Chapter Twelve
Pain flares through my left arm as Talen’s hand quickly moves, clamping down around it.
I flinch, breath hitching, strained enough to hiss through my teeth, but I can’t hear it...
The only sound left is his.
“Didn’t anyone warn you?” He smiles, stepping in closer, fingers tightening. “That wandering restricted tunnels alone at night can be fatal.”
His grip shifts, sliding just enough to dig his thumb into the inside of my elbow, nerve-deep, precise. A hard jolt locks through me, everything tightening at once.
Don’t flinch. Don’t give him anything. But my knees give—just a twitch, just enough—and he sees it. Of course he does.
“And don’t insult me with lies, we both know why you’re down here.” A beat. “And we both know the consequences if you’re caught…Thorn.”
His eyes lock on to mine, and my breath catches, locked in my throat—dark hazel, gold rims catching the lantern light just right, pulling me in like a helpless moth.
Fuck, he looks like a weapon carved into a man. Cut jaw, broad shoulders, hands you don’t want around you but can’t stop imagining there anyway.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
He’s a fucking Veirmont, a Citadel officer. He wants me dead.
The fear, the anger, it’s there—tight in my ribs, coiled in my gut—but it’s dulled, muted, like it’s sinking under something slower. Something warmer, safer...
No. No, no, no.
Nightrose.
This is how it works. How he does it. Beautiful, seductive—pulling you in, making you lean closer, right before he devours you whole.
Okay. Focus. Ignore the tricks. Think, plan, survive. Stall him. Keep talking. Just need time, long enough to find a way out that doesn’t end up trapped in his petals.
“The name’s Lyra,” I grit out, forcing a smile through the pain burning up my arm. “And luckily there’s a Citadel officer here to keep me safe, huh?”
He laughs, crooked grin growing. “First you get my brother killed, then you show up in my Offensive Magic class... and now tonight of all things... You really are becoming a little thorn in my side, aren’t you. Maybe I should just rip you out right now?”
Pressure builds at my arm as his grip shifts, the warmth of his touch sends a jolt up my spine, but I bite down on my cheeks, steadying myself.
Plan—I need a plan.
I reach down deep, my Threads flicker, magic is there, but not just weak—it’s chaotic, even more unpredictable than usual. So instead my right hand drops to the blade at my hip.
Fuck. Not there.
Why the hell hadn’t I stashed one at my waist? Or in my sleeve? Somewhere, anywhere, but at the bottom of my pack. Right, because I didn’t want to look like a threat when I went to sweet-talk Brian.
Brilliant move, Lyra.
Okay, new plan. My gaze flicks, scanning. Anything.
Talen shifts—his free arm flexes with quiet ease, and my eyes drop following the movement. His sleeve has ridden up just enough to reveal a cut of lean muscle and the glint of a blade, resting easy in his free hand.
I could take it.
He’s stronger, sure—more power, more magic, more everything. But I’m fast. Grew up with hands built for stealing. If I’m quick, one clean grab and it’s mine. But if he catches me? That’s it. Pinned, disarmed and probably bleeding.
But the only other option is that I wait… stall. Try to coax my Threads into some type of control. Hope he stays curious long enough for me to get a shot. But after Ryven? It could just as easily blow a hole through both of us.
Fuck, either way, I lose. But at least the blade’s real. Tangible. Something I can hold.
Talen follows my gaze down, smile sharpening.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” His voice curls with dark amusement.
I lock my jaw. No choice.
Fuck it.
In one quick clean motion, I go for the blade, fast and reckless, taking it straight from his hand and bringing it up to his throat.
It feels cold and heavy in mine, the whole thing rough with age, maybe stone, definitely not metal.
Trembling slightly, I hover it at the edge of his bare neck, just where his uniform hangs open—skin smooth and stretched taut over muscle.
For a second, I feel powerful, in control, at the thought that I have him. But I can’t stop noticing how steady he is, how maddeningly calm his pulse beats against me.
He didn't flinch... Didn’t even try to stop me.
God, he let me take it.
My gaze snaps back to his face. The smirk has slipped, just slightly, and something flickers behind his eyes as they drop to the blade, then to my hand, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
Nothing does.
His head tilts—not a threat, more like a recalibration—and when his gaze lifts again, it’s more focused, calculating. Then, quietly, almost to himself: “...Interesting.”
“I’ve got a blade to your throat, and that’s your response? Interesting?”
“So?” He leans in until the blade dimples against his skin, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek, laced with smoke and something bittersweet.
A hard rush slams through me, his body against mine setting off something I don’t dare name.
Then, calm and certain: “We both know this blade’s too blunt to do a damn thing. ”
I make the mistake of looking down to check.
Stupid.
That’s all it takes.
His hand clamps around mine, tight as iron, and in one brutal motion, he wrenches both arms behind me. My burned arm screams, nerves light up, raw and electric, as his grip grinds over scorched skin. But I barely have time to blink before he turns me.
The world tilts and my chest slams into cold, damp stone. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. I bite down on the sound that wants out as his body follows behind, all heat and pressure, chest flush to my back, pinning me against the wall.
Then his fingers move fast, prying the blade from my grip with barely any effort and then something sharp, cold, slides in below my ribs.
“While that blade might be too blunt,” he murmurs, warm breath brushing my skin as he leans in close. “The one I’ve got pressed against your side right now definitely isn’t.”
I try to move but his chest is still solid against my back, all heat and restraint, and I hate how aware of it I am. Every inch of him. Every place we touch.
Rage, magic, or something else, starts building low.
“So what is this then?” I hiss, writhing against him, shoulders twisting as I try to break free.
“You finally decided I’m worth killing yourself?
Revenge for a brother I didn’t even know existed.
Or did you just need an excuse to take down another Outerlander?
You don’t Reassign enough already or kill them with your Spice tax? ”
He presses the sharp blade in a fraction deeper, not enough to bleed, but enough to make a point.
“While you know the thought of getting my hands on you has definitely crossed my mind...” He murmurs, so close I can almost feel his lips on the shell of my ear. “...I’m not really in the mood.” A pause, “Not tonight anyway.”
Then, in one smooth motion, he releases my arms and spins me. My back slams into the wall, hard, as his fingers catch my wrists again, pinning them at my sides as his eyes find mine, gleaming like a predator in torchlight.
“Unless, of course,” he adds, the corner of his mouth curling, “you’ve changed your mind about finding out exactly what these hands are good at?”
God, I could scream. Not from fear, but from rage. He has me cornered, unarmed, and still has the audacity to flirt?
My Threads twitch, heat rising up my spine. I pray he doesn’t notice, doesn’t see how close I am to losing it. I’m not sure how much is there, but maybe it’s enough for something. One quick surge and I might be able to surprise him. Push him off. Make a break for it.
“I’ve seen what you can do with your own hands,” he teases, noticing the twitch at my fingers. “And while I must say it’s impressive… We both know you don’t have the control to take me out without blowing yourself up in the process.”
Anger, magic, and shame surge together in one wild, chaotic snarl just beneath my skin. I want to lash out, prove him wrong, but fuck—he’s right.
I know it. He knows I know it.
His gaze lingers as he moves in an inch, that same unnerving, calculating focus slides back into place, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to see something just out of reach.
Then, without warning, he shifts, quick and fluid, the weight of him vanishes and cold rushes in to fill the space he leaves behind.
My chest expands as I drag in a deep breath, the gasp echoes down the passage. The sudden sound snaps something loose and my body wavers, just slightly, knees dipping before I catch myself. Only now without his body pinning me up I realise how shaky, weak, they are. My Threads too.
But I force myself to stand tall, legs locked, steadying myself as he crosses to the opposite wall and leans back, eyes never leaving mine.
“I have to admit,” he says, one foot braced against the wall as he taps his chin with the blunt blade.
“Tonight’s been... unexpectedly informative.
And maybe you just caught me in a generous mood.
But I’ve decided not to kill you.” His voice drops, one brow lifts.
“As long as you keep this little rendezvous to yourself... Don’t tell anyone you saw me here tonight.
.. And I won’t tell anyone about what you were up to. ”
He holds the blade against his chin for a beat longer, then, with a quick flick of his wrist, slides it into the sheath hitched at his waist.
He's not offering me a deal; he’s toying with me. Not to scare me. Not even to win, but just because he can. Because he finds it fun. Like a cat with a mouse it fully intends to kill, just not before breaking it apart first. Piece by piece.