Garrick’s gaze shifted to Araya, sweeping over her with careful scrutiny as she fought the urge to squirm. Even after months at Jaxon’s side, she never quite knew where she stood with Garrick—and every interaction felt like a test she wasn’t sure she was passing.
“Happy birthday, sir,” she said quietly, dropping her gaze to her feet. “Sorry to ruin your night?—”
“Nonsense,” Garrick said crisply. “Darian should never have dared to corner one of my invited guests—you’re the one who deserves my apologies, Araya. You should never have had to deal with that.”
He glanced back at Jaxon.“You’re not dragging her across the city at this hour. Your room is still here—use it.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—” Araya started, scrambling. “I can make it home?—”
“It’s not safe, Starling.” Jaxon’s hand curled around her waist, pulling her into his warmth. “Not until we get a handle on Darian.”
“You’re Jaxon’s now,” Garrick added, giving her a rare, gentle smile. “That makes you my concern as much as his. Both of you get some rest—and leave Darian to me.”
Araya didn’t argue, letting Jaxon guide her out of the ballroom and up a sweeping staircase and into a bedroom at the end of the corridor. Araya paused just inside, her gaze sweeping over the unexpected blend of luxury and nostalgia. Polished wood furniture gleamed under the warm light of enchanted aether lamps, and sagging shelves brimmed with books and trophies, remnants of the boy Jaxon had once been.
“What do you think?” Jaxon asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“It’s… not what I expected.” Araya bent to study a set of trophies, most of them academic but some for sports and athletics. “It looks like a real child lived here.”
“I was a real child, Starling.”
Araya laughed, trailing her fingers along the back of the armchair as she moved toward the window. How many nights had Jaxon sat here as a boy—curled up with a book or just staring out at the city, dreaming of the world waiting beyond? Who had he thought he’d be?
“Come here.” Jaxon stepped up behind her, folding her into his arms. His lips brushed her shoulder, sending sparks racing over her skin. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
Araya’s breath caught as Jaxon’s skilled fingers worked at the fastenings of her gown. The silk whispered to the floor, pooling around her ankles. His hands followed its path, stoking those sparks into a flicker of heat that didn’t quite chase away the lingering chill of Hale’s threat.
“You’re mine, Starling,” Jaxon said, like he could read her mind. “No one—least of all Darian Hale—is going to change that. Now—” he tugged her toward the center of the room. “Come to bed.”
Jaxon tucked her under the covers, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before he turned back to gather her dress. She could hear the rustle of fabric as he stripped out of his own formal clothes. Finally, he slipped into the bed behind her, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull her close.
“You’re safe with me,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “I’d never let anything happen to you, Starling. I promise.”
Araya sank into the warmth of his arms around her, finally letting herself relax into the comfort of his heartbeat against her back. It didn’t banish the fear, but his promise dulled the edge of it—just enough.
Chapter
Eighteen
For the firsttime in twenty-five years, Loren opened his eyes to something other than stone and darkness.
A grand foyer stretched before him, dark polished wood gleaming under the golden light of the aether-lit chandeliers hanging from the soaring ceilings. Loren inhaled deeply, relishing a breath that didn’t smell of moldy straw and iron.
Fragments of laughter and music teased the edges of his mind—snippets of memory hovering just out of reach, dissolving before he could grasp them. But Loren knew that if he started walking, he would find a ballroom at the end of this hall—and beyond it, sprawling gardens alive with dancing lights and the sweet scent of flowers.
But other details... Loren reached out, brushing his fingers across one of the heavy tapestries. The woven image depicted a battle scene, human figures crushing fae beneath their boots rendered in exquisite detail.Thatwasn’t part of his memory.
He was dreaming—but he wasn’t the one shaping it.Shewas.
Loren hadn’t dreamed of her in weeks. She still visited his cell to check on his healing, but the warmth between them was gone—replaced by a mask of cold indifference she never let waver, not since he’d sneered in her face and called her a whore for what she’d done to survive.
And who could blame her? That was what he’d wanted—to drive her away.
She was safer that way.
But it didn’t make it hurt any less that he could smell Jaxon Shaw all over her. The reek of his sweet, cloying soap clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes?—
Loren shuddered, choking back a growl. He should do the right thing and bow quietly out of her dream—no sense in torturing them both. But he couldn’t. Instead, he took a step forward, letting the faint pull of music draw him down the corridor.
