Page 116

I follow the steady rhythm of Theron’s heart, forcing my ragged breaths to fall into time with it. The fear tries to claw at me, but I push back, using Theron’s steady presence as a counterweight.

“I am Amalia Wolf,” I whisper, each word reinforcing the boundary between the court and me. “I am here. Not there.”

Theron’s magic continues to flow into me, silver threads weaving through the crystal fire, neutralizing it touch by touch, breath by breath. His forehead remains pressed to mine, his hand warm on the back of my neck.

Time stretches between us before Theron speaks. “Open your eyes. See what’s truly before you.”

I obey with reluctance, braced for fractured visions and phantom figures. Instead, I find only Theron, beautiful and achingly real, his grip firm as he holds me steady. Beyond him, the corridor appears normal, its obsidian walls solid and unmoving, no trace of crystal veins or impossible geometry.

“They’re gone,” I breathe, afraid to trust what I’m seeing.

Theron’s hand slides up my arm, leaving static sparks in its wake. “This demon, is it still with us?”

I scan the now-normal hallway. “It’s hiding, but it’s here.” I release a shaky breath. “And it’s far stronger than when I first hunted it.”

“Can you fight it?”

“Not now that it’s gone back into hiding. It exists between reflections until it manifests to torment you. And your fancy sword won’t do a lick of good.”

He frowns. “Why would I lick my sword?”

I stare up at him, my mind unable to clear this mental hurdle in our rare language barrier. “I have a special stabby stick. Can we get somewhere with fewer reflective surfaces?”

“In a moment.” Theron’s thumb traces my jawline. “You’re shaking.”

Only then do I realize my body trembles with aftershocks, muscles spasming from the strain of fighting both magics. Exhaustion crashes over me in waves, and I slump forward into Theron’s chest.

“How did you—” I swallow, throat raw as if I’ve been screaming. “How did you reach me?”

“Blood calls to blood, my Amalia,” Theron says. “My brother’s blood runs in your veins.”

His fingers brush the stone between my breasts through my shirt. “The sithean stone you wear comes from the heart of my sithe’s magic. As long as you bear these connections, I can reach you, no matter how far you fall.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter, no heat behind the instinctive need to push back and assert my independence. “You couldn’t reach me in the Opal Court.”

“I begin to understand why my brother calls you his prickle pine.” Theron pulls me into his arms with surprising gentleness, one hand cradling the back of my head as the other wraps around my waist.

I should resist, should maintain the distance that has kept me alive through years of hunting. But my body betrays me, collapsing into his warmth.

“Breathe,” he murmurs into my hair. “Deep and slow.”

I inhale, my face buried in the silver embroidery of his formal robes. Berry sweetness fills my lungs, cutting through the lingering memory of horror.

“We should move,” I whisper, though I remain tucked close to him. “Someone might see.”

“Thalindor is guarding the hall.” Theron’s arms tighten. “No one else will see you this vulnerable.”

My hands fist in the fabric of his robes, anchoring myself to his solid presence. “Why are you the exception?”

His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. “Do I need to explain how we are bound again?”

As if responding to his words, the stone at my throat flares with sudden heat, each pulse matching our heartbeats and carrying a rush of sensations not my own.

Theron’s pulse thrums through my consciousness, steady but quicker than his calm exterior suggests. His magic flows like liquid silver, cold yet soft at the same time. And beneath it all, his fear. Not for himself, but for me, for his brothers, and for whatever waits beyond the rift tomorrow.

“I can feel you,” I breathe, amazed despite myself.

His silver eyes meet mine, pupils dilated in the dim light of the corridor. “And I, you.”