I try to think through the logistics. Blythe would have extracted a mental imprint from him, just like she must have done with all the other volunteers. Dayn would have had to submit to the extraction spell. Which means the real Dayn is likely sitting in Merlin's chamber right now, having arrived shortly after I began this nightmare…
“Come on, then,” I murmur, raising my blade. “Let’s get this over with.”
His smile widens. “Always so eager to dance, wife.”
He comes at me without a weapon, a blur of speed. I strike, but he deflects the blow with his forearm, the impact jarring me. He uses the opening to close the distance, his body pressing against mine, one hand closing around the back of my neck, like a furnace against my skin. But he does nothing to attempt to snap my throat. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my lips.
“You fight so hard,” he whispers, his amber eyes searching mine. “But you know this is inevitable, don’t you?” He leans in, and for an electric moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My own hand comes up, the hilt of my sword pressing against his throat.
“What are you doing?” I whisper back, narrowing my eyes. He’s supposed to be a construct designed to kill me.
A slight smile ghosts his lips. He doesn’t even seem to feel the pressure of the steel. He simply pushes me back, breaking the contact, and the fight resumes. But it still feels... wrong.
He moves like smoke and strikes like lightning. But this isnot a fight to the death; it feels more like a lesson—in my own inadequacy. He never goes for a kill shot. He bats my blade aside, corrects my footing with a sweep of his own, and closes the distance again and again. Each parry is a condescending push, each block a dismissal of my strength.
“You’re telegraphing your desperation,” he murmurs, his hand wrapping around my sword arm, his strength absolute. He twists, and my own blade is suddenly at my throat, my own hand forced to hold it there. His body is flush against my back, his chest a solid wall of heat. “You expend your energy on rage, when you should be conserving it for survival.”
“This is supposed to be survival.” I drive my elbow back into his gut. It’s like hitting stone. He doesn’t even grunt, just uses my momentum to spin me around, slamming me back against a crumbling pillar. My sword clatters to the cobblestones, skittering out of reach. Both his hands pin my wrists to the stone above my head. His hips cage mine, his thighs hard against my own.
His face is inches away, his amber eyes not empty like the others, but now burning with a furious, focused light. His head tilts in that same analytical way Riona’s did. But his gaze isn’t vacant. They’re watching me, waiting.
He isn’t a puppet, I realize, with a sudden, certain clarity. This feels… real. This feels like him.
It hits me with the force of a physical blow.
This isn’t Blythe’s simulation. Not right now.
“You see?” he whispers, his breath a warm caress against my lips. “Alone, you break. You will always break.”
His voice is soft, intimate, and it slides between my ribs like the blade I just dropped.
I glare up at him, pinned against the pillar, every pulse point on fire. “I am not breaking.”
“You’re bleeding.” His thumb grazes the gash at my ribs,gentle—too gentle. Then it dips under the torn edge of my shirt, calloused skin to raw wound. The touch isn’t clinical; it’s claiming, and the bond answers like a struck bell. Heat rushes through me, drowning the last of my anger in molten want.
I hate that it feels good. I hate more that he knows.
“I can still end you,” I breathe, hips arching involuntarily when he shifts closer.
“Maybe, in your dreams,” he says. “But I might have a better idea.”
The pillar at my back liquefies. The rough stone that was digging into my spine softens, warms, turning smooth and damp. The gritty, dust-choked air dissolves into a cloud of warm, fragrant steam that clings to my skin and tastes of minerals and something floral, like moon-petal blossoms. The dull light of the ruined city fades, replaced by a soft, ethereal turquoise glow.
My frantic struggles cease as I take in the impossible shift.
We are no longer in a city of death. We are in a cave, a hidden grotto. The light comes from thick veins of glowing moss that snake across the vaulted stone ceiling and down the walls. A small, perfect waterfall whispers down a sheet of black rock, feeding a pool of water so clear I can see the smooth, pale stones on the bottom. Steam rises in gentle curls from its surface.
28
ESME
Dayn is no longer pinning me. Instead, he’s standing, submerged to his waist, in the steaming water.
Not the construct. Him. Somehow I know it’s him. The heat radiating from him feels real, the predatory intensity in his eyes his own. He is shirtless, water sluicing over the lean, powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders, his dark hair plastered to his skin. He looks like some ancient, pagan god in his sanctum.
“You,” I whisper, the accusation aimed not at the construct, but at the man I know is watching, somehow, from the real world. “You’ve… taken control?”
“Not exactly,” he says, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel through the water and up through the stone into the soles of my boots. He settles against the natural basin of rock, water lapping at his chest and arms, the formation cradling him like a throne carved for his exact dimensions. “I’ve simply pressed pause.” He gestures to the water around him. “This is still a construct. A pocket dimension created by your coven’smagic. I’ve just… redecorated. Consider it a reprieve. A rest. Even warriors need to breathe, Esme.”
