16. 15 #5
Mabel’s heart leaped in her chest. Fall in love. Fall in love. Fall in love. The words repeated over and over again in her head. Her pulse quickened. Her eyes met his. And where she thought she’d see panic, regret, she only saw a man who was sure of his words.
She swallowed thickly. “Lance, I—”
He kissed her once. Gentle. Lingering. “I know. It’s okay.”
Her gaze flickered between them, trying to see any hesitation, any sign of danger, anything that would tell her to run. She only saw him. He was her home. He was her peace.
She dropped back against the blanket, scanning the stars until her eyes found Auren’s constellation. The Great Stag, ever prideful, leaping into the night sky. She mouthed a soft thank you.
A star, bright and burning, flew across the sky for the briefest of moments. If she’d blinked, she would’ve missed it. But she saw it. She nodded, then curled into Lance’s side, breathing in the warm scent of him.
They lay there beneath the hush of night, listening to the quiet kind of peace it delivered. Insects chirping, the tangled breaths between them. Mabel wanted nothing more than to make it last forever.
Their fingers lazily tangled together. His thumb drifted over hers. She could still feel the hum of his magic warming them both.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.
“Does what hurt?” he hummed, shifting closer to her. She gladly accepted.
“Keeping your magic … on?” Her fingers squeezed his.
“Not this.” He shook his head. “Some magic is passive. For me, most of it is.”
She raised a brow at him.
He scoffed. “You like it when I brag.”
“Maybe,” she admitted.
He shook his head and then raised a hand with a flourish, small stars flickering in his palm. “Illusions are the easiest. Smaller ones I can maintain without thought. Potentially forever. Larger ones I could hold for months, maybe more if I really wanted to.” The stars vanished with a wave.
“Will I be able to do that?” she asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you be able to?” He smiled at her. “Miss Ravenov, do you doubt your talent?”
Her cheeks flushed. “No—Frey told me there are some magics only Velmirians can perform.”
“Good.” He nodded, sweeping her beneath him with a swift motion. She laughed, bright and dazzled. He rested on his elbows, arms caging her to the blanket beneath them, their cloaks shielding their bare skin from the chill winds.
“My mother reads ghost stories and myths. The Velmirians lived separate from everyone. They never shared their knowledge. Very seldom did they allow visitors. But we mustn’t blame Veyra for her secrecy,” he huffed with a roll of his eyes.
He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “They recovered what they could from Velmira after the siege, but it was minimal. I’ve read every single tome.
None mention Velmirians having spells only they can cast. My mother is dealing in hypotheticals. ”
“So teleporting?” Mabel hummed. “Only you can do it but it’s hypothetical?”
He watched her closely, a smile framing his pretty face. “Maybe I’m simply that powerful.”
Mabel snorted, hiding her face in her arm. He pushed her arm away, eyes tracing the lines on her face as she laughed.
“Your arrogance becomes you, my prince.” She swatted at him. “Why do you deny it?”
“Who says I’m even Velmirian?” He frowned. Mabel stilled at his tone. “Why can’t I just be a Venhart? An Aurevynian?”
Her heart thudded. Her fingers fisted into the blanket beneath her. But then he pressed his forehead to hers, and she remembered herself—remembered him. Her arms linked around his neck, keeping him close.
“It’s always felt like it’s me against everyone else. They all see me as a threat—because my magic is different, Mabel.” He closed his eyes, pressing his face into her copper hair. “I don’t … I don’t want to be like this.”
“Lance,” she cooed softly. “You can’t deny your legacy.”
“What even is my legacy? Death? War—”
“Magic,” she answered for him. “In its truest form. It’s raw, and pure, and beautiful.”
“It’s dangerous.” He shook his head. “I’ve hurt people, Mabel.”
She pressed a kiss to the deepening lines between his frown. “On purpose?”
“No. I would never—”
“Exactly,” she whispered. “You are not evil, you are not a threat. You just don’t understand your magic fully. Let Frey have her hypotheticals. Let her make assumptions. Or …”
“Or?” Lance asked quietly.
“Or you could go to Velmira.” She grinned.
“You have a death wish for me.” He laughed softly, the sound buzzing between them as he collapsed by her side again.
“You’d make it. I know you would.” She settled closer beside him, tangled in his warmth. The fur of the cloaks brushed her cheek. Her gaze lingered on the sky above, captivated.
“This has been the best night of my life,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this free.”
Lance smiled, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. “Then we’ll call it a success.”
Mabel exhaled a soft sigh and let her eyes drift toward the lake, now quiet under the blanket of stars.
She wished they could stay like this, tucked away from everything, suspended in this perfect stillness.
But the reality of the castle loomed on the edge of her thoughts, tugging gently like the distant toll of a bell.
Not yet, she thought, curling in a little closer. Just a little longer.
“This isn’t torture, is it?” Lance asked, voice barely audible, like he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.
Mabel blinked, frowning. Her hand rose to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw. “What? Why would you say that?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched hers, stormy with doubt. “How could it not be?” he muttered. “Wanting something you know you shouldn’t. Something you might ruin just by holding too tightly.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
“Lance,” she whispered, “if anything … you’re the only part of this life that doesn’t feel like a cage. You’re the one thing that makes me forget how heavy it all is.”
He closed his eyes at that, leaning into her touch as though it hurt to be believed.
“I’m afraid,” he admitted, “of what I feel. Of what I could do if I lost control. Of what I already am.”
“You’re not dangerous to me,” she said softly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she insisted, firmer now. “Because I see you. Not just the magic. Not just the sharp edges. You.”
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, the storm in them stilled.
“Is it … Is this torture for you?” she whispered.
He didn’t respond right away. His eyes were lost in thought before he finally spoke, “It’s not torture, but it’s close.” He laughed softly, but the sound was pained. “I don’t want to be your escape,” he said. “I want to be something real. Something you can choose, not just run to.”
Mabel’s hand slid from his cheek to his chest, resting over the steady thrum of his heart.
“You don’t know how badly I want that,” she whispered, voice trembling with truth. “You don’t know how badly I wish I was yours.”
“You are mine,” he said, the words edged with heat. His hand found her waist, firm and possessive. “Only mine.”
Her breath hitched.
Then his mouth was on her again, teeth grazing the hollow of her collarbone, each touch a promise. “Must I remind you again?” he purred against her skin.
Her heart stuttered, cheeks flushed. His hand drifted lower, teasing, coaxing.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” she breathed.
And he gave it, slow and delicate.
His body pressed to hers, passionate and unrelenting.
Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word was a vow etched into her skin.
He worshipped her with the kind of devotion that blurred the line between magic and madness until the night folded around them and nothing else existed but the heat they shared.