TWENTY-ONE
Midnight came and went with a whisper.
Their bodies, already curled into one another, Silas’ arm cradling Amelia close, seemed to dull the pull entirely. He barely registered the shift, except for the familiar thrum in his chest and the slight sting on his palm when the hour passed.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. His arm tightened instinctively around her, sleep reclaiming him.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he stirred again, Amelia shifting restlessly beside him. The moon had climbed higher, casting pale silver light across the bed, outlining her as she slept.
She murmured incoherently, rolling towards him. Her shoulder nudged his chest, and he blinked the sleep from his eyes. Her brows were furrowed, lips parting on a shaky exhale. He watched as tension rippled through her, a small, pained sound escaping her throat.
The last of his sleep fell away.
“Winslow?” he whispered, cautious, wondering if it were another nightmare.
She breathed unevenly, chest lifting before whimpering out a fragile sound.
“Fuck,” Silas breathed. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. “Hey, Winslow…you’re dreaming. Wake up.”
“Lyana…” Amelia murmured, turning her face away, neck strained, tendons stark in the moonlight.
Silas frowned. He sat up straighter, gripping her shoulder more firmly.
“Wake up, Winslow,” he said, louder this time.
Her breath hitched, then steadied. Her eyes opened.
For a few beats, she didn’t speak. She lay still, chest rising and falling, blinking slowly into the shadows of her apartment.
Silas swallowed. “You’re safe,” he said softly. “You were dreaming.”
She exhaled a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the sound of his voice. She turned her head and looked up at him. Something in her gaze hollowed his chest, an echo of fear he didn’t understand.
“I don’t think I was,” she whispered.
His hand was still on her shoulder. Slowly, he let it slide away. “What do you mean?”
Amelia sat up with effort, pulling her knees in and resting her head in her hands.
“I was back in the Midnight Realm,” she said, voice thin and shaken. “Lyana was there. She stood before me…I think she wanted to tell me something.”
“Something like what?”
She gave a faint shake of her head. “I don’t know, but it felt like she was trying to help, like she wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Her mouth kept opening, but no sound came out. And then…” Her voice cracked, a shudder rolling through her.
Silas leaned forwards, hesitant, and placed a hand along her spine in an attempt to soothe. But when his fingers drifted between her shoulder blades, she flinched. Hard. He jerked his hand back quickly, heart sinking.
“Sorry,” he murmured guiltily. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s alright,” Amelia said, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “It didn’t hurt. Just instinct.” She gave a small, tired smile that never reached her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m still sorry,” he offered. “I never want to be the reason you—"
“It’s alright, truly,” Amelia said, shaking her head.
They sat in silence for a long moment, breathing into the stillness. Then she shifted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She reached for a glass of water and took a sip, the quiet pressing in around them.
“She…” Amelia’s voice was barely audible. “It was like she disintegrated in front of me.” A tremor passed through her. She turned to glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid, Finley.”
A sound caught in his throat, helpless, aching. He wanted to offer words but couldn’t find any.
Amelia held his gaze, and for once, all her sharpness was gone.
“I’m afraid to become her.”
Silas woke slowly, the haze of sleep lifting like mist as awareness seeped in. The first thing he registered was warmth, soft, steady, and far too close. The second was the unmistakable weight of someone pressed against him.
Amelia.
He stayed perfectly still, unwilling to disturb the fragile hush of morning. The room was dim, touched only by the faintest gold of early light filtering through the arched windows of Amelia’s apartment.
But the bed, the ridiculously small bed, was stifling with heat. Hers.
Amelia’s breath came in slow, even waves, ghosting against the hollow of his throat. Her head was tucked against his shoulder, her arm draped across his waist, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt. One of her legs was tangled with his, pinning him flat on his back.
Silas swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. He tried and failed to steady the rhythm of his heart.
Because this wasn’t some passing attraction, it never had been.
He’d always known what he felt for her, even if he’d hidden it beneath sharp words and endless intellectual debates. But now, lying beside her, with the weight of her pressed into him like she belonged there, all pretences felt stripped away.
He forced himself to breathe, careful not to disturb her.
It would be so easy to stay like this, let himself sink into the warmth of her, to breathe in the faint floral scent of her hair, and memorise the curve of her body against his.
To etch this moment into memory and keep it locked away where no one, not even Amelia, could touch it.
Because soon, she would wake, and this would end.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Amelia stirred, her body shifting against his. The motion sent a jolt through him, and he clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to move.
She murmured softly, hand flexing against his stomach.
His breath caught just as her eyes fluttered open.
For a single, unguarded moment, Amelia looked soft and open, sleep-dazed, and warm. Then she blinked, awareness settling in. Silas saw the exact moment she realised how close they’d become.
Her body tensed, hand curling into a tight fist against his abdomen.
Silas smirked, feigning nonchalance even as his pulse thundered. “Morning, darling.”
Amelia groaned, shoving at his chest as she untangled herself from him and sat up, glaring down at him. “Call me that again and I’ll push you from this bed.”
He chuckled, watching her sift a hand through her tangle of dark curls. Her warmth left him, replaced by a chill he tried not to let reach his expression. He stretched lazily, folding his arms behind his head. “You were the one clinging to me all night, Winslow.”
Amelia shot him a withering look, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. “I was not clinging. You were in my space.”
“You asked me to be in your space,” he reminded her, arching a brow, “and tragically, it’s a very small space, so I suppose you couldn’t help yourself.”
She shook the covers off and stood. “As lovely as it was not to have been disturbed by midnight, you can sleep on the floor tonight.”
Silas grinned, rolling onto his side to watch her retreat. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”
She paused, throwing him one last look over her shoulder. Her eyes lingered for a moment, the flush deepening on her cheeks. Then she gave a small huff, slapped a scowl back on her face, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Silas let out a quiet laugh, sinking back into the pillows, though it lacked humour.
She was confused. He could see it, feel it in every look, every retreat, and every moment she let herself soften before eventually recoiling.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to endure it. Being this close to her, emotionally, physically. All while watching her fight whatever was passing between them, while he fought not to lose himself in her completely.
As midday approached, Amelia’s lab was silent save for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.
They sat on the floor, the glyph-locked journal between them, encircled by flickering candles.
The flames danced lightly, their warmth the only steady thing against the pulsing pressure of whatever magic emanated from the journal.
Silas rested his elbows on his knees, shoulders tight with wary tension. The planes of his face were cut with concentration, his gaze fixed on the strange symbols that were scrawled across the leather cover. Glyphs they suspected denoted binding and connection.
They therefore theorised the journal’s seal could be tied to bonds, and hoped their unique magical pairing could create a resonance that may allow them to access it.
"You ready?" Silas asked, voice low and steady.
Amelia gave a small, terse nod. "On three."
They each extended a hand above the journal, close but not touching.
“One,” Silas murmured, “two.”
Amelia took a deep breath. “Three.”
Their fingers brushed, though nothing happened. She shifted, interlacing her cut hand with his, then looked up and focused on him. His eyes had already been on her, and the connection between them clicked into place like a lock engaging.
The glyphs ignited.
Light burst across the surface of the journal, veins of pulsing violet and gold flared outwards in a tangled web of symbols. Magic slammed into his chest like a physical force, knocking the air from his lungs. Amelia gasped, hand gripping his tighter.
Anchor to her. Anchor to the bond.
A voice, not his own, whispered in his mind. Feminine, soft, filled with a warning.
She is the siphon. She is the key.
Silas’ breath caught. Magic thrumming through his chest, pressing into his ribs until he felt his heart might explode.
The glyphs writhed beneath their joined hands like living things, twisting, and fighting against them. Cold magic snapped around their wrists, searing like manacles. Pain sparked through his arm, but he refused to release her.
Across from him, Amelia trembled, face clenched with pain. Silas gritted his teeth and pushed, trying to thread his magic into the glyphs, to match their output, to control them.
For a breathless moment, he thought it might work.
The journal shuddered, the seals flickering, the glyphs glitching and stuttering.