Chapter 17 Kaia
Kaia
I’m not supposed to leave the hotel.
Blaire’s rules are simple tonight: rest, hydrate, don’t wander, don’t get photographed doing anything that can be turned into a headline.
Which means I lie in bed with my eyes open, listening to the hum of the mini fridge and the distant bass of festival setup down by the pier like Harbor’s Edge is already rehearsing for tomorrow.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Evie in the diner—shoulders rigid, voice like a door slamming shut.
Just go.
And every time I open them, the ceiling feels too close, like the hotel room is a box I can’t breathe inside.
I slip out quietly. The hallway carpet swallows my footsteps. The security outside our floor barely glances up. I’m wearing a hoodie and cap. Anonymous enough. A ghost of myself.
Outside, Harbor’s Edge is damp and dark and awake in that pre-festival way. Lantern frames sway faintly in the wind, unlit. Posters rustle against poles. Someone left a radio playing too soft in a booth on main street, the jingle looping like a spell.
I keep walking anyway.
I tell myself I’m doing a ward check.
I tell myself I’m checking for Chorus residue.
I tell myself anything that sounds responsible.
My feet take me where they’ve always taken me when I don’t know what else to do here: the pier.
It’s colder out here. The ocean breathes against the pilings, slow and endless.
The boards creak under my weight in the same familiar rhythm, and my chest tightens like muscle memory is grabbing me by the throat.
Halfway down, I see someone sitting at the edge with their feet hanging over the water. A hood. A jacket. Even before she turns her head, I know. My heart drops into my stomach.
Evie.
She looks up when she hears the boards creak, and for a second her face is unreadable—shadowed, guarded, tired. Then recognition washes over her face.
“Oh my god,” she says flatly. “You.”
I stop like I’ve walked into a wall.
“Hi,” I manage, because I’m pathetic.
Evie’s gaze flicks over me the way it did the first night in the diner—fast, assessing, looking for danger. Then it lands on my face.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice low.
“I—” I start, then stop because any answer is going to sound like a lie.
Her eyes narrow. “Are you stalking me?”
My spine goes straight with reflexive indignation. “No!”
Evie’s mouth twitches like she doesn’t believe me for a second. She turns her head back toward the water, voice dry. “Sure.”
“I’m not,” I insist, quieter this time. “I didn’t—I didn’t know you’d be here.”
She snorts softly, still looking out at the dark bay. “Let me guess. Wards. Demons. Corporate community partnerships.”
The bitterness in her voice stings because it’s accurate.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say instead.
Evie’s shoulders lift in a small, unimpressed shrug. “Yeah. Same.”
The quiet stretches. The ocean keeps moving, entirely uncaring of what’s broken between us.
I swallow and force myself to breathe. “Can I… sit?”
Evie doesn’t look at me. For a moment I think she’s going to tell me to leave again.
Then she exhales slowly and says, “Sure.”
It’s not warm.
But it’s not a no.
I move carefully, like sudden motion might spook her. I sit a few feet away, close enough to feel the heat of her presence, far enough to pretend we’re not one wrong breath away from falling back into something dangerous or another fight.
Evie keeps her gaze on the water. I keep mine on the boards, because looking at her feels like stepping into a flame.
After a long beat, Evie says, “Does Blaire know you’re out here?”
“No,” I admit.
Evie laughs once, sharp. “Of course.”
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I say quickly.
Evie’s head turns just enough that I catch her profile. She says nothing, which is worse than her arguing with me or telling me off.
I can argue. I can defend. I can make this about rules and patrols and safety.
But I don’t know what to do with silence.
So I stare at my hands and say the truest thing I have. “I didn’t come here to start trouble.”
Evie’s voice is quiet, almost rough. “Well, trouble seems to find you.”
We lapse into silence. I don’t have a defense for that.
I think about the Eon office. The diagrams. The word yield and the strange Eon logo etched into the new warding.
I think about tomorrow night—lanterns rising, the town humming, the Chorus licking its lips.
I think about Evie’s wrist warming under an invisible binding.
And I think about how none of this would’ve touched her if I hadn’t been flagged, recruited, and shaped into a weapon.
I pull my sleeves lower onto my hands.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
Evie’s head turns fully now, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide if I’m manipulating her or finally being honest.
“Of what?” she asks.
I let out a breath that fogs in the air. I keep my gaze on the water because if I look straight at her, I might lose the thread of bravery I’m clinging to.
“Of tomorrow night,” I say. “Of the festival. Of the Chorus breaking into splinters again and—” My throat tightens. “—and people getting hurt because we thought we had it contained…”
Evie’s expression doesn’t soften. It sharpens. “You mean like how you had it contained when it came for me?”
The words sting because they’re fair.
I swallow. “Yes.”
A beat.
“And,” I add quietly, because I can’t stop myself, “I’m scared things are never going to be… even remotely okay between us again.”
Evie lets out a short laugh with no humor in it. “How could they be?”
I flinch.
Her voice cuts colder. “You didn’t even tell me about the veto.”
The pier suddenly feels too narrow, like the boards are trying to squeeze us closer than we can survive.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
Evie’s eyes hold mine, bright with anger and something underneath it. “So why didn’t you?”
I hesitate, hating myself. “Because I was scared to.”
“Scared of what?” she snaps.
“Of you hearing it as a price tag,” I say, the truth spilling out ugly. “Of you thinking you owed me anything. Of you—” I swallow hard. “—of you hating me more.”
Evie’s jaw tightens and she looks away for a moment.
God, she really does hate me…
I deserve that too.
Slowly, her deep brown eyes slide back to me and stare at me for a long second, then her voice drops, quieter. “Why did you use it on me?”
The question lands heavy. She isn’t asking about policy. She’s asking why I chose her.
Her eyes flick away and back like she hates how much it matters. “If that’s your one mind-wipe pass—your one override—why spend it on me? Why not save it for someone else? Anyone else?”
“Because…”
I open my mouth.
The truth comes out before I can dress it up.
“Because you’re the only person I’ve never been able to forget, and when they tried to erase that night, something in me snapped… And, maybe, because I love you,” I say.
It's out in the open now, and instead of freezing up and shutting down, the words suddenly won't stop.
“And that scares me too,” I add, voice quiet. “It always has. I think I’ve always been scared of loving you, of what it would cost, of what it would mean, of how easy it is for the world to use it against me. Against you.”
My breath catches. My throat tightens.
The silence that follows feels like someone sucked all the air off the pier.
Evie’s face goes still. Then her mouth twists like she tasted something bitter.
“Don’t,” she says, low. Not soft. Not kind. A warning.
I flinch.
“You don’t get to drop that on me like it’s… like it fixes anything,” she continues, voice tight with restraint. “You don’t get to say love now, like that’s a bandage you can slap over years of silence.”
My chest aches. I deserve every syllable.
Evie’s eyes shine with something sharp and furious. “If you loved me, you would’ve told me the truth. If you loved me, I wouldn’t have been the last to know. Again.” Her laugh is short and ugly. “So don’t stand here and act like I’m supposed to be grateful you… what—feel something?”
“Evie, please.” I look at her now, because I can’t help it. “The Council tells us attachment is a vulnerability. They tell us clean breaks are easier and that the people we care about will be safer if we keep our distance.”
Evie’s eyes flash. “And you believed them.”
“I did,” I admit. “Because I wanted to believe I had a reason that wasn’t just cowardice.”
Evie looks away again, fast. Like looking at me too long makes her throat tighten.
I shouldn’t push.
But I’m already here. I already shattered the rules by coming. I’m already sitting on this pier with the person I’ve been orbiting like a punishment.
So I push anyway.
“I didn’t tell you,” I say softly. “About the Council. About the recruiter when we were teens. About any of it. I was scared.”
Evie’s laugh is bitter. “You were always scared. About everything. And you haven’t changed.”
“That’s not fair,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it because it sounds defensive.
Evie’s head snaps toward me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it not scary for you to tell me our kiss was stupid and then disappear?”
My throat closes.
Evie keeps going because anger is her armor and she knows how to wear it. “Was it not scary to let me think I was the problem? That I was too small-town for your big dreams of stardom?”
“Evie,” I whisper.
“What?” she snaps, eyes bright with something that looks too close to tears. “You want to apologize now? You want to do it properly this time?”
I flinch.
Because yes.
Because I’ve wanted that sentence—I’m sorry—in my mouth for years and I’ve been too ashamed to let it out…
“I do,” I say, voice raw.
She shakes her head hard, like she’s physically rejecting it. “Well, don’t.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because if you do,” Evie says, voice lower, shaking at the edges, “then I have to—” She swallows. “Then I have to decide what to do with it.”
I stare at her. She keeps her eyes on the water like it’s safer than looking at me.
“And I can’t,” she says, quieter. “Not right now.”