“It can’t be stopped,” I say, my voice breaking with finality. If Collins leaves this observatory before third contact of the eclipse and our paths cross, there is only loss.
Loss of control.
Loss of symmetry.
Loss ofher.
Right now, when I look into her eyes, I see her—her light. It’s distant but there. And though the void within aches to claim her, a sliver of control remains. Just enough to let me walk out of this observatory.
“You’re an anomaly,” I say, barely audible. “The only way I can prevent this is if I’m nowhere near you.”
I know exactly how they will die. I know when, where, and how death will claim them?—
But she didn’t come to me the way they did, soaked in darkness, devoid. She’s an anomaly for this reason.
She has no pathology. No record of violence. No dark psyche. And yet, the algorithm drew her name?—
Because there had to be someone.
The gravitational pull of this event is too strong, demanding an alignment. A local mind in the right place, at the right time.
All these years spent waiting for a name to emerge, and the system chose hers. Someone with no past indiscretions. No incurable medical diagnosis. She was chosen not because of her—but because of her proximity tome.
Which means the missing variable isn’t within her at all.
It’s within me. My contamination.
If I subtract myself—no ritual, no observation, no touch—the wave never collapses.
There’s a chance.
As long as I’m not near her, as long as I defy this sinister force, her light might never go dark.
Like a brilliant, tidal-locked star falling dangerously close to the orbit of a black hole—this force that tears apart everything it loves, devouring every fragment of beauty caught within its grasp—if I deny this hunger, if I remove myself completely, there is no tidal disruption. No violent annihilation. No fiery light extinguished.
“Orion, I don’t understand what that means.”
“It means, you were always mine,” I say to her. “You belong to me, with me. Mine to protect. If your death isn’t observed...it suspends.”
“Oh, god…” she whispers, as if some connection has fallen into place. “I need you to hear me,” she says sternly. “I understand celestial events affect you. That you feel compelled by them, that you think you have no control.”
I tilt my head. “How would you know this?”
She pushes on, easing closer until she’s yanked to a stop by the restraint. “I’m your therapist,” she says. “You just have to trust me.” Collins watches me with guarded eyes, that beautiful slate flaying me open. “Haven’t I given you every reason to? Please, Orion. Just…let me help you.”
“Fuck, angel. But I wish you could,” I say on a ragged breath.
“This isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense,” she tries again, desperation edging into her voice as she yanks against the cuff, drawing my gaze to the constellation along her wrist.
I press the heel of my palm to my forehead, trying to ease the pressure against my skull.
“You know me,” she whispers. “Orion, you knowme. My hopes, my passion—remember? Please remember.” Her smile is shattering. “I’m a Sagittarius who can’t swim?—”
“Technically, you’re not,” I say, taking a daring step toward her. My thumb brushes the faint stars scattered across her wrist. Desire burns the back of my throat with the aching need to taste her just once. “You were born under Ophiuchus, the Serpent Bearer.”
Her face pales, and she shakes her head slowly. “No. There’s no Ophiuchus zodiac sign?—”
“It’s a constellation,” I correct her. “The thirteenth along the ecliptic, hidden among brighter stars. Astronomically accurate, not zodiacal. Over the centuries, the sky has shifted. The day you were born, the sun was in Ophiuchus.” My gloved knuckles skim over her cheek, reverent. “But you still have so much fire in you, little archer.”
