He extends his hand, not offered sweetly, but with the kind of tension that saysthis isn’t a request.
I don’t want to dance. But I’ve got questions, and he’s got answers, so I take his hand anyway.
Muttering something under his breath, Talen leads me toward the dance floor, his grip steady but tight. Once we are surrounded by cadets dancing, and out of Weasel Senior’s sight, he turns, pulling me in close. One hand lands at my lower back, the other slides into mine.
The warmth of him hits all at once—his scent, his body, the heat curling between us. It’s the closest I’ve been to him in months, and my body knows it. Muscles pull taut like they’re still pissed at him for shutting me out, for leaving me in the dark. Even if my head knows better now.
The music drifts around us, low and slow beneath the stars. The air still holds a bite, that end-of-spring chill that clings to bare skin, especially where my dress dips low across my back. A shiver rolls down my spine and Talen’s arm tightens. Not much, just enough to notice. His hand shifts slightly higher on my back. His touch is gentle, steady enough to pass for calm—if I didn’t know better.
As I glance up, I catch a fresh cut slicing down his cheek, small but deep, still red at the edges. For a breath, his gaze meets mine, and something in him eases. Then his eyes drop. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. He’s seen it, my arm.
The ointment helped, took the worst of it down, but the burn still lingers in red streaks that don’t quite fade into my skin. Faint, but not forgettable. His whole body stills, except his fingers that twitch where they hold mine.
“Didshedo this to you?” His teeth stay clenched around the words, like he’s trying tocontainit—whatever it is that wants to claw its way out of him.
I shift back a bit, trying to make it casual. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” Talen doesn’t look convinced. I nod at the cut on his cheek. “What happened to your face?”
He ignores it. Doesn’t even glance away. “No. We’re not talking about me. We’re talking aboutyou.” His jaw tightens. “Did Beth do that?”
The way he says her name makes it clear he already knows the answer, but still, he wants to hear me say it anyway. But I don't want to talk about her, what happened, what I almost did, I'm not ready yet.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Physically, I’m fine, nothing the healers couldn’t fix. Beth’s strategy was to drain me dry, then finish the job. Clever. Clean.” I shrug, but it doesn’t land right. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Lucien said you wouldn’t be back till next week.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, hand still resting against my spine, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. Then he exhales.
“I didn’t hear the results,” he says finally, voice breaking. “I just heard she nominated you. And I just…” His hand curls into a fist against my back. I feel it press into my ribs like he’s trying to ground himself—anchor whatever's boiling under the surface.“I just fucking knew something was wrong.”
He came back for me?
“If I’d been here when she called you...” He breathes. “God, I would’ve killed her on the spot.”
The words land like a weight dropped straight into my chest. Guilt rises, thick and sour, curling at the back of my throat.
“Well… too late.” I stare at the ground, because it’s easier than looking at him when I say the next part. “She’s dead, and she was someone’s daughter. She was a sister. And Lucien. And it’s—” I swallow. “It’s my fault. Just like the baker, she's dead because of me, my actions. My choices.”
His right hand lifts, catches my chin and tilts my gaze to meet his, fingers rough from training, but the touch is steady. Gentle.
“Listen to me, Bloom.” His voice is soft, controlled, but it drags along the edge of something sharper. “You’ve made mistakes. Sure. Butthis?” His brows pull tight as he looks around the courtyard. “None ofthisis your fault. Beth wasn’t your fault. She nominated you. Shetargetedyou.” He lets that sit for a second. Then: “If anything, it’s mine. My fault. Just like the baker's death. Itrustedher. I let her train you. I stood there like a fucking idiot and thought she—” He shakes his head. “Fuck. I thought you had…”
For a moment, I hold his gaze—eyes locked on his, dark hazel, gold catching in the candlelight. And god, it’s stupid, but I forget to breathe.
Because he’s still touching me. Fingers tilted under my chin, holding me steady like I might bolt or break, or both. Heat floods down my neck, pooling low in my stomach—tight and dangerous. But then the strap of my dress slips and his gaze drops, just barely—fingers brushing skin as he slides the fabric back into place, and suddenly the spell snaps. The music drifts in again, muffled strings and low laughter from somewhere across the courtyard.
Right. I’m not here to dance, not here to talk about Beth, or get lost in whatever this is. I’m here for answers. About us, about what's going on with our magic.
I pull back from him a fraction, didn’t even realise I’d been leaning in.
“She told me,” I say, voice careful. “She told me about your first girlfriend. How she died…”
Talen freezes, body still, shoulders tight. I see it, the pain flickering behind his eyes. The split-second decision. Is he going to shut me out?
Then—
“Come on,” he mutters, taking my hand softly. “Not here.”
He leads me out of the courtyard and down a side corridor, the candlelight dimming with every step. Then—once the music fades and the voices thin to echoes—he stops. Hands catch at my hips, turning me gently. My back meets stone, cool and solid behind me. A quick flick of his wrist, and the remaining sounds go, everything falls silent.
For a second, he doesn’t speak—just looks down, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he’s trying to haul the words up from somewhere deep.When they come, they’re rough and quiet.
