“He deserved better than me getting him killed.” The memory fractures as more poison burns through my veins. “He died alone, Kane. In a hallway. Because I wanted one fucking moment—”
“Stop.” His voice hardens. “You can’t do this right now. Focus on breathing.”
But the past doesn’t listen. It barrels forward, tearing through me. Raze teaching Dom how to bandage cuts without leaving scars. Raze keeping extra healing potions in his jacket, just in case. Raze’s laugh echoing through the mansion halls.
My head slips against the window, and I’m not in the car anymore.
I’m eight. We’re lying in the grass behind Darkmoor Industries, hiding from another soul-killing lecture about magical ethics. Rowe’s beside me, arms folded beneath his head, face turned toward the sun.
Starlings wheel overhead in tight formations, their wings catching light like scattered jewels. One particularly bold bird dive-bombs straight through the building’s protective wards, setting off sparkles of disrupted magic.
“Did you see that?” I jolt upright. “Right through Alexander’s precious security system!”
“Aria . . .” Rowe sighs, exasperated but amused. “You sound way too happy about vulnerabilities in my father’s systems.”
“But they’re so brave!” Another starling swoops past, its wings stirring the air against my cheek. “They don’t care about all these stupid rules and boundaries.”
“Like someone else I know.” Rowe rolls onto his side to face me, eyes gleaming. “Always looking for ways to cause trouble.”
“Ido not!”
“You absolutely do.” He grins. “You’re tiny. Bold. Uncontrollable. Just like . . .”
His expression shifts, lit with inspiration.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late, Starling. It fits.”
I launch at him. “You absolute bastard.”
He laughs, catching my arms before I can do any damage.
“I hate you,” I huff, breathless with laughter.
“Hate you too,” he murmurs. And somehow, even then, it doesn’t sound like hate at all.
“Aria.” Kane’s voice cuts in, distant and sharp. “Who are you talking to?”
But I’m already somewhere else, older now.
Fourteen. Training in the Darkmoors’ private gym, sweat slicking my back, pain radiating from my ankle as it rolls sideways on a defensive maneuver. The mat tilts, but Rowe is there, catching me before I fall.
“Easy, Starling,” he murmurs, and something in my chest catches at the way the nickname has changed. Grown softer, sacred.
“I’m not that tiny anymore,” I say, and somewhere far away, Kane curses.
“Stay with me,” he calls out. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.”
But the memory surges anyway.
The guardian gala. Crystal chandeliers spinning overhead as Rowe’s hands steady my waist. The orchestra swells, and his fingers tighten at my spine, drawing me closer until the space between us disappears.
“Yes, someone like me, Starling.” His voice wraps around the nickname, a caress in every syllable, and something molten unfurls in my chest. The chandeliers fracture overhead, scattering light across his features as he leans down.
A thumb brushes my bottom lip, the touch sending a sharp tremor down my spine as music swells around us, blurred and velvet-soft, and his forehead rests against mine with a breath that quivers between us.
Then his lips find mine, and the world stops spinning. The kiss is gentle at first, reverent, as if I might vanish if he breathes too hard, but I lean in, and it changes. Rowe’s hands tangle in my hair as the heat builds between us, as though I’m the answer to a question he’s never dared to ask.
