Chapter Twenty - Four
Chapter
Twenty-Four
SAGE
Ifeel trapped.
Not in the dramatic sense—I'm not locked in a tower, there are no chains, no barred windows. If I wanted to, I could walk out of this room. But to where?
I have no idea how to escape a place like this.
I'm not some heroine from a fantasy novel, scaling walls or jumping into the night with nothing but sheer determination and a stolen dagger. I'm a librarian. I know how to sort books, file records, and spend far too much time wondering what it would be like to live inside the stories I love.
Well.
Now I am.
And it's nothing like I imagined.
I let out a long, shaky sigh and sink back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Malachi and his men—if that's what they are to him, because their relationships are as complex and layered as the ancient texts I've handled with gloved hands at the library—aren't turning me over to the Magister.
So that's a point in their favor, right?
But they're also warlocks.
And warlocks feed on women like me for power.
So. You know. There's that.
I press my hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing before forcing myself to sit up. Lying here isn't going to help.
I need to get dressed.
I push off the bed and head toward the imposing walk-in closet, the sheer size of it making me feel even smaller than I already do.
Too many dresses. Too many options. Every fabric, every color, every texture imaginable. Each one looks like it belongs on a runway or at some wealthy socialite's exclusive masquerade ball.
I run my fingers hesitantly over the silk, the velvet, the sheer fabrics, trying to ignore the absolutely intimidating collection of lingerie that I refuse to acknowledge.
"I just need something normal," I whisper to myself. "Something?—"
I freeze, hand pausing over a black turtleneck dress.
It's a sheath, form-fitting, covering everything.
Perfect.
I grab it and quickly pull it over my head, adjusting the high collar.
The fabric slides smoothly against my skin, almost too smooth, hugging me a little tighter than I expected.
I turn to look in the mirror and?—
Oh no.
The dress is sheer.
Not scandalously transparent, but enough. Enough that I can see the outline of my bra, the faint shadow of my thighs beneath the fabric.
I bite my lip, heart sinking.
"Of course," I whisper, my cheeks warming. "Of course this is what counts as modest in Malachi's world."
I turn sideways, assessing the damage.
At least it's black.
That's something.
I exhale slowly, hugging my arms around myself. It's fine. It's not like I have other options, and if I stay in this closet any longer, I might just lose my mind entirely.
Besides.
It's just dinner.
And I have much bigger things to worry about than my warlock-approved wardrobe.
A knock sounds at the door.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then exhale as I open it.
Gideon.
Of all of them, he's the one who keeps his distance.
He doesn't crowd me like Malachi. Doesn't tease me like Asher. Doesn't coax me into conversation like Elias. He just watches. Always watching.
And right now, he's doing exactly that.
His steel-gray eyes flick down over me, slow and unreadable. He doesn't react outright, but I feel the moment he notices how the dress clings to me.
The moment his gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long.
But then, just as quickly, it's gone. He straightens, neutral, detached, and gestures for me to follow.
And I do.
I don't know why, exactly. Maybe because there's no real choice here. Maybe because escaping isn't an option.
Maybe because I trust him more than the others.
Dangerous thought.
The estate is eerily silent as we move through the halls, the soft flicker of wall sconces casting golden shadows along the dark wood paneling. The entire place is too grand, too elegant, too much.
It makes me feel like I'm in someone else's story.
Like I'm wearing someone else's life.
I don't have time to dwell on it. The doors to the dining room open.
Malachi is already there, speaking to Elias in low, hushed tones. His posture is rigid, his expression unreadable, but there's something simmering beneath the surface.
Tension.
Control.
Elias, in contrast, looks as he always does—calm, effortless, the picture of refined elegance.
I like Elias.
Of all of them, he unsettles me the least.
So when he glances up and sees me, when he offers me that small, knowing smile, I return it with a timid one of my own.
And that's when I see it.
The shift.
Malachi's jaw tightens, just slightly. His fingers twitch against the glass in his hand.
His expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken, sharp with annoyance. Jealousy.
It hits me all at once.
These men—all of them—want me.
And I don't know how to handle it.
No man has ever really noticed me before. Not like this.
Sure, I've had a few dates, a half-hearted relationship in college that fizzled out before it ever began. But nothing serious. Nothing dangerous.
And definitely not with men like these.
But now?
I'm sitting at a table where all four of them are watching me.
And I don't know whether to be terrified or something else entirely.
Malachi sits at the head of the table, silent, brooding, watching me. He hasn't said a word since I walked in, but I can feel his irritation like a living thing curling in the air.
Elias, ever composed, takes the seat beside me. Cool. Elegant. Effortlessly at ease. If Malachi is a storm on the horizon, Elias is the calm before it.
Gideon, on the other hand, doesn't sit at all.
He stands just behind Malachi, hands clasped in front of him, eyes scanning the room like he's waiting for an attack.
Waiting. Watching. Always on guard.
I wonder if he ever relaxes.
The tension in the air is thick, unspoken. No one acknowledges it, but I feel it in my bones.
And then?—
Asher.
The doors swing open dramatically, and he strolls in like he owns the place.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, arms outstretched as if he's the guest of honor. "A private dinner, and no one invited me? I'm hurt."
Malachi exhales sharply, already on edge.
"Asher," he says flatly.
Elias sighs, rubbing his temple. "Of course you're here."
Asher grins, utterly unbothered. "I was told this was a private affair. And yet..." He slides into a chair directly across from me, flashing me a wink. "I think Sage would prefer my company, wouldn't you, sweetheart?"
I look down at my plate, my cheeks warming at the attention.
Malachi slams his glass down against the table.
"You were not invited."
Asher leans back, entirely unaffected. "And yet, here I am."
Gideon shifts slightly, his expression darkening. "Leave, Kane."
"Mm." Asher swipes a piece of bread off the table, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "No, I don't think I will."
Malachi's fingers tighten against the edge of the table. "You have exactly ten seconds to get the fuck out."
"Or what?" Asher grins, waggling his brows. "You'll throw me out? Please. You'd miss me too much."
Elias lets out a long, exhausted sigh, muttering something under his breath before finally turning to Asher. "Must you always be this insufferable?"
Asher pops another bite of food into his mouth, shrugs. "It's a gift."
Malachi leans forward, voice low, sharp. "You are testing me."
Asher grins wider. "And yet, you haven't done anything about it."
I can see Malachi's patience snapping like a frayed thread.
They are about to fight.
Over what? My presence? Their egos? Because Asher refuses to respect authority?
Probably all of the above.
I should say something. I know I should. In my books, the heroine would stand up now, would command the room with quiet authority.
Be brave, I tell myself. Just once, be brave.
I take a deep breath and clear my throat softly.
"Um," I begin, my voice barely audible. I clear my throat again and try once more. "Could we maybe... eat first? Before... whatever this is?"
They all pause, looking at me.
I feel myself shrinking under their collective gaze, but I've started this now, and I need to finish. "I'm... I'm just really hungry. I skipped lunch."
A beat of silence.
Then—Asher smirks.
"Look at that," he murmurs, clearly entertained. "The librarian speaks."
Malachi, still tense, exhales sharply but doesn't argue. Elias just gives me a small, encouraging nod. Gideon, still standing, watches me with that intense, unreadable gaze.
Asher, as if sensing victory, grabs another piece of bread and winks at me.
"Fine," he concedes. "Dinner first. Fighting later."
He flashes a grin.
"Wouldn't want to waste a perfectly good meal, after all."
I exhale shakily, relieved my small moment of courage didn't make things worse. I can't believe I actually spoke up. It wasn't much—certainly not the commanding presence I'd imagined—but it was something.
Maybe I can find my voice in this strange new world after all.