SIXTEEN
Warmth. That was the first thing Zarek felt. It didn’t come from the wardings of his room or leathers that held the constant hum of restraint that had been a part of his existence for centuries—but a soft warmth.
Zarek opened his eyes slowly, as if from a deep rest.
He was in a small room filled with soft light. The bedding was soft, the linens even softer, and perfumed with that comforting warm honeyed apple and pear blend that made him exhale with a want to sink deeper into the pillow.
And then he felt it.
His hand.
He turned his head.
Angela was fast asleep, slumped over in the chair beside the bed, with both hands wrapped around his. Her cheek rested against the back of his knuckles as if she had drifted off while holding him there.
Someone was touching his skin.
He pulled his hand back carefully—but nothing burned. Not even her bed had burned.
It had to be the Poison Blade that had rendered him powerless.
He sat up slowly, waiting for the pain, but it didn’t come.
He then peeled back the bandage that covered part of his ribs, expecting to see stitches or a blackened wound. Instead, it had healed shut, leaving only a pink line like a fresh scar not yet fully formed.
Healed in a matter of hours? It wasn’t possible.
Sure, they were self-healers, but the Poison Blade should have kept him off his game for months. Yet he could feel his full power roaring beneath his skin. He flexed his fist as the air hummed faintly around him, as if aware of his presence and power.
His gaze shifted to Angela.
Who are you?
Zarek stood quietly, pulling his boots back on, re-strapping his knives, and shrugging into his stave-scored leathers. As the weight of it settled across his shoulders, he felt like himself again.
Strong. Dangerous.
Damn, he felt good.
And yet…
He could feel the peace in her, which had nestled in the space between every rib, that made him rest last night. Now it was her turn to find that peace, where bad thoughts and responsibilities were eased, to allow for a sleep without nightmares.
Good.
No, not good. Zarek had stood over battlefields with no feeling, yet what he felt for her while watching this woman breathe…
There was a gentleness about her, a familiarity that slipped inside like oxygen for the soul.
He wanted to touch her, to brush the hair from her face and feel her skin under his palm again, without that fear of burning her.
The soft tug of her lips begged him to lean in closer for a gentle whisper to hear her secret spell of seduction.
The wanting was so physically powerful, that his arm was already rising without consent. Which was terrifying, as he knew he was a danger to mortals. A man who was denied the simplicity of touch because he was the monster born to destroy.
He staggered down the hallway, splashing cold water over his face in the bathroom sink.
This is wrong. And it was forbidden.
She was a mortal, living in the mortal realm.
And he was a Sworn Exarch, a Captain of the Vanguard, where the Paradox Accords were clear that his kind could not be with her kind.
Besides, it was physically impossible.
And yet, she’d been able to touch him without burning, and locked eyes with him without being blinded by the pain in her head. As if she were resistant to his magick.
Impossible.
Was it, though? Even now, the residue from one of her smiles made him want to go back and touch her skin, just to know what it felt like.
Instead, he searched for the exit.
In the kitchen, there were images on the icebox. A laughing Angela beside an older woman. Her childhood frozen in magnets and paper, while that soft floral scent of her was everywhere, signaling she lived alone.
Good.
It was also none of his concern who she lived with.
Shaking his head, he drank from the tap. Wiping over his face again, he felt the wards of the house pulsing beneath like an unseen thread. It was an informal, lived-in kind of magic, layered through habit, love, and decades of celebrated seasons. The signature of a kitchen witch.
But not from her.
Angela had no power; he would have felt it. This was more a domestic hearth magic of some kind.
Gently, he touched the photo showing her face.
Pity he couldn’t read her thoughts, though he could feel her asleep and at peace in the other room.
Peace—this he did not know. Nor the quiet weave of other emotions he sensed from her. All of it felt foreign to him, even standing in a mortal’s kitchen like this.
Zarek never stayed long in the mortal realm without support, because magick recognized magick.
Here, centuries of technology, persecution, and fossil fuels had drowned out every trace of old power, making it impossible for true magickal signatures to hide.
It’s how they were able to track the Black Cloaks who roamed this realm.
Sadly it was just as easy for them to find him, too.
It was why this realm had become their battlefield.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Because he knew, with terrible clarity, that if he stayed—if she awoke—he would not leave this home, that was burrowing beneath his bones to cover him in a comfort that kissed the centuries of scars away. No, not the house. It was her.
He had to go. Now.
Zarek stepped out the back door, and the moment it shut behind him, the veyll opened.
“Thank you,” he whispered over his shoulder to where she slept safe inside that house.
He hoped he would never see her again, even though he wanted to.
Even though she was the surprise he’d never counted on, that after so many centuries of being alive, he knew how rare surprises were to his kind. But also how dangerous they were, too.