The honesty in her voice makes my chest tight. "Neither do I."
It's true. For six years, my world has revolved entirely around Irida and the careful balance I've built to keep her safe. I haven't let anyone else close enough to matter, haven't wanted to. The thought of caring about someone who could leave—or be taken—has been unbearable.
But watching Heidi with my daughter, seeing the way she automatically includes me in conversations, how she's started moving through my house like she belongs there... I'm alreadytoo deep to retreat. The bond may have brought her here, but what's keeping her is something far more dangerous than magic.
"She's going to be devastated when I leave," Heidi says, voicing the fear that's been growing in my own chest.
"When?" I bark out the word.
"When the bond is satisfied. When whatever this is resolves itself and I can go back to my life." But her voice lacks conviction, like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
I don't tell her that's not how the bonds work. That is will never go away, even if that's what she keeps telling herself.
I don't admit that I don't want it to, either.
"And if it doesn't resolve itself? If this is permanent?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. Because the truth is becoming impossible to ignore—this bond isn't temporary. The Nashai had warned us as much, but I'd hoped for some loophole, some way to satisfy the magic without upending both our lives completely.
Now, sitting here with Heidi's warmth pressed against my side and her scent filling my lungs, I'm not sure I want a loophole anymore.
"I don't know," she admits. "I've never had anything permanent before. Never stayed anywhere long enough to find out what that feels like."
"Maybe it's time you did." The words slip out before I can stop them, rough with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
She turns to look at me, and the space between us seems to shrink without either of us moving. Her lips part slightly, and I find myself cataloguing details—the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the small scar under her lower lip, how her breath catches when our eyes meet.
"Mihalis," she whispers, and my name sounds different in her voice. Softer. Like maybe she's not entirely opposed to the idea of staying.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the spell between us, small boots crunching through snow with determined purpose. Irida has found our section of the maze, her voice growing clearer as she searches the final passages.
"Dad? Heidi? I know you're close! I can feel it!"
Heidi and I exchange a look—part amusement, part relief at the interruption. Whatever was building between us in this hidden sanctuary is too intense, too charged with possibility to explore with my six-year-old daughter calling our names.
But as we prepare to reveal ourselves, as I push aside the vine curtain and step back into the winter sunlight, I catch Heidi's wrist gently in my hand.
"We're not finished with this conversation," I tell her quietly.
Her pulse jumps under my fingers, quick and fluttery like a trapped bird. But she doesn't pull away, doesn't deny the connection crackling between us.
"I know," she breathes.
11
HEIDI
The bond is starting to drain me. More than I can hide.
The sickness starts small—a flutter in my stomach when I wake, a dizzy spell as I'm getting dressed. Easy enough to ignore, to attribute to the rich food I'm still not used to eating regularly. But by the time we leave Irida with her afternoon lessons and head to Vestige, the nausea has settled into my bones like a persistent ache.
I press my lips together as we walk through the club's entrance, willing my body to behave. The familiar heat and noise of Vestige wash over us, but instead of the usual rush of energy, everything feels too bright, too loud. The scent of smoke and spice that usually sharpens my focus now turns my stomach.
Mihalis guides me through the crowd with a possessive hand at the small of my back, and even through our clothes, his touch sends warmth racing up my spine. The bond purrs with satisfaction at his proximity, but underneath that magical contentment is something wrong—a deep exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix.
"You're quiet tonight," he murmurs, leaning close so his voice reaches me over the music. His breath against my earmakes me shiver, and I hate how my body responds to him even when I feel like death.
"Just watching," I lie, gesturing toward the crowd. "Still learning how this all works."
