But she's already stirring.
Grim and I both still, holding our breaths with the synchronized timing of coconspirators caught in the act of something they shouldn't have been doing. The motion is absurd—a Fae prince and a transformed reaper frozen in place by thepossibility of disturbing a sleeping woman—but the moment feels significant in ways that transcend its surface comedy.
Her eyes flutter.
The movement is beautiful in its simplicity—lashes lifting in stages, consciousness returning in increments visible across features that carry exhaustion and something else I can't immediately identify. Her face wrinkles slightly as awareness filters back, the particular confusion of someone waking in unfamiliar circumstances.
And then her eyes open fully.
Oh.
Gods.
The silver and crimson I'm accustomed to seeing—the particular combination that speaks to her vampire heritage and the hunger that sometimes overtakes other aspects of her nature—have vanished entirely.
In their place...
Pink.
Vivid, striking, impossible pink that seems to glow with its own internal luminescence.
With golden spheres circling her pupils like tiny planets orbiting stars.
Fae eyes.
She has Fae eyes now.
The transformation speaks to changes that extend far beyond simple aesthetics. Her magic hasn't just awakened—it hasmanifested, claiming visual territory that her vampire nature previously dominated. Whatever dormant heritage has lived within her since birth, whatever power her parents' bloodlines contributed to her hybrid existence... it's surfacing now with force that can't be ignored or suppressed.
She wrinkles her nose.
The expression is adorable in ways that make my chest ache for entirely different reasons than the hollowness that has plagued me since waking.
Her brow furrows with confusion as she takes in whatever her newly transformed vision reveals.
"Are we in a field?" she mutters, voice rough with sleep but carrying genuine bewilderment.
The question makes me snicker—the sound escaping before I can control it, amusement surfacing through all the complicated emotions competing for dominance in my chest.
"More like a cocoon of vines, thorns, and roses," I explain, allowing warmth to color my tone despite everything. "But a field is a good example."
Her gaze finds mine.
Those impossible pink and gold eyes lock onto my features with intensity that makes my breath catch—the particular weight of someone who is actuallyseeingyou rather than simply looking in your direction. The shift in her perception must be disorienting, must carry information overload that would overwhelm anyone not prepared for Fae sight, yet she processes the change with the particular resilience that has defined her survival through three years of Academy trials.
Then her eyes widen.
"Nikolai."
My name emerges from her lips with relief so profound it's almost palpable—concern and care and something that might be love saturating the single word. She seems genuinely relieved that I'm okay, that I'm here, that I'mpresentin ways that apparently matter to her.
My heart skips.
The sensation is unexpected and overwhelming—a physical response to emotional input that I wasn't prepared to receive. When did her opinion of my wellbeing start mattering so much?When did her relief at my presence become something that could affect my cardiac rhythm?
We had a rift.
The acknowledgment surfaces with the particular weight of history that can't be easily dismissed.
