Chapter 54
FIFTY-FOUR
I’ve been a little distant since I bonded with Cassiel. Not enough to draw questions. Not yet. At least, I don’t think they’ve noticed.
Deimos is pacing, violet eyes sharp, thoughts already three steps into wars not yet fought.
Bastion sits hunched over his blades, cleaning blood from the grooves with a cloth that’s already stained, each stroke precise and ritualistic.
Cassiel is silent by the hearth, face shadowed in the flicker of flame, sitting like a man still trying to pray to a god he already knows is dead.
They’re planning. Preparing. Sharpening themselves for Zepharion.
But all I see is fire. All I feel is death. Their deaths. Because of me.
The weight presses in until my lungs can’t expand properly. Even when the hearth fire dies down, the fortress air tastes of ash, smoke curling phantom-thick at the back of my throat.
They can’t die for me. Not them. Not this way.
I force my gaze toward them anyway, try to pretend I belong here—in their war room, in their battle, in their future. My lips curve in time with their words, but my thoughts wander elsewhere. To coffins. To ruins. To endings.
And then I feel it. That slow, deliberate heat.
Deimos.
I glance up and meet his eyes across the room. His jaw is tight, but there’s no anger simmering there. No fury. Only something heavier. Something that looks far too much like knowing.
So I give him a smile. Small. Crooked. A lie with dimples.
He doesn’t return it.
Instead, he closes the space between us in two long strides, each step echoing sharp on the stone floor. He lowers himself beside me on the bench, close enough that his heat rolls against me, far enough from the others that this becomes a secret carved between us.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is low, rough-edged, scraped raw.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically, because it’s easier than truth. Easier to offer a mask than bleed all over him. I let the lie sit between us like a shield. “Just… a little worried. That’s all.”
The sigh he gives is quiet but deep, worn from too many battles, too many losses. He leans in, until the warmth of his shoulder presses along mine, until I can feel the heat of his breath against my ear.
“I know you’ve been dreaming about Zepharion.”
My body goes rigid.
“I felt it.” His hand brushes against mine—light at first, testing—before lingering.
And then, carefully, he twines our fingers together.
The contact is solid. Anchoring. A tether against the dark tide pulling me under.
“You didn’t say anything. I figured you wouldn’t.
But I feel you, Lillien. Like your whole soul is trying not to scream. ”
My throat closes, tight with unshed words.
He turns his hand, fitting our palms flush together, calloused skin rough against mine. Real. Grounding. “Lillien…” His voice drops, heavy with steel and certainty. “He can’t have you.”
My gaze falls to our hands, to the way his thumb strokes slow circles across my skin as if he’s memorizing me, committing me to flesh and bone.
“You belong to me,” he says softly, fiercely. “To Bastion. Even to Cassiel.”
Something in me stutters. My heart flutters weak and uneven, like a bird trapped in its own ribcage.
“You came into our lives and cracked them wide open. You ruined the silence. The stillness. You made all of this…” He gestures around the fortress, around himself. “Mean something.”
A breath shudders out of me, trembling. Maybe that’s the problem. Because I can see it now, too clearly—how much I mean to them. And if they die because of it, if I have to watch them fall one by one into dust and shadow…
How will I survive it?
Deimos shifts closer, his presence overwhelming, his heat sinking through my skin.
He brings our joined hands to his knee, bowing over them.
Then, with a tenderness that slices me open, he presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
His lips linger a heartbeat too long, before he rests our hands back down, fingers still locked.
“We need you,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “And we’re not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”
The word promise cuts sharper than any blade. I want to believe him. Gods, I do.
But Zepharion’s voice is still alive in my skull, whispering threats in a tongue only I can hear. And the vision of their broken bodies, strewn in dust and blood because of me, claws at the edges of my sight.
So I lean into Deimos’s side anyway. Let him believe I believe him. Let him hold my hand like it’s an oath. Let him love me with the kind of love that terrifies me.
Even if I already know—I won’t be here much longer.