A mountain of a man emerges from between the trees, all broad shoulders and riotous energy pouring off him in waves. Despite his imposing size, he moves with the easy grace of someone used to navigating around delicate creatures. His uniform is half-charred, one sleeve stained with what might be dried pollen. There’s a distinct paw-shaped scorch mark singed into the collar.
The grin that splits his face falters as his gaze settles on me. For a moment, something flickers—recognition, then calculation—before he breaks into a smile so radiant it floods me with warmth.
“Sweet merciful magic,” he breathes. “That’s Aria fucking Ellis.” He spins toward Rowe, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I take back every time I said you were boring. Though I have to say, your definition of ‘rescue mission’ has evolved significantly since the three-legged Shadowcat incident.”
“Griff.” Rowe’s warning comes with a subtle shift, angling himself between us.
“What?” He spreads his arms in faux innocence. “I’m just appreciating the plot twist. Frankly, I’m impressed. You never bring home anyone interesting.”
He runs a hand through his tangled curls, only making them wilder. Beneath the scruff of what might generously be called a beard, his grin broadens as he surveys my state—wet hair, battered jacket, and I’m sure there’s mud mixed with blood on my face.
“I have to ask . . . what in all hells are you wearing?” He gives a slow, exaggerated sniff. “Because I’ve seen the society pages, and this is decidedly not your usual, ‘could buy a luxury apartment with my accessories’, aesthetic. Did you roll through a sewer or just bring one with you?”
“It’s called fashion,” Kane cuts in dryly, his voice sliding easily into the exchange. “Though I admit, the eau de gutter does lend a certain authenticity.”
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, startling in its rawness. “It’s the height of Eclipseran chic, actually. Very limited edition. Currently trending with fugitives, insurgents, and people too traumatized to check a mirror.”
“Finally,” Griff groans, throwing his hands skyward, nearly colliding with a passing handler who sidesteps without so much as blinking. “Someone who gets it! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been stuck with Captain Brood-and-Glower over here?”
He jerks his thumb toward Rowe, who looks distinctly like he’s rethinking his entire association with the human race.
“I will end you,” Rowe mutters, though the threat is undercut by the twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. The storm in him hasn’t passed, not fully, but something in his posture loosens. As if the worst has been weathered, and stars have returned to skies he hadn’t realized had darkened.
“You keep saying that,” Griff says cheerfully, draping an arm across my shoulders with the casual ease of someone who’s neverlearned to respect personal space, “but we all know you’d fall apart without my magnetic charm.” He turns to Kane, eyes lighting with fresh mischief. “Though I should probably get the name of my new partner in crime.”
“Kane Richards. Professional troublemaker, and apparently now a fashion icon’s getaway driver.”
Griff’s eyes light up. “Can we keep them?” he asks Rowe, only half-joking. “I promise to feed them, walk them, and limit my creature call lessons to ones that are only mildly catastrophic.”
He easily dodges Rowe’s swat, having clearly spent years perfecting the maneuver. “Besides, anyone who makes Captain Brood here turn that exact shade of crimson? Automatically gets a seat at the table.”
The laughter comes easier now. It shouldn’t be possible after everything, but it spills free anyway. Part of me wonders if the feeling is truly my own, or if Astrafel’s influence is threading through the edges of my emotional state. His relief at finding somewhere untainted by corruption seeping into my emotions. I still can’t always tell where his awareness ends and mine begins.
“We’re leaving,” Rowe says, but the command falls flat. Griff’s already linking arms with Kane like a long-lost sibling.
“Dinner’s on, and you know how fast the good food vanishes. You wouldn’t want your precious fugitives to be stuck scavenging cold greens and rehydrated root paste, would you?”
“Imagine the horror,” Kane drawls, pressing a hand to his chest. “The great Aria Ellis, reduced to dining hall scraps. The society pages would have a field day.”
I study Rowe’s face, at the war playing out behind his carefully controlled expression. I know we need to talk about everything, but right now, watching Griff and Kane trade grins like conspiring schoolboys, I want to pretend just a little longer that my world isn’t fracturing at the edges.
I approach him and deploy the wide-eyed look that used to work so well when we were younger. “I’m starving,” I say, deliberatelyplaintive. “And trendsetting takes effort, you know. At least let me eat before the next interrogation.”
His eyes narrow slightly, though his mouth twitches again. “That look stopped working years ago.”
“Did it?” I tilt my head, letting fatigue draw down my shoulders just enough to sell it.
He exhales through his nose, the sound soft but steeped in long-suffering affection. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t finished.”
“When is it ever?”
I start to turn away, but his hand catches my arm, pulling me back slightly.
“I’m serious, Aria.” His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. “You can’t run from this forever.”
I turn, ready to deflect, but I realize too late that I’ve miscalculated. He’s closer than I remembered. Near enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and the way his breath halts the moment our stares lock.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but the words land breathless.
