Chapter 14 - Emily
Avoidance becomes an art when you need it to be, and I am a master of the craft.
I perfect it over the next few days with military precision, the kind that doesn’t rely on chance or hope.
I plan my routes. I track schedules. I leave early, return late, and make sure my timing never overlaps with Sean’s unless absolutely unavoidable.
If he’s near the training grounds, I’m in the medical bay.
If he’s in his house, I’m at the cottage. If he’s outside, I stay in.
It’s almost laughable how easily I fall back into the old mindset—the same precision, the same discipline I learned when I joined black ops under false pretenses, when every step I took had to be intentional or risk exposure.
Back then, it was about saving his life. Now, it’s about saving my sanity.
And it works. Mostly. Except the bond doesn’t care about strategies to avoid my fated mate.
No matter how much distance I put between us physically, it hums beneath my skin like a live current. Quieter than before, yes—but present. Watchful. Waiting. Every time my thoughts drift where I don’t want them to go, my magic responds like it’s listening to a language I refuse to speak out loud.
I hate myself for that.
I hate how easily I unraveled in the cottage.
How quickly my resolve dissolved the moment his hands steadied me, the moment my magic found something it recognized and latched on to without permission.
I tell myself it was a lapse. A mistake fueled by exhaustion, adrenaline, and a storm that stripped me bare inside and out.
But a mistake doesn’t linger like this. It stuck with me the first time around for five years, turning love into hatred, festering from something beautiful into something vile. Still, the memories from five years ago remain, while the memory of the other night sticks to me like glue.
Every time I think of his mouth on mine, my palms become warm. Every time I remember the sound of his voice saying my name like it meant something sacred, my magic stirs low in my core, restless and impatient.
I can’t numb the memories, no matter what I try.
No potion exists to cure me of the fated mate bond, and no amount of magic could distract me enough to forget him.
In fact, my magic makes it much, much worse, strengthening the connection between us beyond the constraints of the fated mate bond.
The only thing I can do is ignore the lazy pull between my thighs every time he’s breathing the same air as me.
I have to distract myself so I don’t lose my mind. That’s why I bury myself in work.
The medical bay in the Silverfang clinic becomes my refuge—sterile, controlled, predictable.
Injuries make sense. Wounds have causes and treatments.
Broken, physical things can be fixed if you follow the right steps.
I patch up warriors with torn skin and fractured bones from their rigorous training, restock shelves with medical supplies, and reorganize supply lists that don’t actually need reorganizing.
I volunteer for extra shifts. I don’t rest.
I don’t think.
But the witches notice soon enough.
They always notice everything, know things I wish they didn’t. We’re back to practicing my magic, and there’s an elephant in the room at every one of our training sessions.
Sean is never there, and even though they haven’t said anything, I know that they’re thinking it.
It starts with subtle glances at first. A pause when I enter a room. A flicker of concern when my magic pulses without conscious command. By the third day, Delilah corners me in the medical supply room, her presence calm but unyielding.
“You’re suppressing your magic, Em,” she says gently, eyes sharp beneath the softness of her tone.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically, not meeting her gaze as I tend to pack up bandages that don’t actually need packing.
She doesn’t argue, just purses her lips. That’s worse.
“Emily…” she sighs instead, stepping closer. “Magic doesn’t like being caged. Especially not yours.”
I turn away under the pretense of checking a crate of dried herbs. “I don’t have time for this conversation, D.” I crouch at the crate, hiding all the pent-up emotions behind my eyes, regret panging in my chest because I’m pushing her away. Again.
She was my best friend through black ops and the only other female on the squad. I hate that I’m doing this to her, but I’m afraid of what she’s going to tell me, as if my heartbreak meant nothing.
“You don’t have time not to,” she replies. “Whatever happened the other night—”
“Nothing happened,” I snap, too quickly.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and knowing as I stare at the herbs.
Delilah sighs again. “You can keep lying to me if you want. But if you keep bottling it up, it will force its way out. And when it does, it won’t be gentle.”
“I said I’m fine,” I lie, the truth hanging on the tip of my tongue. She doesn’t know what happened the other night, after she came to see me at my cottage. No one knows how the storm outside raged on the two bodies inside. I can’t tell her. Not yet.
Delilah studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “All right.” A pause. “But I’m here when you’re ready to stop pretending. I’ll see you tomorrow, Emily.”
By the time dusk settles, my head is pounding, and my magic feels…
wrong. Not unstable, exactly. Just coiled too tightly, like a spring wound past its limit.
Delilah is right—I know that much. But I’ve always been stubborn, and I don’t know how to change my ways.
I decide to go back to the cottage early, craving solitude and silence.
The path through the trees is familiar, comforting. The air is cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth toward my airways. Normally, it grounds me.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
Halfway to my cottage, my vision blurs.
It’s brief, just a split second, but long enough to make me stumble over my own feet. I stop short, bracing a hand against a tree trunk, my breath turning shallow. The world straightens out again, but something lingers. A chill travels down my spine, settling with a wrongness that twists my gut.
Then I hear it.
It’s not exactly a voice, but a whisper of cold against my ear, like breath that doesn’t belong to anyone standing near me. It shouldn’t. I’m alone here. I should be.
I spin around, my heart hammering as my breath turns to ice and catches in my throat. But there’s nothing. No one.
The path is empty on both sides. The woods are still. But it’s too still, too eerie, too uncomfortable.
“It’s stress,” I mutter under my breath, forcing myself to keep moving. “You’re exhausted. That’s all.”
But my magic doesn’t agree.
It stirs, alert and uneasy, prickling the fine hairs on the back of my neck like an animal sensing a predator just beyond the tree line. I push it down, refuse to let fear take root, and continue home.
That’s when I see the garden in front of my cottage.
Or, what’s left of it.
The flowers lining the front of the cottage—the ones I planted years ago—are withered. Not wilted, not neglected, but torn. Some are ripped clean from the earth, roots exposed and twisted as if wrenched out in anger. Others are blackened, petals curled inward as if they burned from the inside out.
My stomach drops.
I step closer, crouching to touch one of the stems. It crumbles at my fingertips, brittle and lifeless. My magic prickles sharply under my skin, flaring in warning.
This isn’t natural.
Someone has been here.
Or something…
I straighten slowly, scanning the perimeter around my cottage. The air hums faintly, as if whispering a secret of what it has seen, what it’s witnessed. Horror. Foulness.
Fingers probing for weaknesses, pressing just hard enough to see where they might give. That’s what happened to my garden.
A chill settles deep in my bones.
I don’t go inside right away. Instead, I stand there in the fading light, forcing myself to breathe evenly, to assess instead of panic. Whatever or whoever did this didn’t break through. Not yet.
But it wanted me to notice. It was sending me a warning.
The realization sinks in with sickening clarity.
This isn’t about the bond. Not directly. This is something else. Something watching. Waiting. And suddenly, my avoidance feels fragile. Useless.
Because no matter how carefully I plan my movements, no matter how tightly I lock my emotions away, there are forces at work that don’t care about my control. My magic hums louder now, restless and defensive, brushing against the edges of the bond despite my efforts to keep it contained.
Merlin Grimes. He’s out there, somewhere, waiting for me to fall.
I don’t reach for Sean. I tell myself I won’t.
But as I step inside the cottage and bolt the door behind me, one truth settles heavily in my chest, undeniable and terrifying…
Whatever is coming doesn’t care that I’m not ready. And pretending I’m alone won’t protect me forever. I just don’t know how to face Sean yet. Not with what I just saw.
So, I call upon the only person who doesn’t know what’s going on in my personal life.