And now I’m on the other side of a wall, watching someone I love live without me.
Turns out the Fae and I have more in common than I thought.
I can’t be here right now. “I need to…”
“Let me take you back to your room,” Kestra says gently. “A nap, perhaps.”
A nap. Like I could sleep after this.
But what else is there? I can’t reach for my friends, my family, or the guys. Can’t pull them into this mess when they’re already paying for my choices. Kieran exiled. Finnian gods know where. Orion probably burning through the borderlands looking for a way in that doesn’t exist.
They deserve better than me dragging them deeper.
I turn away from the wall.
Kestra stands in the dark passage, hands clasped in front of her like a child waiting to be punished. Like she’s already accepted that I’ll hate her for this.
And I want to. Gods, I want to.
But she didn’t build this system. She was born into it. Raised by it. Shaped by a woman who was stolen just like mine.
The bond pulses again. Warm this time. Almost like it’s asking a question.
I don’t answer.
But when Kestra reaches for my hand, I let her take it.
That has to count for something.
I look back through the hole one more time. Counting. One. Two. Ten.
Yeah. A nap sounds perfect.
8
Kieran
The world eruptsinto chaos as Donn reaches inside of Orion. His hand spears through flesh as though it’s made of nothing more than suggestion.
Shadows explode from my feet before snowflakes drift from my clenched fists, soft, delicate, utterly humiliating.
Macha’s palm lands on my chest. Not a push. A wall.
Those black eyes see through every mask I’ve ever worn. Probably noticed the snow, too.
Wonderful.
“Move.” The word comes out colder than I intend. Which is saying something, given that I’m apparently a walking weather event now.
“No.”
“He is torturing him!” I bellow, ready to move her out of the way.
It is then I’m reminded of why the ancients are revered in their power.
The air leaves my lungs before I register movement. Stone. Cold against my spine. Stars behind my eyes as I stare at the ceiling.
Macha’s boot settles on my sternum with the casual weight of someone who has flattened kings.
