Michael sneered down at me, forming a pure-white ball of Glory in his palm. “Evil. And it’s my duty to purge it from this land.” He threw the white ball of Glory at me. But not at the version of me already dying—at past me.
“No,” I choked out through a wet cough, lifting my bloody hand as my Hellfire fizzled at my fingertips.
Michael’s Glory hit her in a burst of white. My past self screamed, her agony washing over me like a residual memory.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I just wanted to save my mom.
Shadows whipped around Aspen’s decaying body. Ronen. The last thing I saw before I died was him touching his chest, his expressiontwisted with confused wrath as he watched my past self burn to ash.
He knew I was something to him. But he’d never know what.
I jerked awake,clutching my heart, and found myself not in my bed, but in the library.
“You failed,” Cato commented, removing his hand from my head.
I could remember everything that had happened in the dream-walk, but not how I did it. Like he had taken the important memories and left me with all the horrible ones.
“Wh—what—was that?” I sputtered.
“A test we used on newly created Thrones. It showed us if they were ready to move up in their dream-walking or if they’d succumb to their desires.” Cato’s lips pursed in disapproval.
“So it wasn’t real?” I breathed. I mean, I was still alive. But I couldn’t shake the images.
Cato blinked, then left me standing there, frazzled.
I luscelered to Oliver’s rooms, pounding on the door. Night pressed against the windows. Only scattered snow caught in the sconces’ glow interrupted the heavy darkness. How long was I in that test?
I continued to pound against the door until it opened.
“Lucille?” Aspen’s waves fell every which way, and he had on a pair of low-hung navy sweatpants.
Scanning the bare, unscathed skin on his chest, I reached out as if to make sure it was real. The image of my fire eating away at his flesh. The sound of his choking. His decayed body…
My fingers barely brushed him, sending tingles dancing across the tips, before he snatched my wrist. Desire, guilt, and aching pain snuck through my irrational panic. For a moment, I questioned whether they were my emotions or his. But my desire remained a flicker of a flame, not extinguished but nothing compared to Aspen’s.
“Sorry.” I pulled my hand from his grip.
What was I thinking, coming here?
He sighed. “Are you okay?”
Nodding, I scanned his chest again before landing on his sleepy face. Purple bruised the skin beneath his tired eyes. He looked younger, worn down.
“Bad dream?” I asked.
“No. I can’t sleep. All I see is the people I’ve hurt.”
My face slackened with shock. I had assumed he would brush off my question or respond with something that’d placate me. He always had before.
He gave me a small, weary smile. “It’ll only ever be the truth from now on.”
Earlier, when he had laid out his past, I thought it was a one-off—a moment of weakness after I berated him. Half of what he said I already knew. I appreciated his vulnerability more than he’d ever know, but I never figured it’d last. People in my life had a bad habit of lying and hiding things from me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled half-heartedly. Not sure why I even said it when I didn’t mean it. I was one of his victims. The pain he caused was still fresh, and knowing he couldn’t sleep because of it didn’t help, but it did give me a certain satisfaction.
He huffed, shaking his head. “Never say that to me again. I’m the only one who should be sorry.”
“True,” I said, stepping back.
