“Please.” I’ve never begged for anything in my life. “Please, whatever it takes—”
“Come.” Hera’s voice is steady, commanding. “You fight this one. I’ll take care of Daciana.”
I look down at my mate. Her eyes are closed now. Her breathing is so shallow I can barely see her chest move. Every fiber of my being rebels against walking away from her, even for a second.
But if Hera can save her…
I lean down and press my lips to Daciana’s forehead. “Don’t you dare die on me,” I whisper against her skin. “That’s an order.”
Then, I force myself to stand. To step back. To let Hera take my place beside my mate.
The moment Hera’s hands touch Daciana’s chest, I feel the difference. Ancient magic—older than mine, older than anything I’ve encountered—surges through the air. Several other gypsy witches materialize from the shadows, forming a circle around them. Their voices rise in unison, chanting in a language that makes my bones vibrate.
I turn away. Focus on what I can control.
Celeste stands across from me, her blonde hair wild, her eyes glinting with both malice and desperation.
“It ends now, Celeste.” I call my magic to the surface, letting it crackle along my arms. Centuries of power. Centuries of rage. “You’re not walking away from this.”
She laughs. Actually laughs. “Even if you kill me, I’ve already won. I’ll be reborn. I always am. And next time—”
“There won’t be a next time.” I take a step forward. “The curse is broken. Cassandra is free. She is with the gypsy witches right now.”
The laughter dies on Celeste’s lips. “You’re lying.”
“You have tried to outwit destiny,” I say, my voice cold and steady. “But all the necromancy and curses in the world cannot stop the card that destiny wishes to play. You have lost.”
Celeste’s face twists with rage. “You think you can stop me? I’ve been doing this for millennia, so—”
I don’t let her finish.
All the power I’ve been building, all the magic I’ve been storing for centuries—I unleash it in one devastating strike. Lightning and fire and pure raw energy explode from my hands, tearing through the air toward her.
She blocks it, barely, her shield shimmering under the onslaught. But I don’t stop. I pour more power into the attack, pushing her back, making her focus entirely on defense.
That’s when I feel them—Lucian and Seth, moving like shadows through the chaos.
Celeste is so focused on me, so busy trying to survive my assault, that she doesn’t notice them flanking her. Doesn’t see them until it’s too late.
Seth distracts her, and Lucian attacks. His hands, clawed and deadly, wrap around Celeste’s neck. She has just enough time to gasp before he tears her head clean from her shoulders.
Her body crumples to the ground.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Celeste—the witch who has haunted us for centuries, who has killed and cursed and destroyed—lies in pieces at our feet.
Hera rushes over, her face grim. “It’s not over yet.”
She kneels beside Celeste’s body, placing her hand on the dead witch’s chest. The chanting starts again, low and rhythmic, and I watch in fascination and horror as Celeste’s body begins to disintegrate. Flesh turns to ash, bones crumble to dust, until only one thing remains.
Her heart.
Still beating.
Hera picks it up and holds it in her palm. Black veins spider across its surface, pulsing with dark magic.
Then, she squeezes.
The heart bursts, spraying blood over the ground. Hera uses the blood to draw a symbol on the garden floor—intricate and ancient, glowing with power.
