Brynn turns to me, her brow furrowed. “Dependent on Dayn? Good luck with that. She’d rather set herself?—”
“Not on him,” I clarify, the plan forming with a cold, clean logic in my mind. “On their combined power. The bond between them is supposed to be a weapon, one she’s refusing to fully hone.” I meet her gaze, letting the weight of the idea settle. “Because she thinks she can save the coven without it, that she doesn’t truly need it. We need to create a situation where that weapon is the only thing that can protect something she values more than her own pride.”
Her eyes widen as the implication lands. “Family,” she breathes.
“A controlled crisis,” I say. “A threat that is too significant for her to handle alone, but not so great it can’t be contained. You will be the target. Dayn will be the only available reinforcement. She will be forced to work with him—to use the bond, to trust it—or risk watching you immediately fall.”
Brynn's eyes widen. “And maybe that’ll trigger a change of mind… or a change of heart? Or something better than now, at least. And holy crap, that's diabolical.” She punches my arm, hard enough that I actually feel it. “Make her save me to save herself? That's some next-level emotional manipulation. Darkbirch Psych 505 stuff. And here I thought you were just eye candy with a fancy sword.”
“My sword is also quite fancy,” I mutter, a strange warmth spreading from the point of impact on my arm. “And effective. A useful combination.” I rub the spot she struck, not because it hurts, but to anchor the sensation. It’s been a while since someone touched me without the intent to harm.
Her cheeks flush a faint, satisfying pink. “I’ll take your word for it,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“The sword,” I clarify, a ghost of a smirk touching my lips, “is an extension of its wielder. Its effectiveness is a matter of personal pride.”
Her flush deepens. “Right. Well. Pride isn’t going to save my sister,Valgrave, so let’s focus.”
“Focus,” I echo, my voice flat. “Right.” My mind is already moving, sorting through layouts, patrol schedules, magical signatures. “The lower archives. You go there now for a solo rotation… recalibrating the containment wards on the pre-purge artifacts. It’s isolated. The ambient spiritual energy will mask my interference.”
“Interference?” Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, a spark of wariness mixing with the thrill of conspiracy.
“A controlled breach,” I explain. “For starters… there’s the Weeping Locket containing that aggressive wraith. I’ll create a momentary flaw in its containment field. It will manifest. It will target you. The alert will register as a level-two spiritual incursion—enough to draw Esme’s immediate attention.”
She swallows, the vulnerability of the plan finally hitting her. She isn’t a willing field agent. This isn’t her language. “And you’ll be there? To make sure whatever we do stays… minor?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I'll be there.”
She shoves me in the shoulder.
“I won’t let it harm you,” I say, my voice harder, the words a vow I didn’t intend to make aloud. “I’ll… be your shadow.”
She searches my face for a moment, studying me. Her gaze isn't accusatory, not like Corvin’s, or fearful, like the other students’. It’s… analytical. Like she’s trying to solve a particularly difficult equation. My own reflection is probably a grim, scarred mask, but she seems to look past it, to… me. Underneath.
For a heartbeat, the calculation in her gaze falters. The storm gray of her eyes softens at the edges, revealing something I can't quite name beneath the surface. Our eyes lock across the narrow space between us, and I realize I'm holding my breath. Part of me waits for her to slice through this strange tension, to rebuild the wall between now-captor and conspirator.
“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, almost lost in the courtyard’s chill, “I could just order you to keep me safe. Command you not to let anything happen.”
“You could,” I agree, my voice rougher than I intend. “It would be… a logical precaution.”
She doesn’t look away. Her gaze is steady, searching. “But I’m not going to,” she says, and the quiet finality of it hits me harder than any of her previous insults.
Her hand comes up, slowly, hesitantly. Her fingers brush the collar of my fatigues, smoothing a crease that isn’t there. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends a jolt through my system, a low-voltage shock that makes the demon in my blood go utterly still… then lock on, scenting meaning, reading intent, bracing for something it recognizes far too easily.
A touch like that is territorial. It’s the kind of casual, possessive gesture one makes for someone they… care about. Someone who belongs to them. It means a claim.
Meansmine.
I know that’s demon-instinct twisting things, but my body—and the demon—don’t care. He awakens with a hunger that has nothing to do with violence.
Her scent fills my lungs: faint traces of ink and something uniquely her that makes my mouth go dry. My pulse hammers in my throat.A touch like that is territorial. Possessive. It means mine,my demon echoes the thoughts.
My hand curls into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm. The muscles in my thighs tense, ready to either retreat or close the distance between us. One part of me screams to retreat, to break the contact before instinct makes a liar of me. Another part—older, darker, more honest—wants to lean in, wants to bare its throat and let her keep touching me. To feel her fingers trail lower, taste the salt on her skin, press her against the nearest wall and discover if she makes the same soft sound when I touch her back.
The conflict tears through me like a blade between my ribs: exquisite, unavoidable, consuming.
She drops her hand, her cheeks coloring slightly as if she’s just realized what she’s done. But no. She hasn’t. She hasno ideawhat she’s just done.Gods, Brynn.
“Just… be my shadow, Chad,” she says, her voice softer now. “Don’t let me get eaten by a locket-ghost.”
