Chapter 6 #2
“You just guide the magic,” he continues, as if that explains everything. “The more you guide it, the stronger the connection becomes. Each time you use it, the pathway grows clearer.”
I mutter under my breath, “Like how neurons that fire together wire together.”
His head tilts. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Just something I read once.”
He doesn’t press, only says, “Start there.”
I close my eyes again, this time focusing on my body.
And yes, damn it, he’s right; there is something there.
A hum beneath my skin, faint but undeniable.
But how am I supposed to use it? It’s like being told to pick up water with my bare hands.
I hate that he’s right; I hate the way my body reacts to him, and I hate even more that he’s the one stuck with me. I try again. Nothing.
I open my eyes. “Okay, this isn’t working. How about we try answering some questions? Because this is the first time I’ve ever heard of magic.”
He stares at me. I barrel on, frustration sharpening my words.
“Can you at least tell me where we are? Back home, it was winter, but there wasn’t snow like this.
We dressed differently. And I was talking to my mother before I ended up here, but everyone keeps saying she’s dead. So which is it? Where the hell am I?”
“I’m not the one to answer your questions,” he says flatly. “I want you to release your magic. Talk to someone else when you’re done.”
My laugh is sharp and humorless. “Typical. No answers. Wonderful.”
Hours, or what feels like hours, crawl by. He repeats the exact instructions, and I try, again and again, to grasp this so-called connection. Nothing. The air grows colder. My stomach aches with hunger, and irritation knots every muscle in my body.
Finally, Lowan straightens. “Enough for today.”
We walk back in silence. My boots crunch over the snow, my breath fogging in the air, but he doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say another word.
By the time we reach the estate, I’m seething.
I stomp up the stairs, slam the door of my chamber, strip off the damp cloak, and drag on warm clothes.
I hate him. I hate this place. And I rue the day I ever laid eyes on Lowan Veynar.
The next day, before I can hide myself away for the evening, Alva claps her hands together, eyes bright. “Since you’re feeling better, Metra, I think it’s time we had a proper welcome. A dinner, just us—so you can feel like more than a patient hiding upstairs. You’ll be our guest of honor.”
Before I can protest, Sirona sweeps in, carrying something draped across her arms. Velvet—rich and heavy—catches the light like flame. She holds it up with a smile that says she already knows what my answer will be.
The gown clings to me like living flame—deep crimson velvet catching every flicker of light, trimmed in gold that gleams against my skin.
Long, draping sleeves brush my hands, and the soft belt tied at my waist sways with each breath.
This color is alive on me. Rich red ignites against the golden-brown warmth of my skin, as if the dress itself were spun from fire and earth.
My auburn curls tumble loose over my shoulders, copper and flame threaded together, catching in the velvet folds as though they belong there.
For a moment, I almost believe I was born for this—velvet, firelight, and all.
Alva arranges the meal herself, determined to make it warm and welcoming.
The long banquet hall lies empty; instead, she’s chosen one of the smaller dining rooms, where a polished oak table glows in the light of clustered candles.
A vase of wildflowers rests at its center, softening the stone walls with color.
It feels intimate, deliberate—meant to put me at ease, though the knot in my chest says otherwise.
Sirona smiles when I enter, rising to pull out a chair as if she’s waited all day for this.
Alva hovers with a hostess’s pride, making sure I notice the steaming dishes and delicate pastries as the estate staff bustles about.
It’s gracious, thoughtful. I want to let myself relax into it. But then there’s him.
Lowan doesn’t rise. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the carved wood, silver eyes tracking me with a predator’s patience.
The crimson velvet clings to my skin, curls tumble over my shoulders, and the way he looks at me makes every Thread feel like tinder.
For one impossible breath, my mind betrays me—imagining him shoving everything aside, dragging me across the polished wood, feasting on me instead while the others scatter to leave us to our pleasure.
I blink, pulling in air. The fantasy scatters like smoke, but his gaze does not. He’s still watching, still daring, still looking like he might actually do it. And gods help me—part of me knows I’d let him.
Alva is warm, her voice lilting as she insists I eat more, that I grow strong again. Sirona hovers, too—her healer’s eyes never missing the slightest flicker in my face. She notices when I set down my fork too soon, when I shift in my chair, when my thoughts drift far from the food in front of me.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, but she doesn’t quite believe me.
Lowan doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. His gaze is steady across the table, too steady.
He watches the way I hold my goblet, the way I sip too fast and let the wine bloom too hot in my veins.
His silver eyes narrow, not with cruelty, not entirely—but with a knowing that strips me bare.
Like he can feel the way my thoughts tangle: his fingers against glass, his mouth curved against the rim, the long line of his throat when he swallows.
What would it feel like to thread my fingers through his dark hair, to draw him closer?
To feel the rough scrape of his stubble against the softest, most secret parts of me?
I drink more to drown it, but the wine only makes it worse.
My head buzzes, my body flushes warm, and when our eyes meet again, the room tilts.
For one terrifying, intoxicating moment, I think I could rise, cross to him, let him do exactly what I’ve imagined a dozen times already tonight. If I thought he’d say yes…
Sirona’s hand brushes my sleeve, anchoring me. “You’re pale,” she whispers.
I shake my head, forcing a smile. “Just the wine.”
But Lowan doesn’t look away. His mouth doesn’t move, but his stare says it all: Not just the wine.
I know. I push back from the table, determined to stand.
The moment I do, the room tilts, and I lower myself quickly again, fingers tightening on the polished wood.
My head is light, my body too warm. There’s no way I’ll make it up the stairs without stumbling.
Lowan is suddenly there. He doesn’t ask. He simply offers his arm, the line of muscle taut beneath the dark sleeve of his jacket. Alva clears her throat, her reminder gentle but firm: “Mind the contact—her magic may react.” He only inclines his head, steady, unbothered.
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm.
His warmth radiates through the velvet, his nearness a fever I can’t cool.
The gown feels suffocating, clinging too close, too heavy with heat.
Each step up the stairs is an effort, my focus fixed on putting one foot in front of the other without betraying how much I’m unraveling beside him.
We don’t speak. The silence is worse than words, every breath charged, every brush of his sleeve against mine a temptation.
Near my door, I tug my hand free, curt. “Thank you. I can manage from here.”
But before I can step away, his fingers circle my wrist. The touch sears, burning even through velvet. My pulse stutters, wild. He doesn’t grip me, so I could walk away, but I don’t.
“It’s my duty to see you safely to your room,” he says, voice low, velvet threaded with steel.
I let out a laugh—sharp, deflecting. “Duty? Well, I wouldn’t want your duty to involve accidentally touching me. Who knows what might happen then?”
His gaze darkens, his silver eyes reflecting me at myself. He leans closer, close enough that I feel his breath. His eyes flick to my mouth and linger there. “Yes,” he murmurs, “who knows.”
And then—he steps back. Opens the door. Holds it open with infuriating composure.
I stomp past him, the heat of the velvet unbearable, the wine burning in my veins, his nearness seared into my skin.
The door clicks shut behind me. My hands are already tugging the gown down over my shoulders, the fabric pooling at my feet.
For a moment, I can’t move. My back is toward the door. My chest heaves, skin flushed, and the air is thick with the sense of him—like he could still be there, watching me come apart. And gods help me, if he were, I might let him. Heart hammering, I turn, breath caught—the room is empty.
The next several days merge into the same miserable rhythm, but fortunately, nobody mentions the dinner incident.
Lowan meets me after breakfast. We walk silently to the circle in the woods. He gives me the same instructions: find the connection, guide it, follow it. I ask questions—about where we are, about who he is, about how I got here, about my mother. He gives me nothing.
I try. I fail. Every day. And every night, I return to my chamber just as cold, just as hungry, just as furious as I was the night before. I don’t join them for dinner again, though Alva makes sure a tray of food finds its way to me.
Part of me feels guilty for hiding here, for refusing her kindness. But the greater part knows I cannot bear it—not his face, not his hands, not his voice. Not the way he winds beneath my skin in the most delicious, infuriating way.
The frustration builds, heavier and heavier, pressing against my ribs like it might split me in two. And still—nothing.