I saw her face again, slender and flushed from the heat, those deep brown eyes widening as they met mine. Her mouth—full and soft—parting in a silent breath.
I groaned, the sound lost in the spray.
I shut off the water and stepped out, steam curling around me despite the freezing air. My blood had yet to settle. It was hammering a frantic beat against my ribs.
I towelled off, threw on a clean t-shirt and joggers, and moved to the window. Rain ran like silver veins down the glass.
Highspire buzzed below—traffic, thunder, neon bleeding into puddles.
Her magic had stirred something in the air tonight. A resonance older than the city itself. It struck a chord deep in my chest—a familiarity that defied my thirty-three years. I knew the shape of her soul.
It was impossible. And yet, the recognition was there, undeniable.
But it was the memory of her skin—warm, damp and within reach—that terrified me.
And Liora’s stories sitting on her counter?
No. No coincidence.
Selene Rowan was the key. And if I was right—if she was what I suspected—then the storm outside was nothing compared to what was coming for her.
For all of us.
Next morning,I sat at the kitchen island, a mug of cold coffee forgotten near my hand. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving behind a weak Sunday sunrise that bled through Highspire’s towers, painting the chrome and glass in shades of sterile grey.
My flat was a mausoleum. Too quiet. Too empty without the ghost of her warmth.
A violent plunge in temperature sucked the heat from the room. The shadows in the corners lengthened, stretching inward like oil on water.
Varessia.
I didn’t move to the door. There was no point. The lock clicked open with a snap of metal, bypassing the biometric wards, treating them like polite suggestions rather than security measures.
She stood there, framed by the pale morning light, silver-black hair gleaming, her tailored suit dark as obsidian.
She walked inside.
The clack of her high heels struck the floor with a slow, measured rhythm. She moved with a clinical, lethal elegance.
“Riven,” she purred. “You really shouldn’t rely on locks. They give such a false sense of safety.”
She moved to the living area, running a hand along the back of my leather sofa. The shadows in the room rippled in her wake, darkening the leather where she touched it, leaving a trail of frost.
“You’ve been scarce,” she said, settling onto the arm of the sofa, watching me from across the open-plan room. “Even Korenth has noticed. He thinks you’re working. I think you’re… drifting.”
“I am working,” I said, my voice flat.
“Are you?”
She stood up and crossed the room, moving into my space. She didn’t stop until she leaned against the counter beside me, close enough that her scent—winter frost and expensive silk—filled my lungs.
She reached out. It looked like a casual gesture, a hand moving to touch my forearm, but I sensed the intent behind it—a spike of invasive magic, icy and dense, aimed straight at the lifeblood in my veins.
She wanted to read me. To taste the magic I was hiding.
I forced my muscles to lock. I let the shadows beneath the counter rise—just an inch. A thin, unyielding barrier of darkness coated my skin.
Her finger touched my arm.
