Chapter 17 – Quinton
QUINTON
Solmarin.
I could still feel it. The warmth of that rooftop, the weight of her against me, stars scattered overhead. My blood magic had wrapped around her without me even thinking about it: protective, possessive, and right.
She’d looked up at me, eyes dark and steady, and I’d almost kissed her. Almost closed that last breath of distance and made it real. Neither of us had moved. Neither of us had wanted to leave. And then they’d ripped her away.
Those six days—gods, those six fucking days.
I don’t think I really breathed the whole time she was locked away.
Rage seethed under my skin, burning through my blood until I could taste copper on my tongue.
My magic wanted violence. Wanted justice.
Wanted to storm the palace and bleed down the council steps until they had to let her go to make me stop.
I came close. More than once. Late at night, when the halls were quiet and nobody was watching, I’d feel it clawing for the surface—hungry, uncontrollable, a pressure in my chest that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the fact that she was somewhere in the dark and I couldn’t reach her.
Elias pulled me back every time. Or Lyra.
Or Dain. Kael, once. They took shifts without telling me. I figured that out later.
Then Dain came back from seeing her. I knew it was bad the moment he walked into the common room. His face gave nothing away, but his voice did. Rough and careful—the voice of a man delivering news he wished he didn't have.
He told us she’d been non-responsive. That she hadn’t recognized him. That she’d sat in the dark, twisting her silver band over and over, lost somewhere none of us could reach. Then he looked at me.
“She stopped twisting when I said your name.”
My heart broke.
Of all the names. Of all the people in her life—Dain, Reyna, Kael, everyone who’d fought beside her, bled beside her—mine was the one that reached her. And I hadn’t been there. Couldn’t help her. Couldn’t do a godsdamned thing.
The days after that were worse in a different way. Reports filtered through—she was talking, walking, eating. Functional. Recovering. Myrin had her in a recovery room. Limited visitors. Strict protocols. I wasn’t on the list.
I asked. Multiple times. Dain said no. Myrin said not yet. Every refusal burned like acid, but I understood, even when I wanted to put my fist through the wall instead of understanding.
Then, a week after her release, Myrin cleared her for mandatory rest. One week. Her own house. And word came through Dain. She’d see me. Not a summons. Not an order. Permission. She’d said yes.
I stood there staring at Dain, throat so tight I couldn’t speak. “When?” I’d finally managed.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.
I wasn’t ready. Didn’t think I’d ever be ready.
But I went anyway.
Her house was on the edge of the residential district—one of the newer builds, set across from the river. Small, unassuming. The kind of place you’d walk past without noticing. Of course she’d choose something like this. Quiet. Private. Easy to disappear into. I stopped at the gate.
My blood magic pulsed beneath my skin, aware she was close. But the wards around her house were strong—tight and precise. I couldn’t sense her through them. Couldn’t feel if she was awake, if she was?—
I forced myself to breathe. She was alive. She was recovering. She’d said yes. That had to be enough. I walked up the short stone path to her door. Every step felt too loud. Too heavy.
What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you? I’m sorry I stood there and watched them take you? I’m sorry I almost kissed you on that rooftop and then everything went to shit?
None of it felt like enough.
My hand shook when I raised it to knock. Terrified and determined, angry at myself for being terrified. I was desperate to see her and dreading what I'd find.
I knocked. Three steady raps. Louder than I meant.
Silence.
Then footsteps, soft and deliberate, approached from inside. The lock turned. The door opened. Dain stood there, expression serious but not unkind. His eyes swept over me, then eased slightly. “She’s inside,” he said quietly. He stepped aside and gestured me in. “I’ll give you two privacy.”
I nodded once.
Dain paused at the threshold and met my eyes. “Be careful, Quin. She’s stronger than she looks, but she’s not ready for intensity.”
“I know.”
He studied me for one more moment, then left. The door shut behind him.
I stepped inside and turned. And saw her. She stood near the window, backlit by pale afternoon light. She wore clean clothes—a soft tunic and dark trousers—with her hair brushed and tied back loosely, and her hands folded in front of her.
But gods, she was thinner. Cheeks hollow. Shadows carved deep beneath her eyes. The sharpness in her face that had always been there—precise, deadly—was harder now. Brittle. My blood magic reached for her before I could stop it, and I felt her pulse land against my senses like a drumbeat.
Elevated. Fast.
She was nervous.
I ached to cross the room. Every part of me strained toward her—magic pulling, chest tight, copper flooding my mouth—and I made myself stay where I was.
Planted my feet and held. Not when her heartbeat was racing like that.
Not when one wrong move could shatter whatever fragile composure she’d built.
We looked at each other across the room. Silence stretched, heavy and charged. Neither of us seemed to know where to start. Then her mouth curved slightly. Not a smile, but the ghost of one. “You look terrible, Thornvale.”
The sound of her voice—dry, sharp-edged, hers—nearly broke me. I forced myself to play along. “You’re one to talk, Captain.”
The corner of her lips twitched. Almost there. Gods, I’d missed that.
But the levity didn’t hold. The weight of everything between us pressed back in—the rooftop, the arrest, the six days, the week of recovery I hadn’t been allowed to witness. The silence returned. But this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of things we didn’t know how to say yet.
I could feel her pulse still running fast. My blood magic tracked it without permission—every beat, every breath, every slight shift in her body. I couldn’t turn it off. Didn’t want to.
“I didn’t remember much,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She wrapped her arms loosely around herself, staring out the window. “Not for the first few days.”
I went still. She paused. Swallowed. “But you—Solmarin—kept coming back.”
My heart stopped.
She remembered me. In the dark. When everything else had been stripped away, when her mind had fractured and she couldn’t hold onto anything—she’d held onto me.
“Az—”
“I don’t know why,” she continued, voice flat. Clinical. Like she was reporting facts instead of tearing my chest open. “I couldn’t remember names. Couldn’t hold onto time. But the rooftop. Your voice. The way you—” she stopped. Shook her head slightly. “It kept coming back.”
I couldn’t breathe. All I could see was her sitting in that cell, twisting her silver band, lost somewhere I couldn’t reach. And she’d been holding onto me.
“I should’ve pulled you into the shadows,” I said, voice rough. Breaking. “The moment they came for you, I should’ve?—”
“Quin—”
“I was right there, Az. Right fucking there. And I let them take you.” Blood magic slipped. “I should’ve protected you. Should’ve done something?—”
“Quinton.” Her voice cut through the spiral. Firm. Her Captain’s voice. I looked up.
She’d turned from the window, facing me now. Arms still wrapped around herself, but her eyes were steady. Clear. “It wasn’t you,” she said quietly.
“But—”
“It wasn’t you.” Firmer this time. No room for argument. “You couldn’t have stopped it. None of you could.”
“I should’ve tried?—”
“And gotten yourself arrested too?” A bitter edge crept into her voice. “Or killed? That would’ve helped?”
She was right. I hated that she was right.
But the guilt didn’t ease. It sat heavy in my chest, right beside the magic that was still reaching for her.
She must’ve seen it on my face, because she sighed quietly.
“Don’t drown in it, Quin,” she said, voice softer now.
“I don’t have the energy to watch you tear yourself apart over something you couldn’t control. ”
A breath that was almost a laugh escaped me. “You’re supposed to let me wallow for at least five more minutes.”
“You’ll get your chance next time.”
Next time. She was already planning for me to come back. “I’ll hold you to that,” I said quietly.
Silence settled again. Lighter this time.
I looked at her—really looked. The shadows under her eyes.
The way she held herself like she might shatter if she loosened her grip.
The faint tremor in her hands she was trying to hide.
She wasn’t the woman I’d held on that rooftop.
Not yet. But she was here. Standing, talking, almost smiling.
“Do you remember the rooftop?” I asked quietly.
She looked at me then. Really looked. Eyes dark and steady, the way they’d been that night under the stars. “Everything,” she said. “I remember everything.”
The word hit me like a blow to the chest.
Everything.
The same answer she’d given me when I’d asked what she wanted to know about me. Lying together on that sofa in the rooftop gardens, close enough to feel her warmth.
She remembered everything. The almost-kiss. The heat between us. The way neither of us had wanted to leave. And she’d carried that into the dark with her.
I wanted to close the distance between us so badly my magic was screaming with it. Copper flooded my mouth again. My body leaned forward half a step before I caught myself and held. But her pulse was still fast. Her breathing was still careful. I stayed where I was.
“I’m not ready, Quin,” she said quietly. “Not yet. Everything is still—” She stopped, searching for the word.
“Raw,” I finished.
“Yes.”
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. But I understood. “All right,” I said.
She looked at me, something softening in her expression. “But I want to be. Ready. Eventually.”
Hope flared in my chest. Not no. Not never.
Eventually.
“I can wait,” I said.
She shifted slightly, and I saw the exhaustion creeping into her posture. The way her shoulders sagged a fraction. Conversation was still costing her more than it should.
“I think that’s enough for today,” she said quietly.
I wanted to stay. Wanted to sit with her in silence, be near her, feel her pulse steady against my senses until I believed she was real. But I nodded instead.
“Can I come back?” The words came out rougher than I meant.
She paused. Looked at me. Then nodded once. “Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
A faint curve at the corner of her mouth. “Then tomorrow.”
I turned toward the door, forcing myself to walk. Every step felt wrong—leaving her here when I’d only gotten her back. But she needed rest. And I needed to prove I could give her that, even when every instinct I had was howling at me to stay.
I paused at the door, looked back. She was still standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching me. “Az?”
She raised an eyebrow.
I wanted to say something right. Something that matched the weight of what she’d given me—the rooftop, the memory, the eventually. But nothing I could think of was big enough, and the wrong words would only make her walls go up.
“Tomorrow,” I said instead.
She held my eyes for a moment. Then nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
I stepped out into the quiet street and pulled the door shut behind me. My hands shook. Blood magic burned under my skin, copper still sitting on my tongue. I could still feel her pulse—faint, fading—until the wards closed around her house and cut the connection.
She remembered me. In the dark, when everything else was gone, she’d held onto me.
And tomorrow, I’d come back.