Safe. That’s what the look said.
Then she whispered, the word drifting through the cell, striking me square in the chest, “Aesira.”
A survivor. That’s what she called me, in a language as lost as I was.
She squinted back at Killian; eyes fastened to the back of his skull. I wondered if he was already inside her head. Judging by the shadow in her eyes, and the curl of his smirk, my guess was yes.
As she slipped back into the corridor, the air shimmered, as if she had passed through a veil not unlike the one Gemma would keep around her garden. Slow, her steps dissolved until it was quiet.
A scuff drew my attention, where Killian shifted closer, his concentration fixed on the chains that grew from the floor into my skin.
“Can you get me free from them?” My voice was dry, flat. Hope was an old word, one I hadn’t tasted in too long.
His eyes lifted, catching in the firelight. Not just blue anymore, but a touch of gold rimming the edges. “Yes,” he said, placing the candle steady between a break in the stone.
Slow, he unsheathed his blade, not letting the metal slice too loud. It was shaped like a feather, long and slender, polished in iridescent silver.
He didn’t bring it to the chains. Instead, he turned, glancing back at the empty corridor before bringing it to his own palm.
My breath stuttered. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The blade’s edge laid against his skin. “I want to make a deal with you.”
I blinked, dizzy. “What the hel does that mean?”
His eyes lifted to mine, unflinching. “A deal. An oath.”
Chains rattled as I tilted back against the wall. “Why would you want to do that?”
A thin cut bloomed as he dragged the blade across his palm, blood shimmered, suspended in threads as he extended the hand toward me.
“To guard you,” he said. “To follow where you lead. Whatever you are, Verena Vale, whatever you’ll become, my vow is already yours.”
Whatever I was? Whatever I’d become?
“I’m not what you think.”
He took another step, his palm extended, blood slipping between his fingers. “You’re exactly what you’ve always been.” My throat worked as I pushed myself further into the wall. “And you’re going to need someone who’s already walked through the end.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came. No sarcasm. No threat. Only the sound of my pulse hammering against the cuffs.
He bent to one knee before me, head bowed. “Let me swear it. Let me belong to you.”
The candle died and the aftermath of darkness surged once again. His next words were a promise carved into the dusk.
“Say yes,” he whispered, “and I will rise when you call me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ronan
RONAN HAD KNOWN THE NAME KILLIAN RAMSAY long before he ever saw the man himself. The surname carried centuries of blood before it soured and branded itself into history.
But rumors spread faster the more they have to offer. And finding out the legendary warrior was instead a dishonored Angel shifted his strategy.
So, when Ronan stormed through the door of the rebels’ cabin and found the Angel waiting there withhisblade,hislegacy, in Killian’s grip, something like wrath had licked up his spine.
He could have ended him then—the man, the name, the last fragment of Ramsay blood.
