I crossto the far wall where the shadows grow long and heavy. My ritual space. A low table draped in black cloth. Candles arranged in a perfect circle—a solar system with her at the center. I kneel, examining each component with the steady hand of a surgeon.
One pairof vampire bat fangs, harvested under a new moon. They represent hunger—the right kind. Not the beast’s gluttony, but the craving that drives a man to cross worlds.
Fire-glass powder,shimmering like trapped embers. It represents the fever that has consumed her since he walked into her life. This will cool it. Redirect the heat until she burns only for the truth.
Black thorn sap,thick as clotted blood. It severs connections. It will act as the scythe that cuts the ties he‘s tried to knot around her soul.
Spine oil from a drowned moth.I spent weeks hunting for it—a delicate creature that mistook the reflection of the moon for the moon itself. It represents transformation. The death of the girl who fled, so the woman who stays can be born.
Bloodroot steeped in obsidian water.Toxic in its raw state, but once purified, it reveals the truth beneath the illusion. It will peel back the lies Andrik has layered over her eyes.
Lust-vein nectar.It redirects desire, turning the heart’s compass toward its true north. Toward me.
And finally,the jawbone. I lift it carefully, feeling the porous weight of it in my palm. A stag that died defending its territory—its mate—just like I’m about to.
He doesn’t understand.He thinks because some forest spirit whispered her name, she belongs to him. But I’ve earned her. I’ve watched over her. Cared for her from the shadows. I was the one who held her spirit together when Anna died.
I arrange the ingredients,checking the placement one last time. The blood moon rises tonight. The timing must be perfect or all of this was for nothing.
I’ve readthe texts a hundred times. Memorized every line of the ritual. Practiced the words until they flow like water.
From here,I can just barely make out the shape of his cabin. She’s there now, with him, for the very last time.
I pressthe earpiece connected to the contact mic deeper into my ear. Static. Then the muffled, splashing sound of water. My jaw ticks, bitter jealousy spreading through my chest. I pull the earpiece out and toss it on the floor.
It remindsme of being little. Hiding in the closet with my brother while our father entertained whatever woman he’d convinced to come home with him that week. I’d cover my brother’s ears and hum until I drowned out her screams. I’d tell him stories about heroes and princes until the sounds finally stopped. Sometimes that meant we were stuck in there, huddled together, until the next day.
They always came back.No matter how badly he hurt them, they always came back.
“That’show you get a real woman’s love,” my father would say, nursing his bruised knuckles. “The kind that doesn‘t let go.”
I could never hurtLumi like that. I am the prince from my stories. I will be the hero who keeps her from falling.
43
Chapter 44-
LumiPOV-
I wake to cold sheets and an empty bed—panic flares in my chest. I scramble to sit up, eyes darting around the room, half expecting to see the ash and scorched earth from my dream still clinging to the corners of the ceiling.
My body aches, a dull thrumming heat building beneath my skin. I glance over at the clock, 2:07. I slept through most of the day.
The cabin is unnervingly silent.
“Andrik?” My voice comes out so small I hardly recognize it.
No answer.
He left?I feel like a piece of my soul is missing. I know that’s ridiculous—we’ve known each other for days, not lifetimes—but the logic doesn’t stop the gut-wrenching feeling that something is wrong.
Bimby hovers in a low, drowsy circle over the lavender Andrik left on the dresser. Her wings let out a faint, mournful hum.
As I step out of bed, I almost trip over Saevael, who winds tight, anxious figure-eights between my feet.
What is going on?
Toffee chirps from the weathered oak table near the window, his dark eyes are fixed on me. The playful menace from the bath last night has been replaced by a forlorn, brittle otter. His little paws tap a distressed rhythm against the wood. Tap-Tap-tap
