The comparison should sting, but instead it feels like recognition. Like being truly seen for the first time. Not as a replacement for someone lost, but as myself—flawed and stubborn and real.
"I don’t want to be just your partner in this," I whisper, the admission escaping before I can stop it.
Something flares in his red eyes—surprise melting into something that might be relief. The hands framing my face tremble slightly.
"Good," he says, voice dropping to a growl. "Because I want you in ways that have nothing to do with curses."
The words hang between us, honest and dangerous. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until I feel flushed despite the library’s chill. When he leans down, I rise to meet him, drawn by a need that goes beyond magic or convenience.
Our lips are a breath apart when?—
The ceiling explodes inward.
Massive stone blocks crash down between us, forcing us apart as the library begins to systematically destroy itself. Books burst into flame along the walls. Shelves topple with sounds thatecho through the vast space. Ancient knowledge turns to ash and dust as the Marshal eliminates our source of information.
"Rhea!" Krath’s voice cuts through the chaos.
I can barely see him through the falling debris, but his red eyes burn bright in the dusty air. A beam crashes down where I’d been standing moments before, and I realize this isn’t random destruction—it’s targeted, designed to separate us.
He fights through the collapsing architecture with single-minded determination, using his considerable strength to shove aside obstacles that would crush a normal person. Stone dust coats his dark hair, and blood runs from a cut on his forehead, but his focus never wavers.
When he reaches me, he pulls me against his body without ceremony, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other shields my head from falling stone.
"Hold on," he growls, then we’re running.
I feel every muscle in his chest and back as he guides us through the destruction, his body a living shield between me and the abbey’s fury. When a section of wall collapses ahead of us, he pivots smoothly, finding another path without breaking stride. The scent of his skin mingles with stone dust and smoke, grounding me in the midst of chaos.
We burst through the library’s main doors just as the entire structure gives way behind us. The sound is deafening—centuries of accumulated knowledge reduced to rubble in moments. Dust billows out in choking clouds, carrying the scent of burned parchment and shattered dreams.
We don’t stop running until we reach a defensible chamber several corridors away. Only then does he release me, both of us breathing hard from exertion and adrenaline.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, hands already moving to check for injuries with careful thoroughness.
"I’m fine." But my voice shakes slightly, and not just from our narrow escape. "The library’s gone. All that knowledge..."
"We saved what mattered." He gestures to the scrolls and books we managed to grab during our flight. "And we learned what we need to know."
I nod, trying to focus on the practical rather than the loss. We set up a makeshift research space, spreading our salvaged materials across a broken table. But as we work to organize what we’ve saved, I’m acutely aware of how the recent crisis has changed things between us.
The almost-kiss hangs unspoken in the air. The confession that we want each other in ways that transcend magical necessity. The way he held me during our escape, protective and possessive in equal measure.
When I clean a cut on his temple—a souvenir from our escape—my fingers linger longer than strictly necessary. The contact sends warmth spiraling up my arm, and I have to resist the urge to trace the strong line of his jaw.
"There," I say, my voice coming out huskier than intended. "That should heal cleanly."
When he bandages a scrape on my arm, his mouth is close enough to my pulse that I can feel his breath against my skin. His fingers are gentle despite their size, careful not to cause unnecessary pain. But there’s something possessive in the way he tends to me, as if the injury offends him personally.
"Better?" he asks, though he doesn’t immediately release my arm.
Instead, his thumb traces the edge of the bandage, sending sparks racing along my nerves. Our eyes meet and hold, and I see my own hunger reflected in his burning gaze.
"Krath..." I’m not sure what I’m asking, but he seems to understand anyway.
We should focus on planning our next move, on understanding what we learned before the library’s destruction. Instead, we find ourselves drawn together by forces that have nothing to do with magical compulsion.
When I reach across him to retrieve one of the scrolls, he catches my wrist—not to stop me, but to feel my pulse racing beneath his fingers. The touch is electric, charged with awareness that makes my breathing falter.
"Your heart’s racing," he observes, voice rough with something that might be wonder.
