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BAUER ESTATE, PRESERVATION DOMAIN, ASTRUM FOREST

LUCAS

The sun blazes down upon me as I begin to take form several inches above a pristine slate platform. My teeth grit as I’m stretched and pulled from the effects of an improper transportation circle. My injured knee screams, and my chest, where Alasdair partially ripped open my scar, drips blood onto the platform. Oh fuck, I’m about to be ripped in half.

Then in a blink, it’s over. My form fully takes shape and gravity grabs me. I land face first on the polished slab with a wet smack, my ripped-open shirt fluttering down to rest on my back.

My brain sloshes in my skull and I don’t have the energy to even groan. My threads splutter before dissolving, and my burning-hot rings cool to black. They leave behind a raw, blistered pain that melds with all the other aching parts of me. My scar pulses like something with razor-sharp teeth suckles at it. I twitch, but can’t do more than that to alleviate the discomfort.

The ringing in my ears fades to be replaced by trilling songbirds and rustling leaves overhead. Focusing my eyes, I blink, slowly assessing my surroundings while immobile. Lush jacaranda trees in full bloom surround me in a perfectly manicured garden. The out-of-season chill and storms of the city are shockingly absent. The summer heat is suffocating, and the stillness of the air offers no alleviation from the shock of the temperature shift.

My stomach is a rioting mess as my hazy, bruised brain fights to connect something. The dripping, purple flowers swing and branches creak, but the hot air doesn’t move.

A purple flower brushes the back of my blood-coated hand with a soft slurping stroke, only to leave behind a streak of cleaned skin. Teeth glint in the flowers, and a hissing fills the air as more of the branches lower down. My stomach rolls. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I cannot catch a break today. Out of all the places for Tori to send me, the center of a carnivorous tree grove was the farthest in my mind.

I try to even my breathing and center my mind in preparation for yet another battle, but it’s no use. My ribs are screaming, and I can barely take even a half breath. My fingers are cooked. I can’t even twitch one to try to get the threads out to stitch parts of me back together. I have no idea what’s wrong with my knee. Hopefully, nothing permanent. I doubt I’ll be able to find a skilled healer sometime soon.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if I could move my hands. My rings are ice cold. The magic has retreated deep within my tokens to lick their wounds. The severing Alasdair did to them mid-curse-break was brutal. They were already damaged by The Arachnomicon’s venom. Back-to-back intense battles have done my token connection’s healing no favors.

I need to heal. My rings need to heal. And these flowers need to fuck off.

Boots falling on soft grass alert me to someone’s approach. The carnivorous flowers withdraw, and the relief is staggering. In its wake is a bone-deep exhaustion that I have nothing left to fight against. My eyelids grow heavy and droop so low that I barely see the pristine, expensive clothing stepping into my line of sight.

A familiar drawl shivers down my spine as my vision begins to fade. “Well, well, well. I expected my wayward beloved and found a magician instead.”

Breathing is difficult. Little flashes of light flicker in my periphery. The footsteps stop. “Magician?”

The darkness is closing in. Hands grab me, and a hissed breath penetrates the fog clouding my mind. I’m rolled over and the pain throbs. The sun is too bright through the jacarandas and shadows the man kneeling over me. Strong hands with long fingers grip my face. The smell of fancy cologne overtakes the flowers’ potent fragrance, and I breathe it in deeply, my bruised heart fluttering in recognition.

A desperately whispered, “Lucas,” is the last sound I hear before the darkness consumes my mind.

For a single blissful moment, I believe I’ve awoken in Tori’s lavish bed. It fades quickly when my eyes blearily squint open. The silk sheets below me are black, not a comforting cream color, and the four-poster bed has heavy curtains that are drawn back. The canopy above has detailed embroidery of the night sky that shimmers with enchantments. I slowly turn my head and flinch with a long hiss. Alasdair really did a number on my neck and probably left behind bruising to prove it. I manage to turn enough to behold a marble-topped side table with a gold ticking clock and a tall glass of effervescent blue liquid.

The soft light filtering through the open windows permits me to examine my injuries while lying down. There’s not a trace of blood left on the parts of skin I can see. Even my nailbeds are squeaky clean. The rest of my hands are encased in thickly wrapped bandages. I lift one, even though it’s like lifting a bar of lead, and run it over my bare chest where a thick line of padded bandaging is taped over my scar. There’s not a trace of dirt or sweat to be found. Or clothes.

A soft snap of a book closing has my head whipping to the other side. I choke on a yelp and clutch my aching neck. Holy gods, that hurt.

A tongue clicks disapprovingly before a familiar, low, aristocratic voice tugs on my heart. “You’d think being a talented thief would mean you’re intelligent enough not to hurt yourself, but perhaps I’m too unfamiliar with humans. Tell me, does your kind usually enjoy pain or are you special?”

My head spins, and I’m not sure if it’s from the trauma of getting my ass handed to me in a fight or my heart being ripped to shreds by a letter only hours before. Slowly, I finish my turn without passing out.

Valentin Bauer the Sixth lounges elegantly in a comfortable-looking green velvet chair at my bedside. He’s wearing expensive linen slacks with a crisp white button-up that stops mid-sternum to display his prominent collarbones and lickable dip at the base of his throat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows to reveal a wyvern skin watch with multiple faces to show different time zones. A gold ring with the Bauer crest on it catches the light on his left hand, the sign of him being the next in line for head of his family.

My stomach drops as my heart kicks up into an irritating tizzy, like my body can’t decide on how to react. I should’ve known this is where Tori would send me. The estate is extremely well protected, and Valen is a talented healer. But then I remember she wanted to stay away from Valen. In fact, she couldn’t bring herself to contact him about the dead body’s suspected identity.

So, if the body in our bookshop isn’t Vincentius, then she sent me into a hornets’ nest of problems when the Preservation Councilor discovers me in his precious son’s care.

I don’t need this level of complication right now. I have Tori to save and can’t be derailed by the very specific kind of distraction that is being around Valen. The more his light blue gaze holds mine, the more a tingling awareness shivers over me. I’m pinned under the weight of it, the memories of our time together attempting to resurface. Then there’s that simmering rage and pain from his letter.

I need to get out of here, yet I can’t move. Alasdair thoroughly beat my ass senseless. He captured both Tori and Jinx. Even when I’m fully healed, I doubt round two will result in a different outcome, unless that outcome is me spit roasted for his sadistic game.

There’s a glimmer of hope for me here that I can’t ignore. What I need is help, and help is sitting his pompous ass right in front of me. Valen is powerful. He has connections. He could even get his father to angle the weavers’ in-fighting to my advantage if need be.

Which means nothing if Vincentius is dead in Peripetia’s basement. A chill shivers down me, and my aching hands tighten. Would Valen still help me if Tori killed his father? I never got a definitive answer on whether or not Tor was guilty of that.

Too many loose ends with too many unanswerable questions. At the very least, if I play my cards right, I might get some answers.

I swallow my pride and paint a smirk on my face to hide my turmoil. My usual cockiness is easy enough to slide into. I nod towards the blankets that hide my nakedness. “You tell me, blueblood. Am I special? Or do you routinely strip your guests and take advantage of them?”