44. Chapter Forty-Four
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AZAZEL
T he world bleeds back to me in fractured shards—light splitting into jagged streaks, every inch of me aching like I've been torn apart and stitched back together. Something presses on my chest, warm, rhythmic, like the pulse of life—something that shouldn't be there, yet is.
The light blurs, and I blink, my vision struggling to focus. I see her— Morte —her face hovering just above mine, her blue-green eyes so bright they burn into me, a depth of emotion slamming into me, driving the breath from my lungs. My chest heaves, a hesitant breath, each intake feeling like inhaling shards of glass. Every muscle protests, screams, as I draw air into my lungs, but I do it anyway, fighting through the pain.
Her fingers press into me, her warmth seeping through my skin, and I let my attention drift, locking onto her face. Her lips move—my name on them, though the sound barely registers in the fragmented din of my senses waking, senses that betray me with each hesitant flare of sensation, each lurch of awareness. The world moves too quickly and too slowly all at once.
Heat pools at my temples, a touch I almost recognize, fingers brushing lightly against my forehead—Emeric. Then, a touch at my neck. I turn my head slightly, the motion dizzying, but enough to glimpse his silhouette—the dark tendrils that twist around him in restless waves.
The fae devil.
I try to speak, to acknowledge him, but the words tangle in my throat, raw, scraping, and all that emerges is a rough sound, almost like a gasp.
A jolt runs through my arm, a sudden tightness, and I blink up to see Wilder’s hand wrapped around mine, his expression caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, his mouth curving into a smile that’s softer than anything I deserve. His grip steadies me, something solid amid the assault of sensations ripping through me—a grounding point in this nightmare of a return.
The scent of blood clings to the air—not just mine, but Morte’s, rich, sweet, and metallic. My focus shifts to her palm, to the red staining her skin, and something in me breaks, a deep ache that reaches far beyond the physical, twisting at my core. She shouldn't have to do this—none of them should—but here they are, risking everything for me.
My eyes move again, catching the mayhem that is Caius at the foot of the altar—his grin as fierce as ever, his wildness barely restrained as he watches me, like he’s ready to take on the universe just to keep me here. The sight draws a weak laugh from me, a rasping sound that scrapes painfully against my throat but somehow breaks the tension that’s wrapped around my chest. It’s always Caius, ready to throw himself headfirst into the chaos, laughing all the way down. After all, it’s his namesake in the old tongue.
The laughter dies in my throat as a heavy exhaustion slams into me. My body feels disconnected, foreign, like it belongs to someone else. I shift, wincing at the stiffness, at the fire that lances up my spine, and Morte leans closer, her breath whispering across my skin. Her eyes fill my vision—soft, tear-streaked, and beautiful. My attention snags on the gnarly X on her chest. The ache inside me sharpens, a pain far worse than any of the physical agony ripping through me .
She shouldn't have to cry for me—not after everything I've done, after everything I put her through. I search her stare, trying to convey what words can't, my throat too raw, my thoughts too tangled to speak. Her fingers curl around mine, squeezing tightly, and her warmth seeps into me, anchoring me in a way I can't explain. I swallow, the action painful, and finally force out a single word, the only one that matters in this moment.
"Firefly."
Her tears spill over, her lips trembling as she leans in, her forehead pressing against mine, her breath mingling with mine, and for a moment, it’s just us—just her warmth, her scent, her magic wrapping around me, holding me together when I feel like I might shatter. I blink, and my vision clears enough to take her in—the streaks of blood on her skin, the exhaustion lining her features, and I hate myself for putting that there, for being the reason she’s breaking.
"You’re here," she whispers, tears slipping down her cheeks. She closes her eyes, and I feel her magic pulse, like a soft, rhythmic hum between us—like her fire is wrapping around me, mending the broken pieces that my death tore apart.
I close my eyes, letting her presence wash over me, her magic curling into the hollow spaces that have been left behind. My breath shudders out, a shaky exhale that echoes the tremor in my chest. I squeeze her fingers in response, wishing I had the strength to say more, to tell her that I’ll never let her go again, that whatever deal she made, I’ll make sure she never regrets it. But the words slip away, replaced by a sharp, searing exhaustion that drags at my limbs, pulling me back under.
Aggonid’s hand shifts from my neck, the cold of his shadows slipping away, and his eyes meet mine—that same proud look he’s never reserved for me, and it makes my lungs tighten, that tells me I’m part of something bigger than myself. He inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment, and I let my eyes drift shut, trusting him, trusting all of them, that somehow, we’ll find a way to make it through this.
As the darkness creeps in, I hold onto the warmth of Morte’s fingers, the lilting pulse of her magic mingling with mine, the sensation of life flooding back into me—and I know, even in the silence of my thoughts, that I’m not alone.
I never will be again.