Let me finish it,the voice in my mind says, heavy and inhuman.I can deliver what they deserve.
I glance at Kane, seeing the pain etched across his features. At Rowe, standing so close yet impossibly far. If I lose control now, they’ll both burn in the inferno. Everyone will die.
I hold the power inside, barely, knowing I am seconds from failure.
“Do you think our sky’s still up there after the Solstice Festival?” My voice is splintered, barely audible through the pressure threatening to collapse my chest, but I force the words out anyway. Not because I believe they’ll save me, but because they’re the only fragment of truth I have left to offer.
The change in Rowe is immediate, power radiating from him in measured waves as he steps forward, and in that moment, I remember why the Darkmoor name carries the weight of a blade against the throat. He is no longer the boy who coaxed broken-winged creatures back to flight, but legacy made flesh. Generations of command bred into bone and blood, authority etched into every breath, the embodiment of control over life and death.
“Stand down.” His voice carries the weight of an executioner’s verdict. “Release them. Now.”
One enforcer shifts, head tilting slightly. “Sir, protocol dictates—”
“Did I stutter?” Rowe’s voice drops into a darker register, and the atmosphere responds. The air thickens as if bracing for a storm, heat coiling at the edge of release. “Or would you prefer I contact my father directly? I’m sure Alexander would be fascinated to hear why his son’s orders were overruled by glorified border guards.”
The containment spell shatters and I collapse forward, still shaking from the lingering echoes of power that doesn’t belong to me.It’s okay, I try to think toward the storm inside me.We’re safe now. You can stop.
Rowe’s hand closes around my arm, his grip carefully controlled but brooking no argument. His skin burns through the fabric of my sleeve, not with temperature but with intent.
“Get in the car.” His eyes fix on Kane, glaring daggers. “Both of you.”
He practically shoves me into the front seat while Kane slides into the back. The engine rumbles to life beneath us, the sound too elegant for the violence it’s following.
His hands grip the wheel like he’s strangling fate itself, and each breath he takes seems measured and deliberate. Beneath his carefully maintained expression lies what others might miss: the fear threaded into his rage, the barely perceptible tremor in his jaw, the quiet unraveling of someone who just witnessed what was never meant for his eyes.
We clear the checkpoint, leaving behind the enforcers who still stand frozen in the wake of Rowe’s display of power. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with a single sharp gesture.
“Not one word. Not until we’re clear.” The muscles in his forearms stand rigid beneath rolled sleeves, tension visible in every line of his body.
“Rowe—”
“I mean it, Aria.”
Silence stretches between us. Rowe keeps checking the mirrors, his foot heavy on the accelerator as we leave Eclipsera behind. His gaze flicks to Kane in the rearview, darkness gathering in his expression as his hands tighten on the wheel again.
Just then, the glamour breaks, magic falling away to reveal our true faces. Rowe glances at me, then does a double-take at the backseat as Kane’s identity registers, surprise briefly overtaking his anger. The car swerves slightly before his hands clench tighter on the wheel, knuckles bleaching white against black leather.
“You better have one hell of an explanation for this, Aria.” His voice holds none of the warmth I remember. “Because what you just pulled back there wasn’t reckless, it was suicidal.”
I sag into the seat, my limbs giving under the weight of exhaustion. Through heavy eyes, I study him—the strained breaths, the flickers of expression he fails to suppress. He’s vibrating with fury, but beneath that is something else, an undercurrent that makes me ache.
His hand lifts from the wheel, hesitates midair, then closes into a fist and drops to his thigh. When he finally speaks again, his voice carries a quiet edge of devastation.
“Do you have any idea—” He cuts himself off, his jaw locking as his teeth grind together. “If I hadn’t been there, hadn’t heard what you said . . .” His hands clench tighter, pulse visible at his temple. “I almost watched you die without even knowing it was you.”
In the backseat, Kane shifts. The movement is subtle, but it draws Rowe’s attention.
“Look, Rowe—”
“Don’t.” The word lands with absolute finality. “Whatever you’re involved in, whatever part you played, we’ll discuss it when I’m not actively restraining myself from throwing you out of this vehicle.”
Silence descends again, heavy with unspoken accusations and explanations. Rowe’s driving grows more aggressive, each turn taken with precise fury.
“You should probably prepare yourself,” I say quietly. “There’s a lot.”
He exhales once, but it’s no release. “You mean besides nearly getting executed? Aria, this is . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he swallows hard. “Just tell me you’re not hurt.”
I turn toward him, taking in the shadows carved beneath his eyes, the taut set of his shoulders, the way his anger masks something far more fragile. This is Rowe stripped of his usual gentle calm, and with his heart exposed and bleeding.
