The bond pulses—sharp and sudden—like it’s catching up to my thoughts. Like it feels the realization slam into me.
Thane’s eyes snap to mine. He feels it too. He’s reading me—reallyreading me. And I know he sees it in my expression.
The connection. The ache.
He glances at Valen. Just once. Then back to me. His gaze drops. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before.
“One year to the day that Kastiel died . . . ” A breath. “ . . . my mother jumped off a tower in the middle of the night.”
The words land like stone. Plain. Irrevocable. And shattering. For a second, I can almost hear it—the sound of a body hitting stone. And the thought makes bile burn the back of my throat. My mother died suddenly, but she was still my mother in her heart and mind. His died slowly, and was no longer the person who raised Thane. Both gone too soon.
My heart squeezes in my chest. I try to school my features into something calm, steady—something Thane can lean on. But the bond is surging again. Thick with memory. With grief that isn’t entirely his.
And Thane’s eyes—his eyes are shining now. He’s holding my gaze like it’s the only thing keeping him from splintering.
His voice, when it comes again, is hoarse. Barely above a whisper.
“We can’t be sure. There’s no official record of it. But . . . ” He trails off, then clears his throat softly. “ . . . the timing of the curse awakening in my mother—andKastiel’s death—happening on the same day?” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “That’s not a coincidence.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. I turn slightly—Valen.
He lifts his glass. Drinks deep. No hesitation. No words. Just one long swallow—like he’s choking down a truth he’s carriedtoo long. The glass hits the table with a dull, final thud.Valen exhales—long and slow.
Thane clears his throat again. Rough. Shaky. He’s not finished.
I turn back just as he bites his lower lip. Brief. Unthinking. That beautiful mouth, usually so firm with command, now pressed tight against something he’s still trying to hold back.
Then he continues.
“As you both know . . . my father became ill shortly after she died.”
His voice is steadier now, but hollow. An old ache, worn smooth by time but never truly healed.
“The healers called itsadness of the heart.Said his grief had sunk too deep to cure.” He leans back slightly, gaze distant. “My father’s blood is Fire Clan through and through. My mother’s too, though somewhere in her line . . . Shadow Warden blood seeped in. Hidden. Buried.”
He pauses, then meets Valen’s eyes.
“We don’t believe the Shadow Clan was wiped out completely. Some disappeared. Changed names. Married into other clans. Survived.”
His voice softens again. Resignation laced in every syllable.
“Rowena and I are the only ones left in our family still . . . whole.”
He doesn’t have to say the rest, but he does anyway.
“One of us might be next.”
A beat.
“But we don’t know what triggers the curse. It could be grief. Proximity to shadow magics. Bloodline convergence. Or nothing at all.”
He inhales. Deep. Then exhales with puffed cheeks, as if trying to push something heavy out of himself. But it sticks.
You can see it—in the way his shoulders refuse to drop, in thesharp tap of his fingers against his knee.
He’s bracing. There’s more.
I reach for my glass again, lifting it with both hands this time. The whiskey burns down my throat. I don’t flinch. This time Iwelcomethe sting.
