One second, we’re in the closet. The next second, we’re… not.
I turn in a slow circle, taking in the room. The ceilings soar overhead, and a window overlooks the choppy ocean. Against the wall sits a bed bigger than mine, draped in dark, expensive-looking sheets. A desk holds organized papers, and a bookshelf is lined with texts that look old and forbidden. A faint draft touches my arms, even though the window is shut.
“Is this your room?”
The question comes out more accusatory than I intended, but honestly, a little warning would have been nice.
“Yes.” He releases me and steps back, giving me space to take it all in.
I keep turning, absorbing details. There’s an unsettling meticulousness to how organized everything is, like it’s a museum exhibit of what a room should look like rather than a place someone actually lives.
But there are fractures in the facade. A worn book sits on the window seat, its spine cracked from being read too many times. Small ink stains dot the desk, and parts of the rug are worn down in a circular shape that clearly came from hours of pacing.
However, I can’t get distracted by the intimacy of being in Logan’s space, because everything went to hell last night, and this is the first chance we’ve had to talk about it.
I spin to face him, and the words pour out.
“What if someone finds out what happened on the Crown? Constance said the Council is sending three of their witches, and they’re going to investigate, and what if they have some kind ofmagical forensics thing? Like, I don’t know, murder detection spells? Is that a thing? That sounds like a thing.” A spark snaps off my index finger and pops against his desk. “Even if it’s not a thing, what about the Unity Flame? I killed it. I killed a thousand-year-old magical flame with my storm, and that’s not exactly subtle.”
“Jade.” His hands find my shoulders, steadying me. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling. I’m just... exploring worst-case scenarios very rapidly, in a way that might sound like spiraling to the untrained ear, but is actually just?—”
“Spiraling.” His grip tightens. “Jade. Look at me.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re steady—almost too steady—with the kind of calm that comes from having already mapped every possible outcome and decided none of them will touch us.
“We covered our tracks,” he says. “The storm destroyed any evidence on the Crown. The rain washed away the blood. We burned what was left until there was nothing but ash.”
I flinch at the reminder.
“The Council’s investigators will find exactly what we want them to find,” he continues, like he’s reading from a checklist. “A professor and a student who disappeared during a magical storm. The case will be tragic, mysterious, and unsolvable. I’ll make sure of it.”
He doesn’t need to clarifyhowhe’ll make sure of it. We both know he means he’ll compel anyone who asks too many questions. He’ll make them forget, or believe a convenient lie, or whatever will get us out of this mess with our hands undeservingly clean.
My chest tightens, but I breathe through it before it can take root.
He’s keeping us safe. That’s what matters. That’sallthat matters.
“I told you I’d protect you, and I meant it.” His thumbs trace small circles on my shoulders. “Whatever happens, I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care ofyou.”
The conviction in his tone makes my throat close up. Because he means every word, down to the marrow. He’d burn down this entire island, torch his own future, and never look back, all to keep me safe.
The worst part is that I’d let him.
“What about you?” I ask softly. “Who takes care of you?”
For a moment, he just looks at me, and the exhaustion in his face isn’t the kind that comes from missed sleep. It’s bone-deep, like it’s been living inside him for years and he’s long since stopped trying to fight it off.
“You,” he finally says, leaving it at that.
I don’t know how to process the weight of that. So, I do what any emotionally mature adult would do and change the subject.
“Speaking of taking care of me, I have a question.” I pull back just enough to study his face.
His expression goes carefully neutral. “What?”
“How many times have you used your time travel on me?”
