every word, every note, every beat of the song that seemed to know exactly what her heart needed to say.

When the final chord faded, the garden was quiet for one full heartbeat.

Then the cheering started.

Nash was the loudest, his voice carrying over everyone else's, his hands cupped around his mouth. Sierra dropped her mic and threw her arms around Navira, nearly knocking her over. Nami wrapped them both in a hug, and Lily piled on, and Grace, and even Deliah, who smelled like old books and sandalwood and hugged with surprising strength.

"I didn't know you could sing like that," Lily said, pulling back, her eyes still bright.

"Neither did I," Navira admitted, laughing, a little shaky.

From the edge of the gathering, she heard Nash's voice again, this time directed at the boys. "You better marry her before someone else does, Voss."

Reyen didn't answer. He just looked at Navira, and in his eyes was everything he'd never said aloud. She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned back to the girls, grabbed Sierra's hand, and started spinning again.

The music shifted into something faster, and the garden filled with laughter and twirling skirts and the glitter of string lights against the dark. Navira let the song take her, let the grass stain her feet, let the night wrap itself around her like a second skin.

For now—just for tonight—the world was made of firelight and friendship and the sound of her own voice, and nothing else mattered.

The laughter was still ringing in her ears when she felt him move. She didn't see him approach—the fire was too bright, the music too loud, the girls still spinning around her in a blur of lace and silk.

But she felt him.

The way the air shifted.

The way the bond in her chest tugged, warm and certain, pulling her attention toward the edge of the garden like a string tied to her ribs.

Reyen was walking toward her. Not strolling. Not leaning against a tree with that lazy smirk he wore when he wanted to look unbothered. Walking. Purposeful.

His hands came out of his pockets as he crossed the grass, his eyes fixed on her like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

The girls noticed before she did. Sierra's gasp cut through the music. Nami's hand flew to her mouth. Lily grabbed Grace's arm, and Deliah let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Oh, this is happening," Sierra said.

Navira didn't have time to ask what was happening. Reyen reached her, his hands finding her waist, and then the ground fell away. He lifted her like she weighed nothing.

She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as he spun her, the garden blurring past in a rush of golden light and shadow.

The tulle of her dress flared out, catching the firelight, and she felt the cool night air on her bare calves as her feet left the grass entirely.

She let go. Her arms spread wide, her head fell back, and she laughed.

It wasn't a polite laugh or a surprised one.

It was the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep—the kind she couldn't hold back if she tried.

The stars wheeled above her, the string lights blurred into streaks of gold, and the world became nothing but the feel of his hands on her waist and the steady rhythm of his turn.

She heard Nash whoop in the background.

Heard Adrian's low chuckle and Kiaan's sharp whistle.

The girls were cheering, clapping, their voices blending into the music and the crackle of the fire.

Reyen slowed, his spin becoming a sway, and then he was lowering her—slowly, deliberately—until her feet touched the grass again.

Her dress settled around her, the tulle whispering against her ankles.

She was still dizzy, still breathless, still caught in the aftershock of the spin.

He smiled. It was small. Crooked. Private.

The kind of smile that wasn't for the audience, wasn't for the cheering friends or the watching brothers.

It was just for her.

Navira's chest tightened.

She felt the magic stir beneath her ribs, reaching for him, and she let it—let it curl around the bond between them, warm and alive.

"Hi," she said, still breathless.

"Hi," he said back.

The garden erupted around them.

Nash was already crossing the grass, grabbing Grace's hand and pulling her into a clumsy spin that made her shriek with laughter.

Sierra grabbed Kiaan's arm and dragged him into the firelight, and he went without resistance, his usual smirk softened into something real.

Nic had Nami in his arms, swaying to a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music.

Adrian watched from the bench, his beer forgotten, his eyes on Sierra with a look that was equal parts longing and resignation.

Reyen's hands were still on her waist.

His thumbs traced a slow arc over the boning of her corset, and she felt the heat of his palms through the fabric.

She looked up at him, searching his face, and found something there she hadn't expected.

Softness. Not the mask he wore for the world. Not the sharp edges he used as armor.

Just him—unguarded, open, looking at her like she was the only real thing in a world full of shadows.

"What?" she asked, her voice quiet.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm admiring." His thumb traced another arc.

"There's a difference."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is there?"

"Staring is passive." He leaned in, his voice dropping so only she could hear.

"Admiring is intentional."

Her cheeks warmed.

She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile, and failed.

The music shifted again—something slower, something that asked for closeness.

The music shifted again—something slower, something that asked for closeness. The other couples swayed in the firelight, lost in their own worlds. Nash had Grace pressed close, her head on his shoulder. Nic held Nami like she was made of glass, one hand splayed across her back. Even Sierra had softened into Kiaan's arms, her usual fire banked into something quieter.

Navira felt Reyen's hands on her waist, his thumbs still tracing those slow arcs against the boning of her corset. She should have turned into him. Should have let him pull her into the dance, let the music wrap around them like it was wrapping around everyone else.

But he was looking at her like that again. Like he was memorizing her. Like he was counting the seconds until he could have her alone.

And then his gaze flicked to the side—a quick, deliberate scan of the garden. Nash was too busy whispering something in Grace's ear. Nic had his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to Nami's. Sierra was laughing at something Kiaan had said, her head tipped back, her throat catching the firelight.

No one was watching them.

His hand found hers before she could ask what he was doing. His fingers laced through hers, tight and certain, and he pulled—not hard, but steady, drawing her away from the firelight and toward the dark edge of the garden where the string lights dissolved into shadow.

"Reyen—"

"Trust me."

His voice was low, rough at the edges, and it did something to her knees.

She let him lead her across the grass, her bare feet silent against the cool blades. The sound of the fire faded behind her. The laughter grew distant, muffled by the trees. The air changed—cooler, thicker, filled with the smell of damp earth and pine needles and something older, something that lived in the dark spaces between branches.

The treeline swallowed them whole.

She couldn't see the garden anymore. Could barely see his face, just the sharp outline of his jaw, the glint of his eyes catching the faintest sliver of moonlight. The trees pressed close, their branches weaving together overhead, and the ground beneath her feet gave way to soft moss and scattered leaves.

He didn't stop until they were deep enough that the music was nothing but a distant hum. Deep enough that the only light came from the moon, silver and thin, filtering through the canopy in scattered patches.

Then he turned.

Her back hit the trunk of an old oak. The bark pressed against her bare shoulders through the gap in her corset, rough and solid, grounding her in the sudden darkness. His hands found her waist again, and then he was there—his chest against hers, his thighs brushing the tulle of her dress, his breath warm against her lips.

He pinned her to the tree like he was afraid she'd disappear.

"Reyen—"

He didn't let her finish.

His hands dropped to her hips, found the hem of her dress, and bunched the fabric upward in fistfuls of blush tulle and lace. The cool night air hit her bare thighs, and she gasped—a sharp, surprised sound that cut through the darkness.

Before she could react, his hand slid between her legs. His fingers found the edge of her underwear, hooked the fabric aside, and then he was touching her, his fingers sliding through the slick heat that had been building since the moment he'd lifted her in the garden.

A sound escaped her—half moan, half gasp—raw and desperate. Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips, trying to muffle the noise before it could carry through the trees.

His fingers worked her slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing else mattered.

"Navira."

His voice was barely a whisper, dark and rough, and it made her knees weaken. He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath uneven against her skin.

"I'm addicted to you."

The words hit her low in her belly, somewhere deep and aching. He didn't stop moving his fingers, didn't slow, didn't break the rhythm that was already making her shake against the bark.

"I need to feel you again." His breath caught. "You can't walk in here dressed like this and expect me not to react."

She couldn't answer. Her mouth was open against her palm, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The bark was rough against her bare back, and his hand was between her legs, and the world had narrowed to the smell of him—cedar and smoke and something dark that lived under his skin.

He withdrew his hand slowly, and she felt the loss of it like a physical ache. His fingers trailed up her thigh, leaving a slick path, and then his hand found her waist again, steadying her as she swayed.

"I've been watching you all night," he said, his voice still low, still rough. "The way you move. The way you laugh. The way you look at me like I'm the only person in the room."

He pressed closer, his hips against hers, and she felt exactly what he was trying not to say.

"Every time I see you in something new, I think I've seen you at your most beautiful. And then you prove me wrong."

Her hand dropped from her mouth. She reached for him, her fingers finding the collar of his shirt, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold on to.

"You said you were addicted," she whispered. "Prove it."

His eyes went dark—darker than the space between trees, darker than the shadow they stood in. His hands found her thighs, gripped the bare skin just below the bunched hem of her dress, and lifted her off the ground.

She wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking, her back pressing against the bark, her arms looping around his neck. He was solid against her, warm in a way that shouldn't have made sense for a vampire, and she could feel the hard length of him pressing against the thin fabric of her underwear.

He kissed her. Hard. His mouth found hers like he'd been starving for it, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting of whiskey and want. She kissed him back with the same desperation, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

His hand found her breast through the corset, his thumb tracing the edge of the lace, and she arched into his touch with a sound that was almost a whimper.

"Reyen—"

It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a question. It was his name, falling from her lips like a prayer, and she felt him shudder against her in response.

His fingers found the clasp of her corset, working the hooks with a practiced ease that made her breath catch. The fabric loosened, and then his hand was inside, warm against her skin, his palm cupping the soft weight of her breast.

She was already reaching for him, her hand sliding down his chest, past his stomach, finding the waistband of his pants. He sucked in a breath when her fingers brushed against him, hard and aching through the fabric.

"Navira."

Her name in his mouth like that—rough, desperate, broken—made her grip tighten.

She fumbled with his belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency, and he helped her, his hands covering hers, guiding them until the metal gave way. His pants loosened, and she found him, warm and heavy in her hand, and the sound he made when she wrapped her fingers around him was the most honest thing she'd heard all night.

His forehead dropped to hers. His breath came in short, uneven bursts. His hips pressed into her hand, a small, involuntary movement that told her everything she needed to know.

"I love you," she whispered.

He raised his head. His eyes met hers in the darkness, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

"I love you," she said again, because she needed him to hear it. Because she needed to say it. Because in the middle of the trees, with her dress bunched around her waist and his hand inside her corset and the distant sound of their friends laughing around a fire, it was the only thing that mattered.

He kissed her again—slower this time, softer, like he was trying to pour every word he couldn't say into the press of his lips against hers.

And then he shifted his hips, and the world narrowed to the space where their bodies met.

He entered her slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving hers. She felt the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled something she hadn't known was empty. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

He paused when he was fully inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged and uneven.

"You're everything," he breathed, barely audible. "Everything."

And then he moved.

It was slow at first—deep, deliberate thrusts that pressed her into the bark and made her gasp against his mouth. The friction was perfect, the angle sending sparks across her skin, and she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The rhythm built, faster and harder, until the only sounds were the slap of skin and her muffled moans and his ragged breath in her ear. She buried her face in his neck, tasting salt and skin, and let herself feel everything—the bark against her back, his hands gripping her hips, the pulse of him inside her, the bond between them humming like a live wire.

She felt him everywhere. In her chest. In her blood. In the place where their bodies met.

He was breathing her name like it was holy, and she was trembling on the edge of something vast and consuming, and when she finally broke, it was with his name on her lips and his arms around her and the stars spinning behind her closed eyes.

He followed a heartbeat later, his body tensing against hers, a low groan escaping his throat as he buried his face in her hair.

They stayed like that for a long moment—tangled together against the tree, breathing the same air, their heartbeats slowly finding their rhythm. The distant music drifted through the trees, muffled and dreamlike, and the night air cooled their flushed skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were soft again, that guarded thing he carried like armor nowhere in sight. He reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.

"You know this means we have to go back out there eventually," he said, his voice rough but warm. "And you look thoroughly debauched."

She laughed, a breathless, shaky sound. "Whose fault is that?"

"Mine." He kissed her forehead. "Completely mine."

She felt him soften inside her, felt him press a final kiss to her shoulder before he lowered her gently until her feet touched the moss. Her dress fell back into place, the tulle settling around her legs. She reached for the clasps of her corset, trying to fasten them with trembling fingers.

His hands covered hers, gentle and patient, working the hooks with a steadiness she envied.

"I meant it, you know." His voice was quiet, his eyes on his hands as he worked. "What I said. I'm addicted to you."

She watched his face in the moonlight, the way his brow furrowed with concentration, the way his lips curved into that small, private smile.

"Every part of you. Your magic. Your laugh. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention." He finished the last hook and smoothed the fabric over her ribs, but he didn't pull away. "The way you make me feel like I'm worth something."

Her chest ached. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

"You are worth something, Reyen Voss." She held his gaze, steady and certain. "You're worth everything."

Something flickered in his eyes—something raw and unguarded—and then he smiled. A real smile, full and warm, the kind that reached his eyes and softened the sharp lines of his face.

"Let's go home," he said.

She laced her fingers through his, the bark still rough against her bare back, the night still cool on her skin, and for now, that was enough.

The figure watched them slip back toward the firelight, their forms emerging from the treeline like ghosts returning to the living world. She had been there the whole time, still as the trees themselves, her dark silhouette invisible against the deeper shadows beneath the canopy. She had watched the way he touched her, the way she melted into him, the way they moved together like two halves of something old and familiar.

Now she watched them rejoin the others, their hands still laced together, their laughter mixing with the distant crackle of the fire.

She did not move. Did not breathe. Just watched.

Soon, she thought. Very soon.

Inside the Voss Estate, the warmth of the house swallowed them as they crossed the threshold. The string lights still glowed in the garden behind them, the fire still crackled, but the air inside was thick with cedar and old wood and the comfortable hum of a home full of people. Navira's bare feet met the cool hardwood of the foyer, and she felt the transition like a threshold crossed—from the wild, hidden dark of the trees back into the golden light of the life they were building.

Reyen's hand was still laced through hers. He didn't let go as they walked down the hall, past the living room, past the kitchen, toward the back of the house where the entertainment room sprawled in dark leather and polished mahogany. The other couples drifted behind them, their voices low and easy, the laughter still carrying the warmth of the fire.

At the doorway, Reyen stopped. He turned to her, his free hand coming up to cup her jaw, and pressed a kiss to her cheek—slow, deliberate, his lips lingering against her skin. It wasn't a peck. It was a promise, a reminder, a secret shared between them in plain sight.

"Get comfortable," he murmured against her ear. "I'm about to embarrass Nic at pool."

She laughed, soft and breathless, and watched him walk toward the pool table, his silhouette cutting through the warm light. He grabbed a cue from the rack, twirled it once, and shot her a wink that made her cheeks warm all over again.

She found a chair in the corner—a deep armchair upholstered in forest-green velvet, worn soft at the arms. She sank into it, tucking her feet up beneath her, letting the blush tulle of her dress spill over the edges in a cascade of fabric. The corset bit into her ribs, but it was a familiar pressure now, grounding her in the reality of the room.

Someone pressed a glass into her hand. She looked up to find Nami, already settled on the chaise across from her, a glass of her own raised in a lazy toast.

"You survived the woods," Nami said, her voice dry, her eyes glinting with something that wasn't quite a question.

Navira took a sip of her wine—a deep red, rich and warm—and let the question hang. "Barely."

Nami's smile widened, but she said nothing else, turning her attention to the boys as they lined up their shots.

The entertainment room was large enough to hold all of them without feeling crowded. The pool table dominated the center, its green felt bright under the pendant lights. Nic was already chalking his cue, his movements slow and deliberate, the picture of patience. Kiaan leaned against the wall, his cue balanced across his shoulders, his eyes tracking Sierra as she settled onto a leather ottoman. Adrian had claimed a stool at the small bar, his beer in hand, his gaze fixed on Sierra with that look of quiet longing he couldn't quite hide. Nash and Grace were curled together on the long sofa, Nash's arm around her shoulders, her head tucked into his neck. Lily and Deliah had drifted in as well, settling into chairs near the window, their voices low in a conversation that seemed separate from the rest of the room.

Reyen circled the table, calculating his angle. He bent low, his cue sliding through his bridge, and Navira watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he took his shot. The crack of the cue ball against the solids was sharp and clean. Two balls dropped in quick succession—side pocket, then corner.

He straightened, his eyes finding hers across the room, and winked.

She smiled into her wine glass, the heat of it spreading through her chest.

Nic stepped up to the table, his expression unreadable. He studied the layout, adjusted his stance, and sank his first shot with the same precision he brought to everything. The ball dropped. He didn't celebrate. He just moved to his next angle, his body a study in controlled focus.

Nami watched him with a softness that made Navira's chest ache. The way Nami looked at Nic—like she was still discovering him, even now, even after death and transition—was the kind of love that didn't need words.

The game continued, the rhythm of it easy and familiar. Kiaan taunted Reyen after a missed shot. Adrian offered a low whistle of mock sympathy. Nash called out advice that Reyen pointedly ignored. The conversation flowed around the shots, drifting from the game to the bonfire to the plans for the weekend.

Navira let herself sink into the noise. She watched Reyen move around the table, his focus sharp, his body loose and confident. He was beautiful in the low light—the cut of his jaw, the fall of his dark hair, the way his lips curved when he was plotting his next move. She watched his hands, the same hands that had been on her skin moments ago, now gripping a cue with practiced ease.

He caught her watching and winked again, slower this time, and she felt the bond in her chest pulse like a second heartbeat.

"Okay." Kiaan's voice cut through the hum of conversation, carrying a note of theatrical exasperation. He had stopped mid-shot, his cue still in his hands, and was staring at them with an expression caught between amusement and disgust. "You two are disgustingly happy right now."

Navira blinked, pulling her gaze from Reyen with visible effort. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kiaan raised an eyebrow. "You've been staring at him like he hung the moon for the last hour. He's been winking at you between every shot. It's nauseating. I love it."

Reyen shrugged, the picture of innocence. "I'm a romantic."

"You're a menace," Kiaan corrected. "A lovesick menace."

The room chuckled. Navira took another sip of her wine, letting the laughter wash over her, her eyes still on Reyen as he lined up his next shot.

But the laughter shifted. She heard it—the change in pitch, the sharp intake of breath. Sierra's voice rose above the rest, bright and accusatory.

"Oh my god."

Navira's glass paused halfway to her lips.

Sierra was staring at her, her eyes wide, her hand pressed to her chest. Nami was sitting up straighter on the chaise, her head tilted, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"You guys," Sierra said, her voice climbing. "You guys totally did it, didn't you?"

Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "In the trees!"

The room went quiet for half a beat. Then Sierra burst into laughter, and Nami followed, and suddenly the whole room was alive with the sound of them—delighted, scandalized, triumphant.

Navira felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She took a long, slow sip of her wine, keeping her eyes on Reyen as he stood at the table, his cue still in his hands, his expression utterly unreadable.

"We were dancing," she said, her voice steady, as if that explained anything.

"You were gone for twenty minutes," Lily said from her corner, her voice dry. "The fire pit is thirty seconds from the treeline."

"We were enjoying the moonlight."

"The moonlight," Grace repeated, her tone flat. She turned to Nash. "The moonlight, he says."

Nash grinned. "My sister's a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar," Navira said, a little too quickly. "I just choose not to exercise that skill."

Reyen picked up the chalk cube and ran it along the tip of his cue, his movements unhurried. He didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth curved, just barely, and she knew he was listening to every word.

"You're blushing," Nami sing-songed.

"I'm warm."

"You're blushing," Sierra echoed, leaning forward. "Your cheeks are literally pink. I've never seen you blush this hard."

Navira took another sip of wine, longer this time. The glass was nearly empty. She set it down on the side table with a deliberate click.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

The room erupted. Sierra doubled over, her laugh sharp and barking. Nami clutched her stomach. Even Deliah let out a low chuckle, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Reyen bent over the table, his cue sliding forward, and sank another ball without flinching. The crack of the shot cut through the laughter, and then he straightened, his eyes finding hers across the felt.

He didn't wink this time. He just looked at her—a long, slow look that said everything the room was already guessing.

Navira held his gaze, the wine warm in her blood, the bond humming between them, and let the laughter fill the space around them. The girls were already spinning theories, their voices overlapping in a chorus of playful accusation. Sierra was reenacting their return from the trees, her hands gesturing wildly. Nami was speculating about the logistics of corsets and bark. Grace was laughing so hard she'd buried her face in Nash's shoulder.

The boys watched with varying degrees of amusement. Nic shook his head, a rare smile tugging at his lips. Kiaan leaned his cue against the wall, settling in for the show. Adrian took a long pull of his beer, his eyes flicking to Sierra with that unguarded softness he tried so hard to hide.

Navira's empty wine glass sat on the table beside her. She reached for it, remembered it was empty, and let her hand fall to the arm of the chair. Her dress pooled around her, the tulle whispering against her calves. The room was warm, golden, full of people she loved.

And across the table, Reyen lined up his next shot, his body a line of focused grace. He didn't look at her again. He didn't need to. The bond thrummed in her chest, steady and sure, a constant reminder that whatever the girls guessed, whatever they suspected, the truth was theirs alone.

She leaned back into the velvet of the chair, let the giddiness of the night settle in her bones, and watched him win.

Reyen sank the eight ball with a clean, decisive crack, the black sphere dropping into the corner pocket like it had nowhere else to go. He straightened, set the cue on the table with a theatrical flourish, and turned to face the room with both hands raised in mock surrender.

"I accept your admiration in the form of cash, compliments, or a cold drink," he announced. "No autographs, please. I'm humble."

Kiaan snorted from his spot against the wall. "You're the least humble person I've ever met."

"Humble in victory, gracious in defeat." Reyen picked up his glass from the edge of the table and took a long sip. "You wouldn't know. You never win."

Nic set down his cue with a quiet click, his expression unchanged. "You got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it. That was skill." Reyen circled the table, his steps unhurried, and stopped at the foot of Navira's armchair. He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming with that particular light she'd come to recognize—the one that meant he was about to say something that would make her blush. "I'm excellent with my hands."

Navira's cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze. "So you've mentioned."

"Mentioned." He tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I've demonstrated. Repeatedly."

Sierra let out a sharp laugh from the ottoman. "Okay, we need details. Not the graphic ones—just the locations. I'm compiling a map."

Reyen's grin widened. He didn't look away from Navira. "Let's see. The bedroom. The shower. The hallway. The library floor." He paused, counting on his fingers. "The car. The kitchen counter. Against the wall in the study. The garden bench. That one time in the pool house. The forest just now—"

Navira's hand shot out, grabbing the nearest throw pillow from the armchair beside her, and hurled it at his head.

He caught it one-handed without looking, his eyes never leaving hers. The pillow dangled from his grip, and he held it there for a beat, letting the room's laughter rise around them—Sierra howling, Nami covering her mouth, Grace burying her face in Nash's shoulder.

Reyen lowered the pillow, set it on the arm of her chair, and leaned down until his face was inches from hers. His voice dropped, low enough that only she could hear over the noise. "Later."

He straightened, winked once, and turned back to the table to rack the balls for another game.

Navira sat frozen in the chair, her heart hammering against her ribs, the word still echoing in her ears. Later. Like it was a promise. Like the night wasn't even close to over.

She watched him move around the table, all casual confidence, as if he hadn't just thrown a lit match into her chest and walked away.

"You're red," Nami observed from the chaise, her voice lazy with amusement.

"I'm fine."

"You're the color of your dress."

Navira picked up her empty wine glass, considered it, then set it down again. "I need more wine."

"You need a cold shower," Sierra corrected. "Or another trip to the woods. Whatever works."

Navira threw her a look that could have cut glass, but Sierra only grinned, unrepentant.

The second game started with less intensity—friendly, loose, the stakes reduced to pride and the next round of drinks. Kiaan took over for Nic, cracking jokes between shots. Adrian wandered over to the bar and returned with a fresh beer and a glass of wine, which he handed to Navira without a word.

She looked up, surprised. "Thanks."

Adrian shrugged, settling onto the stool beside her chair. "You looked like you needed it."

She took a sip—a deep red, rich and smooth—and let the warmth settle in her chest. Across the room, Reyen was lining up a shot, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. The sight of it made her stomach flip.

"He's different with you," Adrian said, his voice low, pitched for her ears alone.

She turned to him, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Adrian took a long pull of his beer, his eyes on the table. "I've known Reyen for a while. Not as long as Nic or Kiaan, but long enough. He's always been... wound tight. Like he's waiting for something bad to happen. But tonight? He's loose. Laughing. Actually present." He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "That's you."

Navira didn't know what to say. She looked down at her wine, tracing the rim with her finger. "He makes it easy."

"He makes it hard for everyone else." Adrian's mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile she'd seen from him all night. "But not you. That's the point."

She let that settle, the weight of it warm and unexpected. She looked at Reyen again, his profile sharp against the warm light, the easy set of his shoulders as he chatted with Kiaan between shots.

He caught her looking. His eyes met hers, and that small, private smile returned—the one that was just for her.

She smiled back, and the bond in her chest hummed.

The game continued, the conversation flowing in easy currents. Nic and Nami curled together on the chaise, her head on his shoulder, his hand tracing absent patterns on her arm. Sierra and Kiaan traded barbs across the table, their banter sharp and affectionate. Nash had Grace tucked into his side, his hand in her hair, her eyes half-closed in contentment. Lily and Deliah had moved to the window seat, their voices a low murmur.

Navira felt the night settling around her like a blanket. The fire in the garden had burned low, the string lights still glowing, but the warmth of the room was enough. She was surrounded by people she loved, in a house that felt like home, and across the room, the man she loved was winning another game of pool with a smirk that made her want to throw something at him and kiss him in equal measure.

Reyen sank his last ball and straightened, his cue resting across his shoulders. "That's game."

"You cheated," Kiaan said flatly.

"I don't need to cheat. I'm naturally gifted."

"Naturally full of shit."

Reyen's grin widened. "Jealousy is a bad look on you, Volkov."

Kiaan shook his head, but he was smiling. He racked his cue and handed it to Nic, who had risen to take his place. "I'm tapping out. Someone has to keep Sierra from drinking all the wine."

"I'm doing important research," Sierra protested, holding up her glass. "I'm testing the effects of red wine on witch magic."

"And?" Kiaan asked, taking the glass from her hand and finishing it in one swallow.

"And I need more data."

The room laughed, easy and warm. Navira watched Kiaan set the empty glass on the bar, his hand brushing Sierra's shoulder as he passed. The touch was casual, almost absent, but Sierra's eyes followed him, her expression soft in a way she probably didn't realize.

The music from the garden had long since faded, the fire reduced to embers, but no one seemed ready to move. The night had settled into that comfortable lull where no one wanted to be the first to leave.

Reyen set down his cue and crossed to Navira's chair. He didn't ask. He just reached down, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"For a walk." His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm. "Unless you're tired."

She wasn't tired. She wasn't even close to tired. She let him lead her out of the entertainment room, through the hall, past the kitchen, past the back door that led to the garden where the embers still glowed. He didn't stop there. He kept walking, his hand warm around hers, pulling her through the house toward the front door.

"Reyen, it's cold out—"

He grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch without breaking stride, draping it around her shoulders. "Now you're warm."

She laughed, the sound soft and surprised, and let him pull her out the front door.

The night air hit her face, cool and clean, carrying the smell of wet leaves and distant woodsmoke. The front porch stretched before them, its wooden planks worn smooth by years of footsteps. The moon hung low and full, silvering the lawn, casting long shadows across the gravel drive.

Reyen led her to the porch swing—an old thing, wrought iron and weathered wood, tucked into the corner where the light from the window fell in a golden rectangle. He sat, pulling her down beside him, and swung his arm around her shoulders, tugging her close.

The blanket pooled around them. She leaned into his side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The swing creaked gently, a soft counterpoint to the distant hum of the house behind them. The moon hung overhead, sharp and bright, and the stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt.

"I could get used to this," she said quietly.

His hand found hers, their fingers lacing together. "Me too."

She tilted her head to look at him. His face was half in shadow, half in moonlight, the sharp lines softened. He looked younger like this. Less guarded.

"Thank you," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For tonight. For the garden. For the pool game. For making me feel like everything's going to be okay, even when I know it's not."

His grip on her hand tightened. "It is going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"I know that I'm going to make sure it is." He turned to face her, his eyes dark and steady. "Whatever comes, we face it together. That's not a promise I make lightly."

She looked at him, at the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth, the way his thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand. She believed him. That was the terrifying part. She actually believed him.

She leaned up and kissed him—soft, slow, her lips lingering against his. The porch swing creaked as she shifted, and his hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed, his lips parted. He opened them slowly, and the look in his gaze made her chest ache.

"We should go back inside," she whispered.

"Probably." He didn't move. "In a minute."

She smiled and settled back into his side, the blanket warm around them, the moon bright above. The minutes stretched, soft and unhurried, and the world felt far away.

"It's later," he said against her mouth, the words brushing her lips like a secret. His hand slid from her jaw down her throat, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone where the blanket had slipped. "Add the porch swing to the list."

She laughed softly, the sound swallowed by his kiss as she tilted her head, letting him deeper. "The list keeps getting longer."

"I'm thorough." His teeth caught her lower lip, tugged once, and then he was pulling back just enough to look at her—the moonlight catching the edge of his smile, the heat in his eyes unmistakable. "And I'm not done yet."

She didn't have time to ask what that meant. His hands found the hem of her dress, the blush tulle whispering against his knuckles as he bunched the fabric upward, higher, until the cool night air hit her bare thighs. Then he was moving—sliding off the swing, his knees hitting the porch boards with a soft thump—and before she could draw breath, he was pulling the dress over his head, disappearing beneath the cascade of fabric.

The world narrowed to darkness and the smell of him—cedar, smoke, the faint salt of his skin—and the warmth of his breath against the inside of her thigh.

"Reyen—" His name came out strangled, caught between surprise and the ache that had been building all night. She gripped the edge of the porch swing with both hands, the wrought iron cool and solid beneath her palms, and felt his mouth find her through the thin fabric of her underwear.

He didn't tease. Didn't draw it out. He hooked the fabric aside with his thumb and pressed his mouth to her like he'd been starving for it, his tongue flat and warm against her center, and she bucked against his face with a sound she couldn't hold back.

"Shh." His voice vibrated against her, low and rough, and she felt the smile in it. "The whole house can hear you."

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. The porch creaked as she shifted, her heels digging into the small of his back through the blanket, and he responded by doubling down—his tongue working her in slow, deliberate circles, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her thighs to hold her open.

The moon watched. The stars spun. The distant hum of the house—laughter, footsteps, the clink of glasses—faded into nothing, replaced by the wet sound of his mouth on her and the ragged rhythm of her own breathing.

Her hand found his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer. He groaned against her, the vibration sending a shock through her core, and she felt herself unraveling—slow at first, then faster, the tension coiling hot and tight in her belly.

"Please," she whispered, not sure what she was asking for, not caring.

He gave it to her. His tongue pressed harder, his rhythm quickened, and he slid one finger inside her without warning, curling against that spot that made her see stars. She came with a gasp that she pressed into her own palm, her body arching off the swing, her thighs clenching around his head.

He stayed with her through every wave, gentle now, his mouth soft and easing, until she slumped back against the iron slats, breathless and shaking.

He emerged from beneath her dress slowly, her tulle sliding over his shoulders, his lips slick and his eyes dark. He didn't wipe his mouth. He just looked at her, that small, private smile curving the corners of his lips, and leaned up to kiss her—slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

"Add it to the list," she breathed against his mouth.

He laughed, a low, genuine sound that rumbled through his chest and into hers. He settled back onto the swing beside her, pulling her into his side, her dress spilling over both of them in a mess of wrinkled tulle. She was still trembling, still catching her breath, and he was tracing lazy patterns on her hip like he had all the time in the world.

"That's twelve," he said, his voice casual, as if he were counting pool wins.

"Twelve?"

"Places." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "The porch swing is number twelve."

"Not yet," she said, her voice low and steady, the words cutting through the quiet of the porch. "We're not done."

His eyes widened, just a fraction, the lazy contentment in his face shifting into something sharper. She felt the change in the air between them—the way his breath caught, the way his hand stilled on her hip.

She slid off the swing before he could respond. The blanket pooled around her feet, the tulle of her dress whispering against the wooden boards as she lowered herself to her knees. The porch was rough beneath her bare skin, cold and solid, grounding her in the reality of what she was about to do.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched her, his chest rising and falling in the moonlight, his hands resting on his thighs like he was afraid to break the spell.

She reached for his belt. Her fingers worked the buckle with a steadiness that surprised her, the metal clicking open in the quiet night. She pulled the leather free, let it fall to the side, and her hands found the button of his pants. She undid it slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his.

His breath came uneven. "Navira—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You said you were addicted." She tugged his pants down just enough, freeing him. "Let me show you what that means."

He was already hard, the length of him straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, and he sprang free, his breath hissing through his teeth as the cool night air hit his skin.

She wrapped her hand around him, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of his skin against her palm. He throbbed beneath her touch, a small, involuntary movement, and she watched his jaw tighten.

She leaned forward, her hair falling around her face like a curtain, and pressed a kiss to the tip of him—soft, almost teasing. His hand found her hair, fingers threading through the curls, but he didn't push. Didn't guide. Just held on, letting her set the pace.

She took him into her mouth, slow and deliberate, letting her tongue trace the length of him. The taste of him hit her—salt and warmth and something darker, something that belonged only to him. She felt him shudder above her, felt his grip on her hair tighten, and she let herself sink deeper, taking him until her lips met her fingers.

She moved slowly at first, drawing out every second, every sensation. The wet sound of her mouth, the quiet groan he couldn't quite suppress, the way his hips pressed forward just a fraction before he caught himself. She wanted him to feel this. Wanted him to feel how much she craved him, how addicted she was to the taste of him, to the way he came undone beneath her hands.

She pulled back, releasing him with a wet sound, and looked up at him through her lashes. His eyes were dark, his lips parted, his chest heaving.

"I want you," she said, her voice husky. "Every part of you. All the time."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she didn't let him. She took him again, faster this time, her head bobbing as she worked him with her mouth and hand in tandem. His grip tightened in her hair, his hips rocking into her rhythm, and she felt the vibration of his groan through her entire body.

She could feel him building, feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his breath came in short, ragged bursts. She pulled back again, just before the edge, and watched him strain toward her with a sound that was almost a whimper.

"Not yet." She smiled, slow and wicked, and rose to her feet.

He reached for her, his hands finding her hips, but she caught his wrists and pressed them to the armrests of the swing. She swung one leg over his lap, the tulle of her dress cascading around them both, pooling over his thighs like a blush-colored wave. She settled onto him, the fabric of her underwear the only thing between them, and felt the heat of him pressing against her center.

His hands curled around her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above her hip bones. "You're going to kill me."

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. "Good."

Then she reached between them, hooked her underwear aside, and sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

They both gasped. The feeling of him inside her, the stretch and the fullness, the way he filled her completely—it stole her breath, made her grip his shoulders for support. He was buried deep, and she paused, letting herself adjust, letting the sensation wash over her.

His hands flew to her hips, steadying her, grounding her. "Navira—" Her name came out ragged, broken, a prayer on his lips.

She began to move.

Slow at first, a roll of her hips that made them both groan. The swing creaked beneath them, the chains groaning in protest as she rode him, her dress spreading around them like a pool of fabric and shadow. The moonlight caught the curve of her shoulder, the fall of her hair, the way her head tipped back when she found the right angle.

He watched her with dark, hungry eyes, his hands never still—one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her stomach, finding her breast through the loosened corset. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she gasped, the sound sharp and breathless.

"Quiet," he breathed, his voice rough. He lifted his hand from her hip and pressed his palm to her mouth, pressing gently. "Everyone's inside."

She nodded against his hand, her breath coming hot and fast against his skin. She kept moving, her hips finding a rhythm that made stars flicker at the edges of her vision. He filled her completely, hitting that spot inside her that made her thighs tremble, and she bit down on the heel of his palm to keep from crying out.

His other hand found her hip again, guiding her, helping her find the pace that pushed them both toward the edge. The swing creaked in time with their movements, a soft counterpoint to the wet sound of their bodies meeting, the ragged rhythm of their breath.

She rode him harder, faster, her dress tangling around them, the tulle rustling like a whispered secret. The porch boards groaned beneath them. The moon hung overhead, full and silent, watching them with cold indifference. But in the small space between their bodies, heat bloomed—impossible, consuming, theirs alone.

His hand slid from her mouth to her jaw, tilting her face toward him. His eyes met hers, dark and desperate and full of something that made her chest ache.

"Come for me," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Come for me, Navira."

She broke.

Her body arched against his, her inner walls clenching around him, her cry swallowed by his kiss as he pulled her mouth to his. He followed a heartbeat later, his hips bucking up into her, a low, shuddering groan escaping into her mouth as he spilled into her.

They stayed like that, joined and trembling, their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in the cold night air. The swing swayed gently, the chains sighing as they settled.

She slumped against his chest, her ear pressed to the hollow of his throat, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his skin. His arms came around her, holding her close, and she felt his lips press a kiss to the crown of her head.

She felt him soften inside her, felt the warmth of him still deep, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The house hummed behind them, muffled laughter and the clink of glasses, a world away.

"That's thirteen," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that rumbled through her. "I lost count."

She lifted her head, smiling, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Good."

The front door creaked open behind them.

Navira froze. Reyen's arms tightened around her, his body going still as a figure stepped onto the porch.

"Hey, I was just—" Nash's voice cut off mid-sentence. Navira heard the sharp intake of breath, the beat of silence that felt like an eternity. Then Nash let out a long, slow exhale. "You know what? I don't want to know. I'm going back inside. I'm pretending I saw nothing."

The door clicked shut.

Navira buried her face in Reyen's shoulder, her body shaking with silent laughter. He chuckled above her, his hand stroking her hair, the tension dissolving into warmth.

"Well," he said, his voice dry. "That's happening."

"He'll get over it."

"He's going to tease you for the rest of your life."

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "Worth it."

He smiled, full and warm, and pulled her closer. The porch swing swayed gently beneath them, the night air cool on her flushed skin, the moon still watching.

Inside, someone turned the music up—a soulful ballad that drifted through the walls, muffled and distant. The laughter rose, then fell, and the night stretched on, unhurried.

They stayed on the porch swing for a long time, tangled together beneath the stars, her dress still bunched around them, the blanket forgotten on the boards. He traced patterns on her bare hip. She traced the line of his jaw. The world spun on, distant and indifferent, but for a while, it didn't matter.

When they finally rose, her dress wrinkled beyond repair, his shirt untucked, they walked back into the house hand in hand. Nash was in the kitchen, pointedly not looking at them as he poured himself a glass of water. Sierra caught Navira's eye from the living room, her eyebrows raised in an unmistakable question.

Navira smiled, and Sierra's grin spread like wildfire.

The night settled around them, warm and alive, the bond in her chest humming like a second heartbeat.

For now, that was enough.

Navira's heels had barely crossed the threshold when Reyen's voice carried through the foyer, casual and bright. "Add porch swing to that list."

She didn't think. Her hand shot out and slapped his chest, the impact sharp against the fabric of his shirt. The sound echoed in the narrow hallway, and she felt the vibration of his laugh beneath her palm before she heard it.

"You're insufferable."

"You love it." He caught her hand before she could pull away, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Thirteen. I'm keeping count."

She yanked her hand free and walked into the pool room with as much dignity as she could muster, which was not much given the state of her dress—the blush tulle rumpled beyond repair, the corset loosened, her hair a wild tangle of curls.

The room went quiet for half a beat.

Sierra's head snapped up from the ottoman. Nami's hand froze mid-reach for her glass. Lily's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. Even Deliah looked up from her conversation with Grace, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"Oh," Sierra breathed. "Oh."

Nami set down her glass with deliberate care. "The porch swing."

"We were talking," Navira said, her voice flat.

"For twenty minutes." Grace's tone was dry as autumn leaves. "In the cold. In wrinkled dresses."

"It's breezy out there."

Sierra stood, crossing to Navira with the focused intensity of a predator. She circled her once, then stopped, her eyes scanning the disheveled corset, the loose hooks, the dark flush still high on her cheeks.

"We knew she had a naughty side to her," Sierra announced, throwing her arms wide. "I've been saying it for weeks. The quiet ones are always—"

"I'm not quiet."

"You're polite. Which is worse." Sierra grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her toward the group. "Look at her. She's practically glowing."

Navira's face burned. She shot a look over her shoulder at Reyen, who had leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with undisguised amusement. He raised his glass to her in a mock toast.

She turned back to the girls, crossed to the bar in four strides, and snatched Nami's whiskey glass off the table. She tipped it back, the amber liquid burning down her throat in one long swallow, and set the empty glass down with a sharp click.

"I needed that."

Nami stared at her for a beat, then burst into laughter. The room followed—Sierra's barking laugh, Grace's breathless giggle, Lily's soft chuckle. Even Deliah let out a low, appreciative hum.

Nami took the empty glass from her hand, refilled it from a bottle on the sideboard, and pressed it back into her palm. "You're going to need another."

Navira took it and dropped onto the chaise beside Nami, the tulle of her dress spilling over the velvet in a wrinkled cascade. She took a sip—slower this time—and let the warmth settle in her chest, mingling with the heat that still lingered from the porch.

Sierra dropped onto the floor beside the chaise, cross-legged, her chin propped on her hands. "Okay. Details. Not the graphic ones—we can imagine those. But how many times has it been now? I need a number."

"I've lost count," Navira said, which was almost true.

"Thirteen," Reyen called from the doorway, without looking up from his phone.

The room erupted again. Sierra buried her face in her hands. Nami clutched her stomach. Navira threw a throw pillow at his head, and he caught it without looking, tucking it under his arm like he'd planned it all along.

The laughter faded into easy chatter. Nic and Kiaan had started another game of pool, their conversation low and technical. Adrian nursed his beer, his eyes on Sierra with that quiet longing he couldn't quite hide. Nash had pulled Grace onto the long sofa, her head on his shoulder, his hand in her hair. Lily and Deliah had found a corner, their voices low, a shared book open on Deliah's lap.

Navira let herself sink into the noise. The whiskey warmed her from the inside out, smoothing the edges of the night. The bond hummed in her chest, steady and sure, a constant thread pulling her attention toward the doorway where Reyen stood—pretending to read his phone, but she could feel him watching her.

She let her eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth curved, that small, private smile that was just for her.

Nami leaned in, her voice dropping. "You two are disgustingly cute. It's almost unbearable."

"I know." Navira turned to her, a real smile breaking through. "I can't help it."

"Don't." Nami's hand found hers, squeezed once. "Don't ever help it. This is the happiest I've seen you, and I've known you since we were seven."

Navira's chest tightened. She squeezed back, holding onto the warmth of the moment, letting it settle deep in her ribs. The fire crackled in the garden, the string lights still glowing through the windows, and the night stretched on, full of laughter and the weight of people she loved.

The game wound down. Kiaan sank the eight ball with a theatrical flourish, then set down his cue and stretched, his joints popping. "I'm out. Some of us have to work tomorrow."

"It's midnight," Sierra said. "Who works at midnight?"

"People with real jobs." He dodged the throw pillow she launched at him, grinning. "You witches and your flexible hours."

"My job is literally magic."

He shrugged. "Same thing."

Sierra stood, brushing off her burgundy corset, and crossed to him. She stopped close, close enough that her chest almost brushed his, and looked up at him through her lashes. "Walk me out?"

Something flickered in Kiaan's eyes—a softness he tried to hide behind a smirk. "Someone has to make sure you don't fall into the fire pit."

She hooked her arm through his and pulled him toward the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder at Navira. "Don't wait up. Actually, do wait up. I might need details."

"I'm not giving you details," Navira called after her.

"You'll give them to Nami, and Nami will tell me. It's the sisterhood code."

The door swung shut behind them, and the room settled into the easy quiet of a night winding down. Nic rose, his hand finding Nami's, pulling her to her feet. "We're heading up."

Nami pressed a kiss to Navira's cheek, her lips warm and lingering. "Good night. Don't stay up too late." She lowered her voice. "Or do. I don't judge."

Navira laughed, soft and tired, and watched them disappear into the hallway, Nic's arm around Nami's waist, her head resting on his shoulder.

Lily and Deliah rose, murmuring their goodbyes. Grace untangled herself from Nash and pressed a kiss to his cheek before following them toward the front door. Nash rose, stretching, and caught Navira's eye from across the room.

He crossed to her, dropped onto the chaise beside her, and bumped her shoulder with his. "You okay?"

She looked at him—his familiar face, the faint scar that marked where death had touched him, the warmth in his eyes that had never dimmed. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Good." He stood, ruffled her hair like she was still twelve, and headed for the door. "Lock up behind me?"

"Always."

The front door clicked shut, and the house settled into silence.

Navira sat alone in the pool room, the whiskey glass empty in her hand, the fire in the garden reduced to embers. The string lights still glowed through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The house breathed around her, old and warm, full of the lingering echoes of laughter.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him. He didn't announce himself. He just crossed the room, lowered himself onto the chaise beside her, and pulled her into his side.

Reyen's arm settled around her shoulders, pulling her into the warmth of his side. The leather of the chaise creaked as she shifted, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. The house was quiet now — the kind of quiet that settled into the walls after a houseful of people had finally gone, leaving behind the echo of laughter and the smell of wine.

"Everyone's gone," she said, her voice soft in the stillness.

"Mm." His hand found her hair, fingers threading through the tangled curls, working through the knots with a patience that made her chest ache. "Just us."

She let herself sink into the quiet, into the warmth of his body beside hers. The fire in the garden had burned to embers, the string lights still glowing through the windows. The pool table sat abandoned, the cue ball still resting at the edge of the felt. The room was dim and golden and theirs.

She turned her head, her lips brushing the line of his jaw. He smelled like cedar and whiskey and the faint salt of skin. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and slow, and felt his arm tighten around her.

She didn't pull away. She shifted, swinging one leg over his lap, then the other, until she was straddling him, the tulle of her dress pooling around his thighs. The chaise creaked beneath them as she settled onto him, her knees pressing into the leather on either side of his hips.

His hands found her waist, steadying her, a question in his eyes. "Navira—"

She placed her hands on either side of his head, her fingers sliding into his hair. His dark eyes held hers, warm and curious, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, soft and deliberate. Then she trailed them down, across the sharp line of his jaw, down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath her mouth.

She paused at the hollow of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. She heard his breath catch, felt his hands tighten on her waist. She let her tongue trace a slow path up his neck — tasting him, salt and warmth — until her lips reached his ear.

She bit down. Gently. Just enough to feel the cartilage give between her teeth, to hear the sharp inhale that escaped him. She felt him shudder beneath her, his grip on her hips tightening, and she smiled against his ear.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, her voice low and teasing, "You really can't keep a secret, can you?"

He went still beneath her. His hands stopped moving. For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the house settling around them.

Then he laughed — a low, genuine sound that rumbled through his chest and into hers. His hands slid from her waist to her hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the boning of her corset.

"Thirteen," he said, his voice rough with amusement. "I counted."

"I noticed." She drew back just enough to look at him, her hands still framing his face, her thumbs brushing the sharp angles of his cheekbones. "You announced it to the entire room."

"I announced it to Nash." His grin widened. "Nash told everyone else. That's on him."

"You announced it in the foyer. Before Nash even opened his mouth."

"I was proud."

"You were showing off."

He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming. "Same thing."

She shook her head, but she was smiling, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of her dress. She let her hands slide from his face to his shoulders, tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt.

"You like knowing everyone knows, don't you?" she said, her voice quieter now. "That I'm yours."

The humor in his eyes softened into something deeper. His hands stilled on her hips, and he looked at her — really looked at her, the way he did when he let the mask slip and let her see the man beneath the bravado.

"I don't care if everyone knows." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "I care that it's true."

She felt the words settle in her chest, warm and steady. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his, her breath mingling with his in the small space between them.

"It's true," she whispered. "Every place. Every time. Every version of you. I'm yours."

His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, and he kissed her — not hungry, not desperate, but slow and deep, like he was tasting the words on her lips. She melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing against his chest.

The kiss softened, broke, and she rested her forehead against his, both of them breathing the same air.

"I just don't want Nash to know everything," she murmured, a hint of a smile in her voice. "He's already insufferable enough."

"He called us disgustingly cute earlier."

"He called us disgusting. There's a difference."

Reyen laughed, his hands sliding down to her hips, settling into the familiar curve of her waist. "He's just jealous."

"Of what? His sister's very active love life?"

"Of the fact that I get to have you all to myself." He pressed a kiss to her jaw, soft and lingering. "And he doesn't."

She tilted her head, giving him access to her throat, and felt his lips trace a slow path down her neck. A shiver ran through her, and she gripped his shoulders, steadying herself.

"You're going to make me lose count," she breathed.

"Of the places?" He pulled back, his eyes dark, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Because I'm keeping track. The porch swing is thirteen."

"We didn't finish on the porch swing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Does it count if we finished inside?"

"I think the location of the finish determines the tally."

"So the porch swing is thirteen." His thumbs traced slow arcs on her hips. "And we're still at thirteen."

She bit her lip, her eyes holding his. "Are you trying to add to the list right now?"

"I'm enjoying the view." His hands slid up her sides, over the wrinkles of her dress, settling at her waist. "And I'm patient."

She didn't answer. She reached down, her fingers finding the hem of her dress, and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion. The tulle whispered against her skin as it fell away, pooling on the chaise around them. She was left in her corset and underwear, the cool air of the room hitting her bare shoulders, the firelight from the garden casting long shadows across her skin.

Reyen's breath caught. His hands found her bare waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her hip bones. His eyes traced the curve of her breasts above the corset, the fall of her hair over her shoulders, the way the firelight painted her in gold and shadow.

"Seventeen," he said, his voice rough.

"What?"

"You in firelight, in a corset, looking at me like that." His grip tightened. "That's seventeen versions of you I've seen tonight. And every one of them is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his, and whispered, "You're ridiculous."

"I'm honest."

She kissed him — soft, slow, a promise she didn't need to put into words. His hands slid up her back, finding the clasps of her corset, and she felt them loosen one by one. The boning released, and the fabric fell away, and his hands found the bare skin of her back, warm and alive against her.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, his breath coming in low, even pulls. He looked at her like she was something sacred, something he couldn't quite believe was real.

"I love you," she said. "I don't say it enough. I don't show it enough. But I love you, Reyen Voss. Every reckless, ridiculous, insufferable inch of you."

He laughed, a soft, broken sound. His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "You show me every day. You don't have to say it."

"I want to say it." She pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. "I want you to hear it. Every time I think it. Every time I feel it. I want you to know."

He covered her hand with his, pressing it flat against his chest. "I feel it." His voice was barely a whisper. "Here. Every time you look at me. Every time you touch me. I feel it in the bond."

She felt it too — the hum of her magic inside him, the steady pulse of him inside her. It had been there since she'd channeled her power into him, but it was more than that now. It was the shape of him in her chest, the echo of his heartbeat in her veins.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

He did. His mouth found hers, soft at first, then deeper, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head to change the angle. She melted into him, her arms looping around his neck, her body pressing against his chest. The corset slipped lower, and she felt the cool air on her bare skin, felt his hand find her waist, her ribs, the curve of her breast.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her throat, her collarbone, pausing at the hollow where her pulse beat fast and steady. She felt his tongue, warm and slow, and a shiver ran through her.

"I want a new number," she breathed.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting hers. "What?"

"Fourteen." She held his gaze, steady and certain. "The pool room. Right here."

Something flickered in his eyes — heat, hunger, and beneath it, a tenderness that made her chest ache. His hands found her hips, guiding her closer, and she felt him hard against her through the thin fabric of her underwear.

"Fourteen," he repeated, his voice low and rough. "I like the way you think."

She reached between them, her fingers finding the waistband of his pants, working the button loose with practiced ease. He helped her, lifting his hips just enough for her to slide the fabric down, and then he was free, warm and heavy against her thigh.

She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his length, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. She watched his face as she stroked him — the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes darkened, the way his grip on her hips tightened.

"You're going to kill me," he said, his voice strained.

She smiled, slow and wicked, and lifted her hips. She positioned him at her entrance, the tip of him pressing against her through the fabric of her underwear, and paused, holding his gaze.

"Then what a way to go."

She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

They both gasped. The feeling of him filling her — the stretch, the heat, the way he reached something deep inside her — stole her breath, made her grip his shoulders for support. He was buried deep, and she paused, letting herself feel every inch of him, letting the sensation wash over her in waves.

His forehead dropped to hers, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Navira—"

She began to move. Slow at first, a roll of her hips that made them both groan. The chaise creaked beneath them, the leather warm against her bare thighs. Her hands found his shoulders, steadying herself as she rode him, finding the rhythm that made stars flicker at the edges of her vision.

He watched her with dark, hungry eyes, his hands never still — one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her stomach, finding her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she gasped, the sound sharp and breathless.

"I love watching you," he breathed. "The way you move. The way you look at me. The way you feel around me."

She bit her lip, her hips moving faster, the rhythm building. The bond in her chest hummed, alive and electric, feeding on the heat between them. She felt his magic, felt his desire, felt the way he was holding himself back, letting her set the pace.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't hold back."

His grip on her hip tightened. His eyes met hers, dark and desperate. "You're sure?"

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his, and whispered, "I want to feel you. All of you."

He surged up into her, hard and deep, and she cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her. His hands found her hips, guiding her faster, harder, the chaise groaning beneath them. The world narrowed to the slap of their bodies, the wet sound of their joining, the ragged rhythm of their breath.

She felt him everywhere — in her chest, in her blood, in the place where their bodies met. The bond blazed between them, a live wire, pulling them closer, deeper. She was trembling on the edge of something vast and consuming, and she could feel him right there with her, holding on, waiting for her to fall.

"Come for me," he breathed against her mouth. "Come for me, Navira."

She broke. Her body arched against his, her inner walls clenching around him, her cry lost in his kiss. He followed a heartbeat later, his hips bucking up into hers, a low, shuddering groan escaping into her mouth as he spilled into her.

They stayed like that, joined and trembling, their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in the warm, dim air of the pool room. The fire crackled softly in the garden, the string lights still glowing through the windows, casting long shadows across the walls.

She slumped against his chest, her ear pressed to the hollow of his throat, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his skin. His arms came around her, holding her close, and she felt his lips press a kiss to the crown of her head.

She felt him soften inside her, felt the warmth of him still deep, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The house settled around them, old and warm, full of the lingering echoes of the night.

"Fourteen," he said, his voice rough but warm.

She laughed, soft and breathless, her body still humming with aftershocks. "You're keeping count."

"I told you I was thorough." His hand found her hair, smoothing the tangled curls. "And I have a feeling we're not done yet."

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. The moonlight filtered through the window, catching the sharp angles of his face, softening the darkness in his gaze. He looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking for two hundred years.

"No," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "We're not done yet."

She reached down, her fingers finding the wrinkled tulle of her dress where it had pooled on the chaise. The fabric was cool against her skin as she pulled it over her head, the corset still loose, her hair catching in the hooks. She didn't bother fastening it properly—just let the dress settle over her shoulders, the blush fabric soft and rumpled.

He watched her from the chaise, his pants still undone, his chest bare in the dim light. A slow grin spread across his face as she stepped into her heels without bothering to straighten the straps.

"That's a good look on you," he said, his voice rough and warm. "The 'I just got thoroughly ruined' look."

She smiled, bending to grab his shirt from the floor and tossing it at his chest. "Put that on. We're going upstairs."

He caught it one-handed, rising with a fluid grace that made her stomach flip. He pulled the shirt over his head, leaving it unbuttoned, the pale fabric hanging open over his chest. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"I do." He stepped into his pants, fastening them with a casual efficiency, then crossed to her and took her hand. His fingers laced through hers, warm and steady. "Let's go shower and go to bed."

She squeezed his hand, and they walked out of the pool room together, leaving the firelight and the abandoned cue ball behind. The hallway was dark, lit only by the dim lamps that Nic always left on overnight. The house breathed around them, old wood settling, the distant hum of the refrigerator.

The bathroom at the end of the hall was warm when they stepped inside, the tiles cool beneath her bare feet. He turned on the shower, the water hissing against the stone, steam rising in slow curls. She let her dress fall to the floor, the tulle pooling around her ankles, and stepped under the spray before the water was fully warm, gasping as the cold hit her skin.

"Impatient," he said, stepping in behind her, his hands finding her waist.

"Cold." She leaned back against his chest, letting the water run over them both, warming as the steam filled the small space. His arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, and they stood there for a long moment, letting the water wash away the night—the grass stains, the sweat, the lingering heat of the porch and the pool room.

She turned in his arms, reaching for the soap. She lathered her hands and brought them to his chest, working the suds across his shoulders, down his arms, across the hard planes of his stomach. He watched her with dark, quiet eyes, his hands resting on her hips, letting her take her time.

"You're taking care of me," he said, his voice low.

"You take care of me all the time." She pressed a kiss to his sternum, the water running over her lips. "Turnabout is fair play."

His hands came up, fingers threading through her wet hair, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "I love you."

She smiled, water beading on her lashes. "I know."

He laughed, soft and genuine, and kissed her—slow and unhurried, the water streaming around them. She felt the bond hum between them, warm and steady, a quiet echo of the fire they'd shared. But this was different. This was soft. This was the aftermath, the slow settling of two bodies into the same rhythm.

They washed in comfortable silence, trading the soap, ducking under the spray. He washed her hair, his fingers working through the tangles with a patience that made her chest ache. She returned the favor, her nails scraping gently against his scalp, feeling the tension leave his shoulders under her touch.

When the water began to cool, he turned it off and stepped out, grabbing a towel and holding it open for her. She stepped into his arms, letting him wrap the towel around her, his hands lingering at her shoulders.

"Bed?" he asked.

"Bed."

They padded down the hall to his room, the floorboards cool beneath their bare feet. The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a sliver of moon through the gap. The bed was unmade, the sheets still tangled from the morning. She didn't care. She dropped the towel and slid between the cool sheets, sighing as her head hit the pillow.

He climbed in beside her, his skin still damp, and pulled her into his arms. She fit against him like she belonged there—her back to his chest, his arm around her waist, his lips pressing a kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I'll be here."

She was already drifting, the exhaustion of the night settling into her bones. The last thing she felt was the bond in her chest, warm and alive, and his breath against her neck, steady and sure.

Then the world faded.

Reyen lay still, his arm still around her, her breathing slow and even against his chest. He counted her breaths. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Each one deeper than the last, pulling her further into sleep.

He didn't move. He waited, listening to the silence of the house, the settling of the old wood, the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Her magic was quiet in his chest, a low hum like a sleeping animal, content and still.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, soft and lingering, and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Then he slid his arm out from under her, slow and careful, and rose from the bed. The floorboard beneath his foot creaked. He froze. She didn't stir.

He pulled on a pair of dark pants and a loose shirt, leaving his feet bare. The house was cold as he stepped into the hallway, the silence pressing in around him. He didn't turn on any lights. He knew the way by heart—down the hall, past the kitchen, past the cellar door that led to the wine storage and the older, darker rooms beneath.

The basement stairs were narrow, the wood worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. He descended without a sound, his hand trailing along the wall. The air grew cooler, thicker, carrying the smell of damp stone and iron.

The door at the bottom was solid oak, reinforced with a steel bar that Nic had installed the day they'd brought her down here. He lifted the bar, the metal scraping against the bracket, and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was small, lit by a single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. The walls were stone, the floor concrete. In the center, chained to a heavy iron ring bolted into the floor, sat Medora.

She looked up as he entered. Her wrists were bound in silver chains, her ankles shackled to the ring. Her hair was tangled, her dress torn, her face pale from the vervain running through her veins. But her eyes—those hazel eyes that mirrored Navira's—were sharp and clear, watching him with a knowing gleam.

"Reyen." Her voice was rough, but there was a smile in it. "I was wondering when you'd come."

He didn't answer. He crossed to the single wooden chair that sat against the far wall, turned it to face her, and sat. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped.

"You're going to tell me everything you know about Malachai."

Her smile widened, a slow, dangerous thing. "Oh, I see. You snuck down here while your little witch is sleeping. How romantic." She tilted her head, her chains clinking. "Does she know you're here?"

"She doesn't need to."

"No." Medora's voice dropped, soft and mocking. "She doesn't need to know that her precious Reyen is keeping secrets. That he's down here, in the dark, talking to the woman who tried to kill her brother." She leaned forward as far as her chains would allow. "You're just like me, you know. You do whatever it takes to protect what's yours, consequences be damned."

His jaw tightened. "I'm nothing like you."

"Aren't you?" Her eyes searched his face, cruel and amused. "You're lying to her right now. You're down here, alone, making decisions she should be part of. That's not love, Reyen. That's control."

He stood, the chair scraping against the concrete. He crossed to her in three steps, his shadow falling over her, his voice low and hard. "Tell me what you know about Malachai. Now."

She didn't flinch. She looked up at him, her smile never wavering, and said, "He's coming for her. You already know that. But what you don't know is that he's already found a way to track her, even with vervain masking her scent. He has a witch in his pocket—an old one, powerful. She's been weaving a locator spell since the night Astrid marked the town."

Reyen's blood went cold. "How do you know that?"

"Because I was the one who helped the witch design it, before I decided I'd rather see Malachai burn than help him succeed." She laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "Surprised? I have my limits. Using me as bait for an Original hybrid was not part of the deal."

He stared at her, his mind racing. A locator spell. Malachai could find Navira anytime, anywhere. The vervain they'd been using to mask her presence was useless.

"How do we break the spell?"

Medora's smile turned sharp. "You need the witch's blood. Her original casting reagent. Burn it in a consecrated fire on the night of the new moon, and the locator will dissolve." She paused, tilting her head. "But the witch is somewhere in the city, protected by Malachai's inner circle. You'll never get to her."

Reyen turned away, pacing the small room, his hands running through his hair. The bond in his chest pulsed—Navira's magic, still sleeping, still quiet. He could feel her, distant and warm, trusting him while he kept this from her.

He stopped, his back to Medora. "If I tell her, she'll want to help. She'll want to be part of the plan. And if something goes wrong—"

"She'll be in danger." Medora's voice was soft now, almost gentle. "I know, Reyen. That's what you do. You keep her in the dark so she stays safe. But she won't stay safe forever. And when she finds out you've been lying to her, she'll hate you for it."

He turned, his eyes meeting hers. "Then she hates me." His voice was flat. "As long as she's alive."

Medora studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she leaned back against the wall, her chains settling around her.

"You really do love her," she said, almost to herself. "That's unfortunate."

He didn't answer. He crossed to the door, his hand on the frame, and paused. "If you're lying to me—"

"I'm not." Her voice was tired now, stripped of its mockery. "For once, I'm not. Malachai will kill everyone she loves if he gets her. And he will get her, unless you find that witch and burn her blood."

Reyen left without another word. He lifted the steel bar, slid it back into place, and climbed the stairs. The house was still dark, still quiet. He walked back to the bedroom, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet.

He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep—the rise and fall of her chest, the curl of her hand on the pillow, the way her brow was smooth, untroubled. She trusted him. She slept because she trusted him.

And he had just lied to her by omission.

He crossed to the bed, slid under the covers, and pulled her into his arms. She stirred, murmuring something soft, and pressed closer to him, her hand finding his chest.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, his eyes open in the dark, and whispered, "I will keep you safe. No matter what it costs."

The bond hummed between them, quiet and steady, and he held her through the night, carrying the weight of the secret alone.