Jade
Now that the weight of everything from last night isn’t crushing my chest quite so hard, I let myself actually look around Logan’s room.
It’s strange to be in the space where he lives. This place knows a version of Logan I’ve never met—the one who exists when no one’s watching.
I drift to the bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines. Advanced Pyrokinetic Theory. The History of Witch Covens. Emotional Regulation Through Flame.
He watches me from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression neutral. But his eyes track my every movement with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, as if the simple act of me touching his books is doing things to his composure that he’d rather I not notice.
His desk is organized with military precision, except for those tiny ink stains that suggest he’s not as perfect as he pretends to be.
There’s a chessboard on a side table, pieces frozen mid-game.
The book on the window seat is titled The Hourglass and the Hearth: Meditations on Time and What Remains, because apparently Logan’s idea of light reading is philosophy about loss and the passage of time.
I’m trying very hard not to look at his bed, but it’s right there—dark sheets rumpled on one side and a single pillow holding the impression of his head.
This is where he sleeps. Where he has nightmares about his parents.
Where he lies awake and stares at the ceiling and thinks about whatever Logan Ashford thinks about at three in the morning.
My magic hums low and warm in my stomach.
Then, I catch the scent of roses.
I turn in a slow circle, searching for the source, but before I can place it, Logan’s in front of me, crushing my lips with his. He’s slow and deep and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and plans to enjoy every second of it.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me flush against him, and I gasp as warmth unspools low in my stomach. Electricity buzzes under my skin, but I clamp down on it, forcing it into the cage of control he taught me to build.
“Don’t hold back.” He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak. “Not with me. Not ever with me.”
“But I might—”
“I can handle it,” he says, lower now, with an edge that doesn’t sound like reassurance. It sounds like need. “I want to feel everything you’re feeling. Everything you are.”
His desperation catches me off guard. Because Logan asks for very little.
He takes care of everyone else, carries every burden without complaint, and deflects anyone’s attempt at taking care of him.
But right now, he’s asking me for this like my electricity is the only thing standing between him and a threshold I can’t see.
The plea cracks me open, and electricity surges hot along my nerve endings, sparks racing beneath my skin. But instead of containing it, I let it flow outward, through my palms and into him.
Logan shudders, a full-body one that rolls through him like a shockwave. His skin flushes hot, and a sound tears out of him that’s somewhere between a groan and a gasp, desperate in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“There she is,” he says, like I’ve given him the one thing he’s been starving for.
Then we’re stumbling to the bed, shedding clothes between kisses. His shirt hits the floor first, then mine, and when his bare chest presses against my skin, the spark that jumps between us is literal.
“Sorry,” I gasp, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Don’t apologize.” He lowers me onto the bed, his body covering mine. “Don’t ever apologize for being exactly what you are.”
“A walking electrical hazard?”
“A storm.” He kisses my neck, my collarbone, and the spot above my heart. His lips are warmer than when he first kissed me, as if the electricity is heating him from the inside out. “You’re my storm.”
The possessiveness in his tone makes me arch up against him, desperate for more. And then his hands are everywhere, touching me like he’s been studying me for years, like he knows every inch of my body better than I know it myself.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth. “All of you.”
“I’ll always love you,” he says, and then he’s inside me, and I stop seeing anything at all.
We move together like we were made for this. Storm and fire, chaos and control. Electricity races through my veins, silver sparks dancing across my skin, and Logan doesn’t flinch away from it. Instead, he leans in, his body arching into the current like he’s chasing it.
The pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter, the edge approaching with terrifying speed.
“Look at me,” Logan says, cutting through the haze.
When I meet his eyes, he’s looking at me like his world is smoke and I’m the flame.
“Now,” he breathes. “Let go.”
I do, and the release crashes through me like a lightning strike, electricity exploding outward in silver arcs that illuminate the room.
Logan follows a moment later, his body going rigid above me, a raw sound tearing from his throat as he spills himself inside me.
For several seconds, neither of us moves. We just breathe, tangled together, my magic settling back under my skin.
Then his eyes flicker with an ancient, otherworldly darkness that I’ve only seen once before—on the Crown.
“What are you—”
Black flames erupt around us, and reality fractures, pulling me through that dark, endless vortex. Then I’m back on the edge, that coiling pressure building all over again, Logan moving inside me with the same desperate rhythm.
“What—” I gasp, but he swallows the word with a kiss.
“Relax,” he murmurs against my lips. “Just feel.”
And I do.
Except this time, my body already knows what’s coming. The muscles in my stomach are clenching from the release that technically hasn’t happened yet, and when the pleasure crests again, it slams into the ghost of the last one and doubles.
My back arches off the bed as electricity crackles through the room. Logan follows, his fire erupting deep purple, tangling with my silver until the room looks like the inside of a thunderstorm.
Then he does it again.
And again.
And once more after that, each time layering sensation on top of sensation until my body is a live wire with no off switch and his name is the only word left in my vocabulary.
When reality settles into place, I’m boneless. Completely, utterly spent, like someone reached inside me and wrung out every ounce of energy I possessed.
Logan rolls off me and onto his back, his hands trembling. They’re fine, involuntary tremors, like his body is running on fumes. And while his skin is still flushed, there are shadows under his eyes that definitely weren’t there twenty minutes ago.
I sit up, alarm cutting through the haze. “You pushed yourself too hard.”
“It was worth it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not enough to hide the exhaustion in his eyes. “I always enjoy creative problem-solving.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re beautiful.” He rolls onto his side, pulling me down with him so we’re facing each other. “Especially when you lose control.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“No.” His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip. “Your electricity doesn’t hurt me. It far, far from hurts me.”
The emphasis on that second “far” catches my attention. Most people would say “no, it doesn’t hurt” and leave it at that. But the way Logan said it, as if my electricity is precious to him in a way that goes beyond pleasure, makes me wonder what exactly it does to him that he can’t put into words.
I file that away to think about later, when my brain is functioning above a first-grade level.
But there’s another detail nagging at me that doesn’t quite add up.
I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Bring me back with you.” I gesture at the bed, the room, the aftermath of what just happened. “Last night on the Crown, you said you’d never been able to take anyone through time with you before, and that the Crown’s amplification was the only reason it worked.”
Logan’s brow furrows. “I did say that.”
“So how did you do it five times in a row without the amplification of the Crown?”
His brow creases deeper.
“I don’t know,” he admits slowly. “I haven’t tried to bring someone with me in two years. After it failed so many times, I figured it wasn’t possible.”
“Clearly it’s possible now.”
“Apparently.” He stares up at the ceiling, that furrow between his brows deepening even more. “But abilities don’t evolve this quickly without a catalyst.”
“Like the Crown?”
“Like the Crown,” he agrees. “But the Crown’s effects should have been temporary.”
“So what changed?”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t know.”
I want to push him to speculate further, but the exhaustion hasn’t left his eyes, and pushing Logan when he’s like this only makes him shut down harder.
So, I let my gaze drift to his chest, where his necklace with the two rings fused together glints in the low light.
Without thinking, I reach out to touch it. The metal’s warm from his skin, and there’s a faint vibration beneath my fingertips—a hum, low and steady, like a second heartbeat.
“Have you ever taken it off?” I ask, and suddenly, he goes still.
“Never.” The word comes out rough, and his hand covers mine where it rests against the rings. “They’re my last connection to who I was before.”
Before.
The word hangs weighted in the air.
Before his parents died. Before he could burn holes through time.
The look on his face makes my breath catch. Because it’s not guarded. It’s not controlled. It’s pure, unfiltered grief that he’s letting me see because his defenses are down from exhaustion and intimacy and whatever my electricity does to him that makes him more human than he allows himself to be.
He pulls me closer, and we stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in. Then he leans back slightly, and the warmth behind his eyes shutters closed.
“We need to discuss the Council.”
The softness drains from his face. His posture straightens. And just like that, the Logan who plans for every contingency is back, and the one who let me see his grief has retreated behind the door he keeps himself locked behind.
“Three of them are coming tomorrow to investigate Oliver and Thad’s disappearances.” He gets out of bed, picks up his pants from the floor, and puts them on. “If they look too closely at either of us, they’ll find truths we don’t want found.”
“What are we supposed to do if they start looking?” I ask. “Leave the island?”
“The island is warded so we can fire travel within it, but not off it.” He moves to the window, staring out at the ocean beyond. “No one who’s ventured into the surrounding seas has ever returned.”
A chill runs down my spine, the air cool against my bare skin. “How deadly are we talking here? Like... sea monsters? Whirlpools? More Lampades? Another Hydra?”
He turns to face me. “No one knows for certain.”
“Which means we’re trapped on an island with Council members who want to investigate the disappearances we caused.”
“Essentially.”
“So, what’s worse—the Sea of Danger, or the Witch Police?” I tick both options off on my fingers.
Logan’s quiet for a long moment. “That depends on who they send.”
I sit up straighter. “You know the Council members?”
“A few. But until I know who we’re dealing with, I can’t say how careful we’ll need to be.” He crosses back to the bed, sitting on the edge. “But we need to get some sleep. And speaking of sleep…” He pauses, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “I want you to stay here. With me. Tonight.”
I don’t say anything for a few seconds. Because Logan Ashford wants to have a sleepover. With me. In his room. In Typhon Hall, the fourth-year dormitory where I’m definitely not supposed to be.
I don’t have time to reply before he pulls me close, his mouth finds mine, and every cell in my body surrenders.
Because tomorrow’s problems can wait.
For now, there’s only my lightning that glows silver and his fire that burns black, tangled together in the darkest shadows of the night.