“Why?” I ask, the word sharp. “What’s your angle, Dayn?”
His eyes lock onto mine, something fierce and possessive flashing in their golden depths. But it’s gone an instant later, shuttered behind cool precision.
“Because your death is a strategic inconvenience I am not prepared to accept,” he says, perfectly academic—perfectly arrogant—in a way that, now, still somehow does entirely inconvenient things to my insides. “And because a Salem witch, powered by draconic fire, is a weapon I very much enjoy witnessing.”
His honesty is as disarming as it is steeped in his usual arrogance. He’s not offering comfort or salvation. He’s offering a tool, a resource. He’s speaking my language.
“Show me,” I mutter, the words feeling dangerously close to a concession.
A slow, predatory smile touches his lips. It does not reach his eyes. “As you wish.”
He simply holds out a hand, palm up. “Lower your blade, Esme. Open yourself to the bond. You cannot receive with a closed fist.”
My own hand, the one holding the sword, is slick with sweat. Every instinct screams at me to keep my guard up, to treat this as the trap it surely is. But the memory of Esther’s death—the feeling of my power failing in that broken body—is a cold weight in my gut. I want an edge. He is offering one.
With a reluctant, sharp exhale, I slide my sword back into its sheath at my hip. The familiar scrape of steel on leather is the only sound in the sudden stillness. I meet his gaze, lifting my chin, trying to project a confidence I do not feel.
His approach is measured—one step, then another—until he stands before me, close enough that the unnatural heat from his body washes over my skin like a desertwind. He still doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He just watches my face, his amber eyes searching, cataloging every flicker of doubt, of resistance.
Then he outstretches a hand, the implication obvious.
I hold his gaze, my own a mask of cold assessment. He’s right. This is just a weapon. One I’ve wielded before. One I can keep within limits…
Slowly, I lift my hand. I place my palm against his.
The contact is a shockwave. It’s not just the heat, which is considerable, but the texture of him—the calloused skin, the sheer, unyielding strength beneath it. The bond ignites between us, no longer a hum but a roar. A river of raw power, molten gold and ancient earth, surges from him into me. It rushes through my veins, a tidal wave of pure stamina that feels impossibly vast. It’s not just energy; it’shim. The unshakeable certainty of a mountain, the patient fire of a star’s core, a will that has weathered millennia. It fills the empty, exhausted spaces inside me, reinforcing my own magic, layering his strength over mine until I feel… boundless.
It is the most intoxicating and terrifying thing I have ever felt. My own power, my Salem steel, feels like a fragile whisper against the roar of his draconic heart.
Just as I begin to grapple with the sheer scale of it, a different sensation rips through me, sharp and piercing as a shard of ice. It’s a scream, a flash of pure terror that cuts through the golden haze of Dayn’s power. It’s a scream I would know anywhere.
Brynn.
I snatch my hand back, the connection snapping. The world comes rushing back in, cold and biting. The power recedes, leaving an echo of its strength and a hollow ache in its wake.
Dayn’s eyes narrow, sensing the shift in me. “What is it?”
I don’t answer. I’m already moving, my hand on my sword, my feet carrying me toward the lower archives. Fear, cold and absolute, eclipses everything else. “Brynn’s in trouble.”
23
BRYNN
The plan, in retrospect, had several critical flaws. Flaw number one: underestimating the sheer pants-wetting terror of a three-hundred-year-old grief-wraith.
I’m huddled behind a large oak desk, ostensibly recalibrating the containment ward on the Weeping Locket, which is currently doing a very convincing impression of a dormant, harmless trinket. Chad is tucked away in the deep shadows of the history stacks, like a silent, angular predator waiting for his cue. The air is cold, thick with the smell of old paper and my own rising panic.
This is fine. This is a controlled crisis.
The archive door slams open. Esme is a blur of motion, a weapon in hand, her face a pale mask of urgency. Behind her, just as I’d hoped, Dayn fills the doorway, his presence sucking the chill from the room. Perfect. The bait is in position. The key players have arrived.
“Brynn!” Esme’s voice is sharp. “What’s happening?”
“The ward is failing!” I yelp, pointing a trembling finger at the locket.
“What?How could it simply f?—”
On cue, the faint silver light of the containment field sputters and dies. Chad is a master of subtlety. A thin, greasy tendril of black smoke seeps from the locket’s hinge.
