Chapter 42
His curls were a wild tangle, his shirt rumpled from sleep. But his eyes—those eyes—bore into Elara with such force she could hardly breathe.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was hard, each word a whip crack that sliced through the air. Elara gaped at him, her grip on her tunic deathly tight as if it could somehow save her from this disaster. “Break the spell!” he barked, and she nearly flinched at the force of it, her heart jumping into her throat.
She opened her mouth to respond, but all that escaped was a strangled, panicked sound as her back collided with the dome.
“I don’t know how!” she shot back, trying to regain her bearings.“Maybe you could actually help instead of just standing there shouting at me!”
For a long moment he held her gaze, unblinking. And then, abruptly, he looked away, rough fingers dragging down his face as he covered his mouth.
Elara squinted at him, incredulous.
The prick was laughing at her.
A flush of rage crept up her neck, heat blooming in her cheeks as a retort teetered on the edge of her tongue, ready to explode. But before she could release it, he was there—hovering in front of her, like he belonged to the wind.
The air around him shifted effortlessly, a steady, controlled breeze emanating from his hand, so unlike her chaotic mess. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, taunting her, daring her to do something about it, and gods, did she want to slap that smug look right off his face.
“Quite a predicament you've found yourself in,” he drawled, his words slurring ever so slightly.
The scent of spirits lingered on his breath as he hovered before her, its earthy notes mingling with the smell of ink-soaked parchment.
There was a casualness to his posture, a relaxation in his shoulders that hinted at defenses momentarily lowered—at walls that, for once, might not be so impenetrable.
The cold embrace of the ceiling pressed insistently into her back, forcing her spine into a reluctant arch. They were dangerously close, his face just a whisper away from hers, and her wild hair cascaded down, forming a curtain around them both.
“Have you come all this way to mock me?”
His brow quirked, gaze lazily drifting to her hand that spewed wind like water from a broken dam. When his eyes met hers again, genuine intrigue had replaced the playful arrogance. “How are you doing this?”
Elara shot him a pointed look. “I'll tell you all about it once you help me down.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You'll need to release your shirt.”
“Not on your life.”
The Hunter broke into a wide grin. “If I wanted to get a second look at your lacy bits, Hallowed, I'd simply drop a few feet and look up.”
Her grip tightened, a vein pulsing at her temple. She pictured flinging him out the nearest window. The thought made her smile—and his shoulders tensed.
“That look is a bit unsettling. Care to share what’s so amusing?”
A beat passed before she decided, begrudgingly, that launching him out the window wouldn’t help her current situation. “Just help me down.”
“Always so demanding,” he muttered, watching her battle with her clothing. “Let go of your shirt. On my honor, I won’t look.” A hint of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he reached out his hand, steady against the wild gusts.
She eyed his outstretched hand warily. “You have no honor.”
He blinked, tension tightening around his eyes and the hard line of his mouth. Hurt flickered there—almost as if he cared what she thought. Elara dismissed the absurd notion as his gaze hardened into flint.
“Take my hand.”
Elara hesitated only a moment longer before letting go.
She braced for the fabric to snap back into her face, but it didn’t.
Instead, the material settled snuggly, almost obediently, around her waist. She blinked, surprised, her gaze dropping to her legs where his ether coiled like tendrils of smoke, weaving around her with a touch that was barely there.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze, her heart caught between beats. His eyes were locked on hers in a way that made her mind scramble, her breath catch. She couldn’t think—couldn’t do anything but stare back.
Once more, he extended his hand, and once more, she took it.
The instant they touched, his eyes slid shut.
His ether stirred, reaching into her, tugging at something buried deep.
Subtle at first—a gentle pull—then surging like a river loosed, flooding her veins with warmth.
She felt it, almost saw it: a shimmering thread weaving its path from her veins to his, as if recognizing another part of its whole.
With one swift pull the spell shattered, and Elara’s world dropped out from beneath her.
Air whipped past, her stomach flipping wildly, but before she could even manage a scream, his arms were around her, catching her mid-fall.
Her body slammed into his chest, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. His scent flooded her senses—cloves, parchment, and the faintest hint of whiskey. She looked up to find his brows drawn together, as though he, too, couldn’t piece together how they’d ended up here.
“You’re... good?”
“Fine,” she muttered, trying—and failing—not to notice how solid his chest felt pressed against her. “Thank you for helping me.”
He exhaled a low laugh. “I didn't have much of a choice.”
They descended slowly, much slower, she realized, than how he’d soared up to her. But his words nagged at her. “Was I... did I hurt you?”
He adjusted her in his grip before answering.
“It’ll take more than that to hurt me. But if you’re set on using this loophole you’ve found, you should know that every time you pull from the Draoth Cara, you’re not just pulling from me—you’re burning through your own reserves too.
It’s reckless, and it’ll kill you if you don’t learn how to control it. ”
Shame crept in, settling deep in her chest. She’d known, in theory, that it wasn’t safe after what happened with the ritual. But the temptation, it had been too much.
“Can you teach me?” Her eyes met his, searching for something she wasn’t sure he’d give. “Teach me to cast without hurting us?”
He raised a brow. “As I said before, I don’t think I have much of a choice.”
“I won’t do it again. Not without your instruction.”
At that, his gaze flickered with something soft, something she couldn't quite place. “All right, Hallowed. I’ll teach you.”
They landed and Elara tried to steady her trembling legs—willed her spine to straighten. His grip tightened briefly, but then, as if catching himself, he quickly let go, and stepped back.
Silence fell between them, awkward and heavy. He looked like he was wrestling with something, his brow furrowed in thought. Elara shifted on her feet, the tension thick enough to choke on.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a dry smile. “I won’t tell anyone about your heroic catch.”
That seemed to ease something in him. He shifted, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the moment. “I’d appreciate that. Can’t have word getting out—I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Wouldn’t want anyone to know you’re capable of being decent.”
He gave her a mock solemn nod. “Gods forbid.”
Another silence, this one not quite as thick, and Elara glanced around at the mess she'd made. “I’m sorry about your library. I’ll clean it up.”
Without missing a beat, he snapped his fingers. Vines erupted from the floor, methodically setting everything back in place.
Elara’s eyes widened. “Okay, that’s—”
“Unnecessary,” he cut in smoothly, lips twitching. “But I am curious... how exactly did you manage to cast without a spell?”
Her mouth went dry. "Luck?"
He arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Luck,” he repeated, drawing the word out as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “So, just to clarify—pure, random chance is what caused that.” He gestured to the lingering mess the vines were still sorting through.
Elara shrugged a shoulder. “Yup.”
He gave her a long, incredulous look, then glanced back at the disaster. “Maybe next time, you could try your 'luck' outside—somewhere far away from my home. Especially if the next bit of it involves more accidental fire.”
“Accidental?” Elara scoffed. “Please. If I wanted to set something on fire, you’d be the first to know.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt.” His smirk deepened, that arrogant glint flashing in his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the soft rustling of vines tidying up around them the only sound. Elara resisted the urge to fidget.
“Well, if you don’t need my help...”
She spun on her heel and made for the door.
“I take it you didn’t sleep.”
She stopped mid-stride, her whole body stiffening as she turned back around. “Do you know that because we didn’t meet in the dreamspace?”
His lips twitched. “That, yes. But the dark circles gave you away. We need to be using all our waking hours strategically. There’s a lot that still needs to be done.” His tone softened. “Get some rest. We’ll need that big brain of yours if we have any chance.”
A compliment. Another one.
Elara couldn’t help the way her pulse quickened, the way her chest tightened in response.
But instead of responding, she nodded, turning back toward the door.
And yet, a small, ridiculous part of her almost expected him to call her back, though she had no idea why.
She crushed the thought, reminding herself exactly who—what—he was. The Hunter. The killer.
Not someone she could afford to soften toward.
Still, the urge to glance over her shoulder itched. She ignored it, straightened her spine, and kept moving—each step a quiet rebellion against the pull that whispered for her to turn around. Just once.
“We’re approaching this wrong,” Elara murmured, brow furrowing as she stared at the equation between them. It was a complex calculation—one she had no memory of coming up with, but the more she studied it, the more she understood her thought process all those years ago.