Jade
A dozen deaths. Maybe more.
That’s an entire graveyard of versions of me that ceased to exist so this version could keep breathing.
I reach for Logan, my hand finding his. His fingers are cold and still. But I’m shaking, and his grip is steady, and that’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
“How do you look at me every day knowing you’ve watched me die more times than you can count?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he brings our joined hands up to his chest and presses my palm flat against his heart, where the necklace of intertwined rings lies beneath his shirt.
“Because you’re alive,” he says, barely audible. “Right now, in this moment, you’re here, and you’re breathing, and that’s all that matters.”
“That can’t be all that matters. That’s—”
“It’s enough.” His other hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “It will always be enough.”
“Were there times when I didn’t die?” I ask. “Because in the sigil ceremony, when the fire turned purple, you looked like you were exhausting yourself. You knew the color was going to change, didn’t you? And you were trying to… save me the embarrassment?”
“Yes.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine.
“And in the Crone Chamber, you were able to tell me what I needed to do in the final trial because you knew what was going to happen next.”
“Every time you came back, I’d have you tell me why you failed,” he confirms. “I’d go back and tell you what to do through the most recent part we knew. I did it over and over again, until you completed the trial and came back to me with that flower in your hand.”
“What about the other trials? The blood trial, the memory trial, and the soulfire trial? Did I only pass them because you gave me multiple tries?”
“You passed them all. If you couldn’t have done it, you wouldn’t have, multiple tries or not,” he says. “But you passed the memory trial and the soulfire trial without needing a second try. As for the blood…” His eyes darken, and he looks away.
“What about the blood?” I reach for his face, forcing him to look at me. The hardness in his eyes nearly makes me take a step back.
He blinks, refocusing a second later. “That was the only other one you needed help with.”
“And what else?” I say, and it comes out steadier than I feel. “When else?”
He stares at the far wall like he’s deciding which memories to hand me and which to keep for himself.
“Before the Lampades attacked,” he finally says. “When we were… together.”
“You mean during your experiment?” I repeat the word he used while he had me pinned to the wall, his fingers tormenting me in the most exquisite ways imaginable. “When you tested how worked up you could get me without me electrocuting the entire tower?”
“Yes.” His eyes hold mine, his hands clenched by his sides.
I suppose it makes sense. His experiment seemed so risky at the time. But I guess it wasn’t risky at all, since he could stop me from losing control before it happened.
At the same time, this one hits different. Because he’s not talking about saving my life. He’s talking about moments when his hands were on my skin and my magic was spiraling and I thought I was losing control from how good it felt.
It also explains how he always knows the perfect ways to touch me.
My memories have been curated. Refined. Made into a version Logan decided was better than the original. Every gasp, every shiver, every moment I thought was spontaneous—he ran it until it was correct.
The worst part isn’t even the dishonesty of it. It’s that it worked. Every touch was perfect not because he discovered me, but because he studied me until I fit the version he wanted to keep.
“Say something.” The words sound like they’re being scraped out of him. “Please.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. He looks wrecked—like confessing this cost him more than he’ll ever admit.
That’s when I realize: he’s waiting for me to hate him.
But I don’t hate him. I could never hate him.
“I’m not angry,” I say slowly, testing the words as they leave my mouth. “I’m just... processing.”
“You should be angry.”
“Maybe.” I move close enough to touch him, not quite making contact. “But you didn’t do it to hurt me.”
It’s the understatement of the century, given that what he did during that experiment was the exact opposite of hurting me.
His jaw unclenches, and then he’s reaching for me and pulling me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I sink into his arms, letting him hold me.
The electricity humming through my veins quiets when his heartbeat registers against my cheek.
It’s a deep, unhurried rhythm, like his body runs on a different clock than everyone else’s.
The steadiness anchors me. Because I love him, and he loves me, and right now, that’s enough. It will always be enough.
After a while, I pull back slightly. “I need to ask you something else.”
“Anything.”
“What do I do about Evie?”
Logan’s face goes blank. “You need to be there for her.”
“That’s it? Just... be there for her while she’s falling apart looking for someone she’ll never find, when I know she’ll never find him?”
“You need to say as little as possible.” Each of his words lands flat and precise. “If she asks direct questions, deflect. The less you say, the less chance there is of contradicting yourself later.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
That doesn’t stop the nausea from rolling through me.
“She’s my best friend.” Static crackles between my palms, and I press them flat against my thighs to smother it. “She trusted me. Now I’m supposed to watch her suffer while knowing what really happened last night?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “The alternative is telling her the truth, and if you do that, everything falls apart. The investigation. Our alibis. Us.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. “I just hate lying to her.”
“I know you do.” His hand finds my cheek, tilting my face up to his. “But if Evie knew what really happened, she’d have to carry our secrets, too. We can’t put her in that position. It would destroy her.”
It’s destroying me, I want to say.
The words press against the back of my teeth, hot and insistent, and for a second I’m terrified they’ll come out anyway. That I’ll look at him and shatter, right here in his room, and whatever’s left of our careful story will break with me.
I don’t want to shatter. We have enough messes on our hands already.
So, I change the subject.
“There’s one more thing.” I pull away from his touch, making my way to the window. The ocean is louder from this side of the room—waves hitting rock in a rhythm that sounds almost angry. “Constance pulled me aside for a conversation when we got back to the ballroom.”
Logan goes still. “What did she say?”
“She said...” I close my eyes, trying to remember the exact words. “All the stars have chosen their champions. Soon we’ll learn if they chose wisely, or if they doomed us all.”
When I open my eyes, Logan’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“What else?”
“Change is coming,” I continue. “The kind that reshapes worlds, topples kingdoms, and rewrites the laws of magic. The kind that requires champions willing to burn the old world to create the new, and to destroy those made from a darkness that shouldn’t exist.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “Did she say what that means?”
“No.” I turn to face him fully. “But I think I know anyway, because Thad gave me a book—Divine Interference in Mortal Magic. It mentions four goddesses—the daughters of Selene. Moon, Sun, Star, and Storm. It says each one will choose a mortal champion to carry their light.”
“You think you’re one of them.”
It’s not a question.
“I think T—my pilot—is Tempest.” Saying it out loud makes it feel terrifyingly real. “I think that when she touched my forehead during that lightning storm and the plane went down, she gave me her magic. Storm magic.”
Logan’s quiet for a long moment.
He thinks I’m insane. He definitely thinks I’m insane.
When he finally speaks, the words come out careful and measured.
“Do you know why she chose you, or what she expects you to do?”
“No. Neither does Constance, apparently. Or if she does, she’s not telling me.” I run my fingers through my hair, frustration building like sparks under my skin. “But there was something else she said that’s been stuck in my head.”
“Tell me.”
“She talked about Revenants. ‘The living dead that defy the laws of nature.’ She said they’re rising, and that some of them might be hiding in plain sight, within these walls.”
I watch Logan’s face, looking for any reaction. But he’s locked down, every muscle held so still he doesn’t look like he’s breathing.
“Oliver mentioned Revenants too,” I remind him. “In the passages, after we heard him scream.”
Logan’s fingers drift to the chain at his throat.
“I’ve seen the term in old texts, but the definitions vary,” he finally says. “Some say they’re an ancient sector of vampires. Others say they’re monsters caught between life and death.”
A cold draft cuts through the room, and the static under my skin flares, tiny sparks racing along my arms.
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Thad never mentioned anything about Revenants. Whatever Oliver found out, he must have discovered on his own.”
“Or maybe Thad did know about them.” I’m thinking out loud now, pieces clicking together. “Maybe Oliver found out and Thad killed him to keep it secret.”
“They’re both gone. We might never know the truth,” Logan says, carefully even, like I’m a firework he’s trying not to set off.
Gone.
It’s such a simple word for what we did on the Crown.
He crosses to me, his hands finding my shoulders. “We need to be more careful than ever. Because if Constance is looking for Revenants, she’ll be looking for anyone whose power doesn’t fit the normal patterns.”
Like me, with my storm magic. Or like Logan, with his abilities to compel other witches and travel back in time.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“We stay alert. We don’t draw attention to ourselves.” His grip tightens slightly. “And we learn everything we can about Revenants. If they’re a threat, I want to know before they become our threat.”
I nod, taking it in. Well, as much as I can, given how much my brain is spinning.
“I’ll look in the library,” I offer. “Try to find anything about Revenants in the regular stacks.”
“I’ll check the Ember Archives.” His thumb traces thoughtful circles on my shoulder.
“Maybe we should just ask Constance.” The thought escapes before I can stop it. “She seemed like she wanted to help.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp and final. “Constance didn’t get to where she is by being transparent. Every conversation with her is a chess move, and right now, you don’t even know what game you’re playing.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but he is.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I mean them to. “Ignore everything she said? Hope no one notices that I have a storm goddess’s magic running through my veins?”
“You need to keep your head down. Train. Study. Everything you’ve already been doing.
” His hands slide up to cup my face, tilting it so I have no choice but to meet that steady gaze that’s gotten me through every impossible situation this place has thrown at me.
“We’re going to figure this out. I promise. ”
The conviction in his tone wraps around me like armor. Because Logan’s lied for me, killed for me, and burned through time for me. I’d be dead twenty times over if it wasn’t for him.
“Okay,” I finally say. “No Constance.”
Relief flickers across his features. “Thank you.”
“But I need you to make me a promise.”
“Anything.”
“If you find out anything about the champions, or the Revenants, or whatever Tempest expects me to do, you tell me immediately. No waiting until you think I can handle it. No protecting me from information you think might upset me.” I hold his gaze, making sure he understands.
“I need to know what I’m dealing with, even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see him weighing my words, deciding how much to agree to.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Whatever I find, you’ll know.”
I search his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s only those storm-gray eyes, steady and sure, looking at me like nothing else matters to him in the whole entire world.
The breath I was holding escapes in a shudder. Because nobody has ever looked at me the way Logan Ashford does. Not my parents, not my ex, not Oliver, not anyone.
He looks at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for four years.
And every time it happens, it cracks me open a little wider until my electricity hums beneath my skin, warm and restless, reaching for him the way it always does—as if my magic decided it loved him long before I gave it permission.