Jade
An hour of dancing later, my feet are killing me, and I need a break from Oliver’s touch.
“Food?” he suggests as another waltz ends. “You look like you could use some sustenance.”
Thank the gods.
“Yes, please. Just make sure it’s more than a few pomegranate seeds.”
He laughs—that easy, warm sound that makes me hate myself a little more—and guides me toward the appetizer tables near the Music Fire.
The spread is insane: tiny phoenixes made of spun sugar that burst into harmless flames when you bite them, savory tarts with centers that glow like embers, and crystallized fire flowers that crackle on your tongue.
As Oliver’s loading a small plate for me, his friends materialize out of nowhere.
“Did you see what happened with Leo during Applied Flamecraft?” one of them asks, launching into a story about exploding practice dummies.
I tune them out, reaching for what looks like a relatively normal cheese puff when Logan passes by me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my bare arm. The contact is nothing, barely there, but my whole body goes alert, every nerve ending suddenly awake.
“Second floor. Now.” His voice is low and urgent, with an edge that makes my stomach flip. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke, but not before I catch the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his jaw clenches like he’s grinding his teeth to dust.
My hands shake as I set down my plate, mentally mapping out a way to do this. Luckily, Oliver’s still talking, gesturing about proper flame control or whatever, which should make my escape relatively easy.
“Be right back,” I interrupt, touching his arm lightly. “Restroom.”
He starts to turn. “I’ll walk you—”
“No.” The word comes out too sharp, and I force a laugh that probably sounds deranged. “I mean, stay with your friends. I’ll just be a minute.”
“You sure?” he asks, but someone’s already pulling him back into the conversation about Leo’s spectacular failure.
“Totally sure. I’ll be back soon.” I escape in a flash, weaving through dancers and dodging servers with trays of those exploding sugar phoenixes.
The grand staircase is less crowded, and I take the steps two at a time, trying not to look like I’m rushing toward something I shouldn’t.
The second floor overlooks the ballroom below, with velvet benches tucked into alcoves and massive windows showing the dark island beyond. I move past couples deep in conversation, glancing desperately in each alcove while trying not to ruin anyone’s privacy.
Finally, I find him.
Logan’s waiting in the alcove in the deepest back corner, and the way he’s standing—coiled tight and ready to snap—makes my heart pound even harder.
He grabs my wrist the moment I step inside, pulls me to the back of the alcove, and presses his palm against the carved stone.
One of Hecate’s hidden doors shimmers open.
“Inside,” he says, and the word comes out rough, almost pained.
I follow him through, and the moment the door closes, he spins and backs me against the wall. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in, making my breathing slow.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes studying every inch of my face as if he’s searching for a flaw and finding none, “what it’s been like watching him touch you all night?”
My heart pounds, and I swallow, startled by the intensity of his reaction. “This is what you asked—”
“I know what I asked.” He leans closer, actual flames dancing in his eyes.
“But seeing him touch you, seeing you smile at him...” His body trembles with the effort of restraint, muscles coiled so tight they might snap.
“I was three seconds away from ripping him apart right there in front of everyone.”
The raw violence in his voice makes my breath catch.
Because this isn’t the controlled Logan I know, the one who calculates every move, who keeps his emotions locked behind steel walls.
This is something primal, barely leashed.
Something that makes my pulse race and power build beneath my skin like static before a storm.
“Ripping him apart?” I should probably be more alarmed by his word choice, but instead, my heart pounds faster. “That seems a bit extreme.”
“Extreme?” He laughs, but it’s sharp, with no humor in it. “You have no idea what I’ve been imagining. What I’ve wanted to do every time he put his hands on you.”
The tunnel feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. Or maybe that’s just the way Logan’s presence fills the space, dark and consuming as he traces a finger down my throat, watching my pulse flutter.
“Then tell me,” I say, and his eyes flash, and for a second they look different. Darker. Hungrier.
He pauses, watching me, as if he’s trying to figure out if I can handle it.
I keep my gaze locked on his, refusing to back down. Because if I can handle training with him in the Scorched Circles, I can handle hearing whatever he wanted to do to Oliver.
“I pictured breaking every one of his fingers for touching you. Slowly. Methodically. Until he could never reach for you again.” His hand slides lower, spreading possessively across my collarbone.
“When he was spinning you around the floor, I was calculating how many of his ribs I could drive my dagger through before anyone could stop me.”
My breath hitches, caught between desire and the dawning realization that he’s not speaking in metaphors.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, his thumb stroking over the frantic pulse at my throat. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.” My voice is steadier than I expect, given that he’s talking about violence like he’s savoring a fine wine.
“You should be.” He studies me, searching my face for any sign of deception. “Any sane person would run from someone who thinks the things I think, and who does the things I do.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve never been accused of being sane.
” I reach up slowly, my fingers brushing against his jaw.
The contact sends electricity dancing across my skin, tiny silver sparks jumping between us.
“I trust you, Logan. I love you. Every single part of you. Even the parts that think in spilled blood and broken bones.”
He makes a sound that’s almost a sob, and when his lips finally crash into mine, there’s nothing gentle about it.
This kiss is pure desperation, teeth scraping my lower lip as his hands grip my waist hard enough to bruise.
He kisses like he’s trying to devour me, like he could consume me completely and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I respond instantly, arching into him as my fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan. The tunnel pulses with ancient magic, the stones warming as Logan’s hands find the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric as he drags it up my thighs.
“I need you right here, right now,” he growls, his forehead pressed to mine. “So that when we leave these passages, there’ll be some of me inside you every time he touches you.”
Electricity sparks beneath my skin, silver currents racing along my nerves as I rock my hips against him. “Yes,” I breathe, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
His hands slide under my dress and up my thighs, the heat of his palms scorching against my skin.
When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he wraps his fingers around the top of it, and then there’s heat, and the unmistakable scent of singed fabric as he gives the burned material one sharp tug and lets the remains fall to the floor.
“Did you just—” I start to protest the destroyed underwear, but his fingers find the perfect spot between my thighs, setting a rhythm that’s calculated to drive me insane.
Fast enough to build pleasure, but slow enough to keep me on edge.
I’m beyond words, beyond thought, reduced to pure sensation as electricity builds beneath my skin, my body tightening around his fingers as he makes each smooth, devastating stroke.
“Not yet.” He slows just as I’m about to tumble over the edge. “Look at me first.”
I force my eyes open to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath away, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide. Seemingly satisfied, he increases the pressure, the pace, and I’m climbing higher, tighter, my body coiling like a spring about to—
A scream echoes through the tunnels, sharp and desperate.
But it’s not one of pleasure. It’s not from me.
Logan freezes, his hand still against me, his fingers buried deep. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, on high alert.
The voice carries from somewhere deep in the passages. “I won’t let you get to her!” he says, and while it’s muffled by distance and stone, it’s unmistakably familiar. “You can recruit whoever you want to be Revenants, but not her! Not Evie!”
My blood turns to ice. Because I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
It’s Oliver’s.