Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
ALICE
There’s pain in his voice. I don’t miss it. The way he says it—it’s not the words themselves, but the drop in his tone. The quiet dread lacing them. For a man who rarely stops smirking or pushing every bloody button I have, it feels wrong. Too raw. Too real.
I want to ask him about it, but the silence between us makes my throat tighten. He doesn’t want to talk, and maybe, I’m not sure I want to hear whatever answer he’d give me.
Instead, I push the words down, burying them under the knot in my chest. I force sharpness into my voice, even though I don’t feel it. “So… magic,” I say. “You’re convinced I have it.”
“You do,” he replies, calm and certain, like it’s obvious.
“How would I use it, then? If you’re so sure I’ve got some, how does it work?”
I can feel him staring at me. I can’t see him—it’s too dark for that—but his gaze is heavy, like it’s pinning me in place.
“You believe in yourself,” he says simply.
I snort. “I have to believe I have it? This is like some Santa Claus nonsense. You know, the movies where Santa starts fading because no one believes in Christmas anymore? It’s all so… cliché.”
“You think it’s cliché because it’s right.”
I let my arms fall to my sides, my lips twisting into a scowl. Not that he can see it. “Come on, Hook.”
“Try it. Believe you have it. See what happens. Conjure us a ball of light from your hands.”
“I can’t,” I say. “And it’s not about not believing in myself. Magic doesn’t exist where I come from.”
“It does,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “If you feel for it.”
I glare in his direction, frustration curling hot in my chest. “Feel what, exactly? Fear? Desperation? Because I’m already drowning in both, and I don’t see anything magical happening.”
“If those work, use them.”
I want to argue, to throw some biting remark back at him, but instead, I let out a sharp breath. Maybe if I try—just to shut him up—I can prove him wrong. Prove that magic doesn’t exist. Prove that I’m not some chosen whatever.
“Fine,” I say.
Slowly, I lift my hands in front of me, palms cupped like I’m catching water.
Then I feel him move.
He steps closer, and his presence presses into the space around me. His hands slide under mine, rough and warm, cradling them. My breath catches. He’s right in front of me now, his body so close I can feel the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“How do you use your magic?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
"Close your eyes," he says to me.
I do. It feels ridiculous because it’s already pitch-black, but somehow, it makes sense.
“Go into yourself,” Hook says, his voice low but steady, wrapping around me like a lifeline in the suffocating dark. “Think. Feel the magic there. Feel it in your blood.”
His words are quiet but sure, each one grounding me. I close my eyes—not that it makes much difference here—and focus on his voice, letting it pull me away from my panic.
“Feel your blood flowing through your veins,” he continues, and his tone softens, turning almost coaxing. “Every cell, every fibre of you—it has light. It has power. Pull on it. Imagine it.”
I swallow hard, trying to do what he says. My breathing slows, and I picture the flow of my blood, the rhythm of my pulse, the warmth deep inside me that feels distant but real.
“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs, his voice closer now, like he’s moved towards me without a sound. “You’ve spent too long doubting yourself. Stop. Just feel.”
His words make something in my chest tighten. I can’t tell if it’s frustration or something softer, something I’m not ready to name.
“It’s not that simple,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“Yes, it is,” he says, firm but not unkind. “You’re just scared to trust it. Scared to trust yourself.”
His voice is so close now that I can feel the faint warmth of his breath against my cheek. The dark amplifies everything—the sound of his words, the space between us, or maybe the lack of it.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I am,” he replies, and there’s a hint of a smile in his tone. “Because I can see it in you. Even if you can’t yet.”
The words linger between us, heavy and intimate.
I can feel his presence like a solid thing, his closeness wrapping around me like a second skin.
My breathing hitches, and I’m painfully aware of how near he is, the dark hiding the expression I don’t want him to see—the confusion, the vulnerability, the flicker of something I can’t name.
“Keep going,” he says softly, his voice dropping lower. I can almost feel his lips brush the shell of my ear, the intimacy of it sending a shiver down my spine. “Feel it. Let it grow.”
I draw in a shaky breath, closing my eyes tighter, and focus. The warmth inside me pulses faintly, responding to his words. It’s like he’s tethering me to something solid in the suffocating dark.
“Good,” he murmurs, the word so quiet it feels like it’s meant just for me.
The warmth builds, spreading through my chest, down my arms, to the tips of my fingers. It’s still faint, fragile, but it’s there.
“Do you feel it?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Then trust it,” he says. His hands pull away from mine, and for a second, I whimper at the absence, but the heat from his hands still mingles with the pulse in my palms. “It’s yours, Alice. Let it be yours.”
His words dig under my skin, into the part of me I’ve tried to ignore for so long—the part my grandmother wanted to keep alive.
And I think, when she got sick, I let it go.
I let it get crowded out by all the other shit in my life.
It’s the part of me that fights against everything and everyone—including myself.
“Open your eyes, Alice,” Hook whispers, and his voice is impossibly close now.
I do, and he’s looking at me.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
I can see him. The faint, golden glow from the ball of light in my hands illuminates his face, casting shadows along the hard lines of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes. My breath catches as I glance down at my hands, trembling slightly, holding something I never thought possible.
“I’m doing it,” I say, my voice shaking with disbelief. “Oh my god, I have magic.”
The light flickers, as fragile as my focus. My chest tightens, panic surging as it begins to dim. “No, no, no,” I whisper, tightening my grip on the glow as if that will somehow keep it alive. The warmth slips through my fingers, and the darkness creeps back in.
Before I can spiral, Hook’s hands find mine again—steady, grounding. “Focus, Alice,” he says, his voice low and firm, cutting through my panic. “It’s yours. You’re in control. You tell it what to do.”
His touch steadies me, the heat of his hands pulling me back from the edge, anchoring the spark that feels like it’s slipping away. I focus, my gaze locking on his, drawn into the way he’s looking at me. My heart beats so strongly, I’m sure he can hear it.
“You’re doing fine,” he says softly. “Let it come back to you.”
I nod, swallowing hard, and concentrate on the warmth in my chest, pulling it back down into my palms. The light flickers faintly. It’s weak, but it’s there, responding to me.
“There you go,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with quiet pride. “You’ve got it.”
The light steadies, glowing brighter.
“It’s real,” I whisper, staring at the ball of light resting in my hands. “I can’t believe it’s real.”
“It’s been real all along, Alice." His eyes meet mine. "You just stopped believing in yourself.”
It isn’t what he says that undoes me, but the weight of the words, the meaning behind them. My chest tightens, my breath catching. The light between my hands trembles slightly, but I hold it steady, meeting his gaze.
And damn it, freaking Alice—my eyes well up. Tears brim.
Slowly, Hook reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. The calloused pad of his thumb catches a tear as it escapes, and he wipes it away so gently it nearly breaks me. “You’re stronger than you think,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than you realise.”