Chapter Twenty-Eight
Haide
I jolt awake like someone cut a string.
Darkness crowds the edges of my vision, thick enough that, for a second, I don’t know where I am.
And then the memories hit me all at once.
Darkadia. Cavern floors. Poison thick in my lungs. Legend choking on air he couldn’t swallow.
The black tar on the walls and the message left behind.
My breath drags in high and sharp. I sit up too fast, palms pressed to my sternum because panic tastes like blood tonight, like something reaching through my ribs.
Legend.
The thought hits me harder than the dream.
My hand drifts higher—hesitant, careful, almost ashamed of the fear simmering beneath my skin—until my fingertips brush the center of my chest. I don’t know what I’m looking for.
I don’t even know what the hell I expect to feel.
He keeps saying there’s something between us, some bond neither of us can outrun, and maybe I’m an idiot for checking, but—
There.
A pull.
Quiet at first.
Then steady.
Heat weaves through me, a thin gold thread winding tight beneath my bones, tugging low and certain, and it feels… Gods, it feels like relief. Like exhaling after holding my breath for years. Like something inside me whispering, there you are.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
He’s alive.
I saved him.
Me.
I did that.
And the realization sends a strange rush through my chest, nervous and hot and a little terrifying because I don’t feel things like this. I don’t want to think about why I am now.
“Get a grip,” I mutter, dragging my hand away as if that can sever whatever just lit up inside me.
Still, the warmth lingers and the tether hums, and gods help me—the feeling settles something in me that has never settled before.
I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed, ready to find him. To see that fire-bright stare for myself, but a slip of black catches my eye.
A folded card rests on the floor just inside my room, placed so perfectly it looks almost ceremonial. My name is slashed across the front in handwriting with sharp, arrogant strokes.
I kneel, pluck it up, and the moment I flip it open, warmth curls low in my stomach.
Little monster,
I won’t waste time pretending I’m patient. I cannot wait to set my eyes on you tonight.
Your power is waking like a creature starved, and I will be the one it bends for. Try not to break anything before I see you.
Wear something that will ruin me. I intend to make tonight one you will never forget.
— Your mate
A slow, traitorous smile pricks the corners of my mouth before I can kill it.
“Asshole,” I whisper, even though the word tastes nothing like irritation.
I stare at the note for longer than I should, happy to know that he’s okay. That he waits for me.
Gods, I sound gross but for the first time…I’m not so sure I care.
A knock shatters the quiet.
I straighten, and the door materializes. Emmie, the girl he sent to me with a million dresses in tow, is on the other side.
“Hello again.” She smiles. “Shall we?”
“Shall we…what?”
Her eyes glitter. “It’s time to get ready for the ball.”
…
I stand in front of the tall window overlooking Rathe University’s inner quad, arms crossed, trying to ignore the girl behind me tugging at my hair like it personally offended her.
“Almost finished, miss.” Her voice is soft. Pleasant. The kind of voice designed not to irritate.
I hate it.
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, watching students weave below in their pressed uniforms, all moving with purpose I don’t share. “I’m not your miss.”
“Of course.” A pause. “What should I call you then?”
“I told you before. Haide works fine.”
“Haide it is.” She threads something through a section of my hair. Pins, maybe. Or tiny weapons. Hard to tell with these people.
I glance back at her. Young face. Maybe mid-twenties. Blond hair pulled into a severe knot that makes her features sharper than they probably are. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, each twist and curl deliberate. Her simple gray dress screams servant, and the sight of it grates.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Do what?”
“This.” I wave a hand vaguely at the room, at her, at the stupid concept of royalty needing someone to touch their hair. “Play ‘yes ma’am’ for a bunch of overgrown children with crowns.”
Her laugh catches me off guard. Quiet. Genuine. “I know I don’t have to.”
“Then why??”
“I’m paid. Fed. Protected.” Her tone stays even. Factual. “My family’s served the Deveraux line for generations; this is the position I wished and worked hard for. It’s an honor to be part of the royal staff, not a shackle.”
I snort. “That’s what they tell you.”
“That’s what I choose to believe.” She meets my eyes in the reflection of the dark glass. “Big difference.”
I study her. No fear. No hesitation. Just…calm. Like she’s explaining weather patterns.
“You’re Argent,” I say.
“I am.”
“And you serve the people who just murdered your queen and took your throne.”
Her hands pause for half a breath. “Magdalena wasn’t my queen.
She was a tyrant who bled our people dry and called it loyalty after the death of our true King and Queen many moons ago.
” She tugs gently at a curl. “The Deveraux brothers are brutal. Violent. Terrifying on their worst days.” A small smile.
“But they don’t pretend to be anything else. That’s refreshing.”
I blink. Process. “You’ve lost it.”
“Probably.” She grins. “But so have you, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Fair.
I turn back to the window, letting her work. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just present. The kind of quiet I’m not used to with people.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Since I was sixteen. My mother before me. Her mother before that.” Her fingers dance through another section. “We’re good at what we do.”
“Which is?”
“Making Royals look less feral.” She laughs again.” And occasionally keeping them from killing one another.”
I almost smile. Almost. “That happen often?”
“More than you’d think.” She secures the last pin. “Legend’s the easiest, though.”
My spine straightens. I try to make it look natural. “Is he?”
“Absolutely.” She steps back, assessing her work. “Creed’s too intense. Knight’s too quiet, which is worse. Sinner’s—” She shudders. “Sinner. But Legend? He’s cheeky. Playful. Dangerous, yes, but in a way that feels intentional. Controlled.”
Controlled.
The word sits wrong. Legend doesn’t control anything. He collides with it. Bends it. Breaks it if it doesn’t bend.
“You like him,” I say.
“Everyone likes Legend.” Emmie circles around to face me, tilting her head. “Even when they shouldn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” But her smile says otherwise. “Just that he has a way of making people feel safe when they’re around him. Like he’s got everything handled even when the world’s burning.”
My stomach twists. Because I do feel that. That stupid, irrational sense of security when he’s near. Like I could burn the entire campus down and he’d just laugh and hand me more matches.
“Is that his magic?” I ask. “His Ethos or whatever?”
Emmie’s brow furrows. “No. The royal Ethos rises only after a mating bond. It’s his principal power, the one he was born with, inherited from Queen Cosimo’s bloodline.
He can manipulate the mind. His is mind sedation.
He can calm, make people feel at ease. But—” She hesitates.
“It doesn’t work if you don’t already trust him on some level.
Magic can’t force feeling. It can only amplify what’s already there. ”
Fuck.
So it’s not just his power. It’s me. I trust him. On some primal, ridiculous level, I trust Legend Deveraux.
I want to hate that realization.
I don’t.
Emmie moves to the vanity, organizing bottles and brushes. “Let me guess. You’re trying to figure out if what you feel is real or manufactured.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She doesn’t look at me. “Everyone does when they’re around the Deveraux brothers. Especially if they’re bonded.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not bonded.”
“Right.” The word drips skepticism. “That’s why you smell like him. Why his scent is woven so deep into your skin I could track you across campus blindfolded.”
“That’s—”
“Denial?” She finally looks at me, eyes sharp. “Look, I don’t know what you two are to each other. But whatever it is, it’s loud. Everyone can feel it.”
I turn back to the window, arms crossing tighter. Below, students mill around the fountain, laughing, shoving, living normal lives where they don’t wake up covered in blood or get accused of murder.
And then I see him.
Legend.
Standing near the quad’s edge, leaning against the low stone wall like he owns it. Because he does. He owns everything here.
He’s talking to someone. A girl.
Tall. Slim. Hair like spun gold catching the fading sunlight. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that looks expensive and delicate and everything I’m not. She laughs at something he says, touching his arm.
My hands curl into fists.
“Who is that?” I ask.
Emmie follows my gaze. Her expression shifts. Hardens. “Arabella.”
“And?”
“And she’s just Arabella.” Emmie’s voice goes flat. Careful. “Daughter of one of the higher Argent families. Pretty. Ambitious. The kind of girl who thinks proximity to power makes her powerful.”
“She’s touching him a lot for someone who’s just ambitious.” I will not show my whole ass and expose my jealousy, but something about Emmie puts me at ease. Or maybe I’m drunk on the air.
Emmie doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her tone’s measured. “I guess she’s trying to secure her position, especially since there are no longer any Argents in any power positions.”
“Secure her position?” I blink. “By fucking Legend?”
Her eyes flutter. “I don’t think she’s fussy with the who, Haide.”
Jealousy claws up my throat. Hot. Vicious. Completely irrational. I barely know Legend. Barely trust him. And yet the sight of her hand on his arm makes me want to portal down there and remove that hand at the wrist.
Except I can’t fucking portal and, judging by the shoes in Emmie’s hands, I won’t be able to run in those, either.
“You don’t like her,” I say.