A farmhouse outside Boston, 1872. Eliza. Not the story he’d told Hazel by the fire — the real thing. The weight of the locket in his pocket. The smell of woodsmoke and lavender that meant home.
His exact thought in the half-second that destroyed everything: “The extraction is almost complete. Thirty more seconds.” Choosing the spell over the woman screaming his name.
The sound of the blade. Not the clean cut he’d described. Wet. Wrong. Final.
Blood on the farmhouse floor, still warm when he reached her. Her eyes already empty.
Walking into Wicked Brews and feeling his world tilt. Terror and hope warring in his chest.
Their heartbeats synced. Their magic intertwined, tangled ribbons of light—hers dark as dusk, his bright as morning—hanging in the air. The corrupted energy burned away through their connection, but the intimacy remained.
“Marcus,” Hazel breathed, tears streaming down her face.
“I’ve got you.” But his voice was raw. She’d seen everything he’d tried to hide.
Finally, the corruption cleared. The ley line settled. But neither moved.
“I saw,” Hazel whispered, cupping his face. “I saw Eliza. I saw you lose her.”
Marcus closed his eyes. “You saw me fail her.”
“I saw you make a mistake. A human mistake. Even demons make them.” Her thumbs brushed away the moisture at the corners of his eyes. “Marcus, you were following your training. You were young.”
“I hesitated.” The admission tore from him. “Half a second. That’s all it took.”
“And you’ve been carrying that guilt for a hundred and fifty years.”
“I followed the rules, and she died. I chose my briefcase over her life.” He opened his eyes, letting her see the pain there. “That’s why I’m so obsessive about your safety. Why I can’t lose you, Hazel. I can’t make the same mistake twice.”
“You won’t.” She pulled him closer. “You’re not that young demon anymore. You tore apart your career to save me, broke every rule to keep me alive. That’s not who hesitates, Marcus.”
“I swore I wouldn’t hesitate again.”
“And you haven’t. Not once.” She kissed him softly. “Eliza wouldn’t want you to spend eternity blaming yourself. She loved you—I felt that in your memories. And she’d want you to be happy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because any woman who loved you would want that. Would want you to live, not just exist.”
Marcus’s voice caught. “Hazel…”
“I’m not asking you to forget her. But you’re allowed to be happy, Marcus. You’re allowed to love again.”
“I already do,” he whispered.
“Good.” She traced the scar on his chest, the one from the assassin’s blade. It was raised and rough under her fingertip. “We’re going to make it to that trial. Both of us.”
“Both of us,” he said.
They stayed like that, foreheads touching, breathing each other in. Then Marcus kissed her forehead, her cheeks, tasting salt from her tears.
“Thank you,” she said against his skin. “For saving me. Again.”
“Always will.”
They dressed slowly,reluctant to break contact. The walk back was quiet, Marcus supporting her when she wavered.
Inside, he wrapped them both in blankets on the bed. Warm light filtered through the window.
