Snack Thief gives a satisfied little croak and, after one last affectionate head-rub against my cheek, launches himself off my shoulder. He flaps to the far end of the terrace and perches on the rail, turning his back with exaggerated delicacy.
“I think your raven is giving us privacy,” I say faintly.
“Probably the first considerate thing he’s done in weeks.”
Silence falls again, but it feels different now—charged, waiting.
He shifts, turning on the bench so he faces me fully. One big hand rises, hesitates, then settles feather-light at the curve of my jaw.
“May I?” he asks.
My pulse thunders. “May you what?” I ask, purely to buy a second.
“Kiss you,” he says, as if the word itself might scare me.
It should. My stomach flips. I have not been kissed in more than a century. William’s mouth was always a transaction, a demand.Wet.The idea of anyone’s lips on mine should make me flinch.
Instead, I feel… curious. Terrified. Alive.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“Almost certainly,” he agrees. “But I’d like to anyway. And I won’t if you say no.”
I look at him—really look. At the tired lines around his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth, the man who has seen me at my worst and stood in front of me in that hall and said, “She’s not on trial.”
He is still dangerous. He is still the Magic Hunter. But he is also the first man in two centuries who has known all my secrets and not turned away.
“Yes,” I whisper. “You may.”
His thumb sweeps once along my cheekbone, as if memorising the feel of me. Then he leans in.
The first brush of his mouth is gentle, exploratory. My lips are stiff with surprise; I do not quite know what to do with them. He pauses, giving me time to adjust, and something in me loosens. I lean in, breath mingling with his, and the second press is easier.
Warm. Soft. Startlingly… right.
Something sparks at the edge of my awareness. Our magic, even when Lander’s is muted by Unity Gate’s wards, reaches. His usual spiky black smoke and my lilac filamentstwitch, twist—and instead of recoiling, they curl towards each other, testing.
It does not hurt.
If anything, itaches.
He makes a small sound—half sigh, half something else—and the hand at my jaw slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into the twist of my hair. I brace my palms against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heart beneath my hands.
When he finally draws back, he rests his forehead against mine. We are both breathing a little too fast.
“For the record,” he murmurs, voice rough, “that did not feel wrong.”
“No,” I agree, dazed. “It did not.”
“Good.” Snack Thief lets out a smug little croak from the railing.
Lander huffs a laugh. “Traitor,” he tells the raven again. Then, softer, to me, “Whatever comes next—the Ministry, the treaty, the inevitable mountain of paperwork—you don’t face it alone. Not any more. All right?”
The words sink in, slow and deep.
“All right,” I say.
The world is still sharp with edges. But for the first time since I clawed my way out of the ley line, I do not feel like I am standing on the threshold of my own destruction.
