One second they were kissing. The next, he wrenched himself back, and the expression on his face hit her like a slap. It looked like horror.
Did she initiate the kiss or had he? Why did he look repulsed?
She glanced down, noticing they were holding hands. She wasn't sure when that happened. Immediately, she pulled her hand free as if burned.
Without a word she turned away from him.
Training suit soaked. Lake. The math took less than a second.
She dove in and did not look back, the water flaring gold around her.
Dexmon wanted to go after her—every muscle in his body screamed to. But if he moved or spoke now, Aegon would surface. So he stayed where he was, fists clenched, jaw tight, forcing himself to breathe, while his fated mate threw herself into a lake rather than continue standing near him.
This was going spectacularly.
Serena emerged on the far shore, wrung the water from her hair, and walked towards Hyran with the composure of a woman who had already moved on from whatever just happened on that island.
He looked entirely too entertained and didn't bother hiding it. "You truly have no idea what you just did."
She stayed silent, not wanting to draw more attention to whatever he was referring to.
By the time Dexmon reached the opposite shore, Serena had already fallen into step beside the mage.
Hyran waited exactly three seconds before firing.
"Sylvarae. The obsolete plural for oath-bound recollection?"
"Vaerethen," Serena answered without looking at him. "The first book you handed me today cites it. Additionally, the book you handed me written in Vellum references it indirectly."
She slid him a sideways glance without breaking stride. "But, you already knew that."
"That I did."
"And you suspected I would know the answer."
"Yes."
"Ah." Her voice cooled by a degree. "This is not an examination. We are in negotiation."
Hyran exhaled through his nose, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and wanting to win. "You know, most who run from chaos usually fall into its pits."
Serena let the silence stretch for exactly one step longer than comfortable. "You're assuming chaos is a pit. Chaos is a ladder."
Behind them, Tiberon's expression did something complicated.
Hyran exhaled, equal parts impressed and vaguely alarmed.
"Fine. Is it safe to assume you remember everything you read down to the page number?"
Her shoulders tensed. One breath. Then they dropped, and she kept walking.
He waved a hand at her expression like he was shooing a fly.
"Oh please. Do not give me that look. You walked into that."
"She does," Elara chimed in from the back. "Ask her to read at alpha speed."
Serena turned slowly, and shot Elara a look of pure betrayal.
Elara lifted her hands. "Time-saving measure."
Dexmon couldn't help but stare. The annoyed look Serena gave Elara was absurdly endearing.
Then the words caught up to him.
Wait. She does what?
"She has translated texts in over seven languages. Eight, if we include the common tongue. Ten, if we count Draken-Vorah and her culture's tongue that overlaps with it. Elara would speak that as well based on her reaction."
Hyran glanced back just in time to see Elara's poker face buckle for half a second.
"Please, a toddler could have figured that out. Are you going to tell me the name of the language?"
His confidence was obscene. Elara matched it.
"I appreciate the flattery, but you are mistaken."
Hyran stopped mid-step and turned on his heels. Everyone stopped with him, including Tiberon, because Hyran Thornfell was Hyran Thornfell.
"Don't insult my intelligence."
Elara tilted her head, amused. As if she'd underestimated him — not the other way around.
"Glaciovox. Doubtful you'll find anything on it. But if anyone could, there's no question it would be you."
Serena's eyes cut to Elara. A clear warning.
Elara shrugged. "What? The man's good. I won't lie."
Hyran didn't bother hiding the smugness. He faced forward and kept moving, the group following.
"Queen Bellatrix voiced concern that Serena might be illiterate. If someone could kindly pass along that she is fluent in ten languages, that would be great."
His tone was casual, like he was commenting on the weather.
"Please don't." The edge in Serena's voice sharper than she intended.
He considered that for exactly one second. "She would hate you more." He looked skyward, as if the stars on the chamber ceiling might offer him patience. "Fine. If someone could instead pass along that she knows her basic shapes, colors, and the alphabet, I would appreciate it."
Gavriel's laugh cut through the chamber like he'd been waiting for permission to use it. "She's really doubled down on illiteracy. Among other colorful things."
Dexmon whacked him.
"What?" he protested. "She has. Don't shoot the messenger."
King Tiberon didn't comment. But Dexmon caught a flicker behind his eyes and recognized it. He was recalculating.
When they reached the top of the spiral stairs and emerged back into the library, Hyran stopped and turned to face Serena.
"Right then. You will be useful. Meet me here daily. Same time."
He turned away before she could respond.
Serena blinked, dazed again. Elara clocked it instantly and stepped in.
"Please excuse us."
Elara dipped her head and Serena mirrored the gesture on instinct. She steered Serena out of the restricted section of the library with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had been extracting her from overwhelming situations since childhood.
As they walked, mage-librarians froze and watched. They whispered loudly, like she wasn't there. A few clapped softly.
"They were right. She is very thin. A runt likely."
"She's fae. No wolf glows."
"Princess Agnes and Queen Bellatrix both said she was illiterate and mute. They'll be thrilled to hear this!"
"She doesn't strike me as a whore. Maybe they were mistaken."
"Whores can read too."
"No, no, you have it wrong. They were prostitutes before coming here. Their mothers were the whores. That's how they know each other."
"Very young to be prostitutes but Queen Bellatrix said they start them early."
At that last comment, Serena and Elara exchanged a single look.
A dry, wordless glance that clearly said: You've got to be joking.
And no one missed it.
By the time they got back to the room in the infirmary she'd been staying in, she collapsed onto the bed in her damp training suit.
Her mind kept circling. The kiss. The way his expression had shifted, one second his mouth on hers, the next something like revulsion twisting across his face. Was that real?
She pressed her face into the pillow. It shouldn't have mattered. A kiss from a man who regretted it should have been nothing. It was her first kiss, which made it worse, but still.
He regretted it because he had a betrothed. The thought hit like ice water. She was upset over a man who belonged to someone else, and that made her the other woman. Gods, what was wrong with her?
Never again. Whatever Agnes Viremont was, she didn't deserve that.
Her head throbbed, and sleep took her before she even realized it, a folded towel abandoned beside her.
✦✦✦
She woke once in the middle of the night, half-conscious beneath warm covers, her mind hazy. She was no longer cold. No longer wet.
She blinked slowly, her thoughts slow and drifting, and became aware of something—or someone—behind her.
Arms. Strong, warm. Wrapped around her.
The scent was intoxicating. Familiar. Safe. She couldn't place it in her fogged mind, but she didn't try. She only knew that she liked it. Liked the way it grounded her, calmed her.
She sank into it, into the heat and comfort, and drifted back to sleep.
When she woke again, fully this time, the room was bright with morning light.
She was alone.
No arms around her.
Just the faint scent of something wild and steady still lingering on her pillow.
She must have imagined it.