“We stay alert. We don’t draw attention to ourselves.” His grip tightens slightly. “And we learn everything we can about Revenants. If they’re a threat, I want to know before they becomeourthreat.”
I nod, taking it in. Well, as much as I can, given how much my brain is spinning.
“I’ll look in the library,” I offer. “Try to find anything about Revenants in the regular stacks.”
“I’ll check the Ember Archives.” His thumb traces thoughtful circles on my shoulder.
“Maybe we should just ask Constance.” The thought escapes before I can stop it. “She seemed like she wanted to help.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp and final. “Constance didn’t get to where she is by being transparent. Every conversation with her is a chess move, and right now, you don’t even know what game you’re playing.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but he is.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I mean them to. “Ignore everything she said? Hope no one notices that I have a storm goddess’s magic running through my veins?”
“You need to keep your head down. Train. Study. Everything you’ve already been doing.” His hands slide up to cup my face, tilting it so I have no choice but to meet that steady gaze that’s gotten me through every impossible situation this place has thrown at me. “We’re going tofigure this out. I promise.”
The conviction in his tone wraps around me like armor. Because Logan’s lied for me, killed for me, and burned through time for me. I’d be dead twenty times over if it wasn’t for him.
“Okay,” I finally say. “No Constance.”
Relief flickers across his features. “Thank you.”
“But I need you to make me a promise.”
“Anything.”
“If you find out anything about the champions, or the Revenants, or whatever Tempest expects me to do, you tell me immediately. No waiting until you think I can handle it. No protecting me from information you think might upset me.” I hold his gaze, making sure he understands. “I need to know what I’m dealing with, even if it’s bad.Especiallyif it’s bad.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see him weighing my words, deciding how much to agree to.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Whatever I find, you’ll know.”
I search his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s only those storm-gray eyes, steady and sure, looking at me like nothing else matters to him in the whole entire world.
The breath I was holding escapes in a shudder. Because nobody has ever looked at me the way Logan Ashford does. Not my parents, not my ex, not Oliver, not anyone.
He looks at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for four years. And every time it happens, it cracks me open a little wider until my electricity hums beneath my skin, warm and restless, reaching for him the way it always does—as if my magic decided it loved him long before I gave it permission.
JADE
Now that theweight of everything from last night isn’t crushing my chest quite so hard, I let myself actually look around Logan’s room.
It’s strange to be in the space where he lives. This place knows a version of Logan I’ve never met—the one who exists when no one’s watching.
I drift to the bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines.Advanced Pyrokinetic Theory. The History of Witch Covens. Emotional Regulation Through Flame.
He watches me from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression neutral. But his eyes track my every movement with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, as if the simple act of me touching his books is doing things to his composure that he’d rather I not notice.
His desk is organized with military precision, except for those tiny ink stains that suggest he’s not as perfect as he pretends to be. There’s a chessboard on a side table, pieces frozen mid-game. The book on the window seat is titledThe Hourglass and the Hearth: Meditations on Time and WhatRemains,because apparently Logan’s idea of light reading is philosophy about loss and the passage of time.
I’m trying very hard not to look at his bed, but it’s right there—dark sheets rumpled on one side and a single pillow holding the impression of his head. This is where he sleeps. Where he has nightmares about his parents. Where he lies awake and stares at the ceiling and thinks about whatever Logan Ashford thinks about at three in the morning.
My magic hums low and warm in my stomach.
Then, I catch the scent of roses.
I turn in a slow circle, searching for the source, but before I can place it, Logan’s in front of me, crushing my lips with his. He’s slow and deep and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and plans to enjoy every second of it.
