“Lazarus!”
Amara’s voice came through the chamber. I looked up sharply.
She appeared at the rim of the ceiling shaft, barefoot, her toes gripping the jagged stone as she lowered herself down. Dust cascaded through her hair. The dim torchlight caught her trembling arms, her torn garments, and the vessel clutched to her chest.
“Catch me,” she whispered.
I set the tome upon the slab and stepped beneath her, arms rising.
The air rushed between us as she fell. I caught her cleanly, her body colliding with mine in a breathless gasp. Her bare feet grazed my legs before she curled into my hold, shaking, her breath warm against my neck. For a heartbeat, I held her tight, as if the darkness might reach down and steal her away again.
Her face lifted to mine, streaked with ash and sweat, eyes bright and wild. She clutched the vessel tighter, swallowed, and whispered, “The brew is ready.”
I set her down gently, though my hands lingered longer than they should have. Then, taking the vessel, I placed it beside the slab. The shadows rippled beneath my skin, restless.
I reached for Marianna’s tome. The leather still pulsed dimly, like the slow rhythm of a dying heart.
“Take this,” I said, pressing it into her arms.
Amara looked down, confusion flickering into alarm as the warmth seeped through her hands. She stared at the black leather, at the sigils that seemed to shift and breathe beneath the surface.
Her voice came soft, almost disbelieving. “Lazarus… this is a Tome of Shadows.”
I said nothing.
Her eyes widened, fear and wonder tangling together. “Whose is it?” she asked, her breath catching. “How did you find it?”
Her fingers trembled as she traced the edge of the cover.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, wide and uncertain. “Lazarus—whose book is this? How did you find it?”
I met her gaze, my voice low, the truth heavier than iron.
“It’s Salvatore’s mother’s,” I said. “Marianna Lorian’s.”
Her face blanched. Shock hollowed her voice. “I had no idea… his mother was a Mistress of Shadows.”
“She was,” I said. “But right now, I need you to take it and get out of here as far as you can. Hide it where no one will ever find it.”
My tone came out harder than I meant—rough, almost desperate. She flinched slightly, but she didn’t let go.
Her lips parted, that familiar hesitation rippling through her. Torn between the need to trust me and the instinct to fight back. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Lazarus…”
I stepped forward. My hands rose to cradle her face, my thumb brushing the dust from her cheek.
“No more words,” I whispered, my breath unsteady. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll leave now, while you still can.”
Her eyes glistened in the torchlight, her lips trembling with denial.
Before she could answer, I pulled her to me and kissed her—fierce, desperate, tasting of sweat, dust, and the shadows that would never let me go.
It was raw. Heavy. Possessive. A kiss born of fury and farewell, of the unbearable need to feel her alive against me one last time. Her lips quivered, then softened, yielding beneath mine. The taste of her hit like fire—salt, blood, breath, life.
The shadows inside me writhed, purring in ecstasy. My tattoos flared beneath my skin, the heat climbing my arms as though her touch itself was feeding them—feeding me. Every stroke of her lips dragged me deeper into hunger, into something darker than desire.
Her hands gripped my arms. Her breath caught against my mouth, a sound between surrender and fear. The taste of her deepened, as heady as wine.
The shadows whispered their pleasure in my mind, a fevered chorus.
