Chapter Sixteen #4
“Because I said so.” He moves behind me, his presence overwhelming even without touching. “You need to feel the magic first. Visualize where you want to go.”
I close my eyes, trying to ignore how aware I am of him standing there. The warmth radiating from his body. The faint scent of cedar and something darker, more primal.
“Picture it,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower. “Every detail. The stone beneath your feet. The air temperature. The sounds.”
I focus on the War Room—the massive table carved from Leviathan bone. The high-backed chairs. The torch-lit walls covered in ancient tapestries. My magic stirs, sluggish and uncertain, like trying to wake something that doesn’t want to move. Lazy bitch. No wonder we don’t get along.
“Now reach for it.”
I do. Pushing my will outward, grasping for that mental image—
Nothing happens.
“Fuck.” My eyes snap open. “This is stupid.”
“Try again.”
“I am trying—”
“Then try harder.” His hands land on my shoulders, steadying. The touch sends electricity racing down my spine, but his voice stays firm. “You’re overthinking it. Just want it. Demand it.”
Right. Because demanding things always works so well for me.
I close my eyes again, jaw clenching. This time I don’t picture—I command. The War Room. Now. Take me there.
Magic flares hot and wild, ripping through me like lightning. The air shimmers, reality bending—
Then collapses into nothing.
I stumble forward, catching myself on my knees. “What the hell?”
“Better.” Legend sounds amused. Also exhausted. “You almost had it.”
“Almost doesn’t count.”
“Again.”
We go through it three more times. Each attempt gets closer—the air ripples, space starts folding—but nothing holds. By the fourth try, sweat beads at my temples and my magic feels scraped raw, like I’ve been running it against sandpaper.
“Why don’t you just portal us?” I snap, frustration bleeding through. “You’re right there. You could do this in half a second—”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Legend—”
“Again.”
“No.” I flop down on my back beside him, limbs sprawling across the cold stone. “I’m done. This is pointless.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself down next to me with a carefulness that makes my chest tighten. His breathing’s slightly labored, those dark circles more pronounced up close.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“You look like shit,” I finally say.
His laugh sounds rougher than usual. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I’m serious.” I turn my head, studying his profile. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”
The pause before he answers tells me everything.
“Yeah, didn’t get much of that last night.”
Images of the blond girl flicker through my memories and now I don’t care if he drops dead in this very spot.
My head whips to the side, finding him already watching me. My stomach roils and electricity prickles down my spine.
“Come here,” he murmurs, soft and lazy. When I don’t respond, his arm wraps around my back and he pulls me down.
“Legend.”
“Mmm?” he asks, his tone sleepy.
“This friends with benefits thing doesn’t include cuddling.”
His chest vibrates when he chuckles, before his hand slips over my lower back and cups my ass. “Wasn’t thinking about cuddling.”
“Necrophilia isn’t really my thing…” I muse, giving in and resting my head against his chest. Muscles tighten beneath my cheek before finally relaxing.
His breathing evens out first—deep, steady pulls that make his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek. The arm around me goes slack, heavy with sudden sleep, fingers still curved possessively over my hip.
Legend’s asleep.
Actually fucking asleep.
I should move. Should shove him off and portal myself back—or try to, anyway, since apparently I’m shit at that particular skill. But his heartbeat thuds against my ear, strong and rhythmic, and something in my chest unclenches at the sound.
Proof he’s alive. Proof he’s here.
Proof he didn’t actually mean those words in the water.
My jaw clenches. I’m not some clingy female who needs reassurance. I don’t care what Legend Deveraux thinks of me. Don’t care if he finds me worthless or convenient or—
His arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer even in sleep.
The gesture does something terrible to my insides. Makes them twist and ache in ways that are foreign to me but slowly, frustratingly, becoming more and more obvious. More and more…welcome.
Because I do care what he thinks and how he sees me and if you ask me on a good day, I might even say I want to stay here. Flip the bird to Creed Devereaux and tell him thanks for the idea, but the helping hand back to the island won’t be necessary.
But that would be wild, wouldn’t it? If I just…stayed?
His warm breath tickles my exposed skin and a frown pulls at my brows.
“Stupid Royal,” I mutter against his shirt.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps breathing, keeps holding me like I’m something precious instead of the volatile disaster everyone knows I am.
My fingers curl into his shirt without permission.
Fine. Five minutes. Then I’m waking him. Clearly, he needs sleep.
His breathing stutters, then deepens again.
I close my eyes.
Just five minutes.