“Is that your mother’s dress?” Araya asked, the hairpin slipping from her fingers.
Serafina nodded, her green eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Serafina…” Araya trailed off, brushing her fingers over the delicate fabric.
She remembered Serafina’s mother—warm and quick-witted, even after she’d gotten sick. Even though they had only spoken a handful of times, Araya had felt her absence like a ghost when Serafina invited her to move into the house with her.
“I can’t take this,” she said. “It’s one of the only things you have left of her?—”
“She would want you to wear it,” Serafina interrupted. “She’d understand everything you’re doing—even if I don’t. I shouldn’t have argued with you—you were right. It’s not my place to judge your relationship with Jaxon.”
The weight of her friend’s words pressed against Araya’s chest, tightening her throat.
“Thank you,” she said when she finally managed to find her voice again. “For understanding.”
Araya stood still as Serafina helped her slip into the gown, the gossamer fabric settling over her like a second skin. Impossibly light and soft, it was unlike anything she had ever worn.
Serafina smoothed the gown over Araya’s shoulders, her hands lingering as though to steady them both. Then, with deliberate care,she reached for the pins in Araya’s hair. One by one, she pulled them free, letting the heavy waves tumble loose.
“You should wear it down,” Serafina said again. “You deserve to enjoy yourself tonight. And the… safety Jaxon offers.”
Araya inhaled sharply as she stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. She hardly recognized the female staring back at her. The silver gown made her eyes glow like molten quicksilver, and her unbound hair framed her face in wild waves of flame and shadow. She looked more like a fae princess than a halfblood mage.
Their gazes met in the mirror, and Araya’s breath hitched at the raw emotion etched into Serafina’s face. The sadness was there, threaded through with fear, but it wasn’t the fear of judgment or disapproval—it was the fear of losing her.
Serafina’s fingers traced the delicate embroidery near the neckline, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I do understand, you know,” she said quietly. “That you’re just trying to survive. I just want to make sure you can live with what you feel like you have to do.”
Araya turned, her throat suddenly tight.
“Serafina…” Her voice faltered. She wrapped her arms tightly around her friend, holding on harder and longer than she usually would.
“It’s just dinner,” she murmured, but the words felt thin and hollow.
Serafina just hugged her tighter. “I’ll be here when you need me,” she whispered. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled against Araya’s back. And when she stepped away, her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Be safe.”
“You too,” Araya whispered as the door clicked closed behind her best friend.
It felt like a crime to put her ragged, threadbare cloak on over a dress like this. Fortunately, it was warm enough that she didn’t really need a cloak if she was going to be with Jaxon. Like he’d said—he’d keep her safe.
Still, she shivered when she stepped outside, the night air brushing over her bare skin, leaving her raw and exposed.
But she bravely lifted the skirt of the dress to avoid stepping on the hem as she descended the stairs, making her way over to where Jaxon leaned against the carriage, absently picking at his nails with a knife. He frowned down at his fingers, the blade catching the lamplight, but his eyes lit up when he saw Araya. He tucked the blade away, a slow smile spreading across his face as he straightened and strode toward her.
“Perfect,” he murmured, dragging his gaze over her. His smile deepened as his hand slid down her side, lingering at her waist before his palm finally settled at the small of her back, drawing her closer even as she tensed.
“Still mad at me?” he asked lightly, like it was a private joke instead of an open wound. “Can’t say I blame you. But we both know this is exactly where you were always meant to be.”
Araya forced a tight smile. It didn’t matter that he’d shattered her heart three years ago—he was the only chance she had left.
So she let Jaxon guide her forward, so focused on the hem of her dress and not tripping as he helped her into the carriage that she didn’t notice the man already seated inside until she was halfway through the door.
She froze. A rabbit before a predator. Every instinct screaming at her to run. But Jaxon’s hand pressed firm against her back, unyielding.
“Get in,” he ordered.
Her feet obeyed before her mind caught up. She sank onto the bench opposite High Magister Garrick Shaw, the celebrated Architect of the New Dominion, the highest ranking member of the Arcanum—and Jaxon Shaw’s father.
Garrick didn’t look up from the stack of parchment in his hands, even when Jaxon slid into the seat beside him and the carriage lurched into motion. He ignored them both completely—as if theywere little more than an afterthought he’d attend to once his real work was done.
