Chapter Fifteen
Talen’s shadow stretches over me as I turn around and instantly the steady beat in my chest stutters, magic firing as the effects of this morning’s duck session start to wear thin.
But it’s not the crooked smile that gets me, it’s the fucking uniform.
First time I’ve seen him in white. Crisp, clean, too official.
It shouldn’t make him look more intimidating, more controlled.
But it does. His skin looks darker, the cut of his arms more refined, chest broader.
And those eyes catch mine like they’re trying to trap me there.
Hypnotic.
Dangerous.
Heat slides up the inside of my thighs as he tilts his head like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Fuck, just keep it together. Yes he offered you a truce, but there’s no way in hell I would trust him. Stay calm and get back to the group without doing anything stupid.
“Hope you’ve been on your best behaviour with Officers Thornviel and Strannt?” His grin widens, left side of his mouth curling up as he pushes back a sun-kissed strand of hair that’s fallen loose across his forehead. “Not being too prickly for them?”
My chest tightens, and for one sick second, I catch myself wondering how soft it is.
God, I hate him. He’s a fucking Veirmont. You want him dead, not in your bed, remember that. This is just that Nightrose bullshit Ezzy warned you about, ignore it. A few more weeks, keep it together, get the journals and get home to Bren.
I swallow hard, shoving the thought down. But my body doesn’t get the message, a hard rhythm still hammering through me like it has its own agenda.
“Funny,” I snap, forcing the words out steady, even as my magic claws beneath my skin. “Last time I saw you, you had a knife to my ribs. Now suddenly you’re worried about my manners? What’s changed? Or do you just like dragging it out, makes the kill more fun?”
“Dragging it out?” he echoes, eyes narrowing.
“I gave you a way out. A truce. You took it, remember? And let’s not pretend, Bloom.
.. If I wanted you dead, you would be.” His voice dips, curling dark at the edges as he steps close.
“But if you need a reminder of how things went down in that tunnel. I’d be more than happy to oblige. ”
For a second, he lingers—hovering close, like he’s daring me to flinch. Then he steps back, casual, dragging a hand over his jaw.
Heat snaps up my spine, sharp and traitorous, as my Threads twitch under my skin, pulling tight like they can feel him too.
Asshole.
Okay, just breathe. Count to three, don’t flinch, don’t let him see how much his voice gets under your skin. That you’re this close to losing control.
I could walk away. Spit in his face. Say something that hurts... but that’ll just fuel his fire. Still, if I stay quiet, I look weak, easy prey for him to keep feeding off.
Fists tight, I just want to kick him in the groin or something—right here, right now—wipe that infuriating, infectious smile off his face.
But I can’t. Because my body won’t bloody move. Won’t listen. My throat tightens, Threads itching under my skin, and all I can manage is—“Fuck you.”
“Oh, that’s no way to talk to an officer. Especially when I made sure the Spice was restocked today... just for you.” He nods towards the market stalls.
How does he know? Merrin? Merrin must have told him I’d been stealing Spice and smuggling over the border. Fuck. I open my mouth to fire back but shouting breaks across the square, loud enough to snap the tension in half.
Talen’s head whips toward the noise, toward Strannt. My eyes follow.
A crowd’s already forming, fast and restless. Shouts rising, people shifting to get a better look. Something’s definitely kicking off... but before I can move Talen’s hand clamps down hard around my hand.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, already pulling me with him. “Before you get any bright ideas about sneaking off again.”
We round the stall, and the noise sharpens into shape. Strannt has a merchant by the throat, fist knotted in the man’s collar, slamming him back against a Spice stall. Glass jars rattle, a crate tips, golden powder spills across the stone like sunlight shattered.
But unlike the fishmonger, this one isn’t cowering. He’s fighting back—voice raised, eyes bright with fury, and Strannt’s weaselly eyes look one twitch away from snapping and releasing his Threads.
Nearby, Lucien stands with Rowan and the others, one arm folded across his chest while the other fiddles with the stone around his neck. A faint smile plays on his lips as he watches the chaos unfold.
Talen stops next to him but his hand stays locked on mine.
Too tight, too obvious. Beth’s already turning, Ryven’s and Elijah’s eyes find me next.
Shit. I yank once, nothing. I yank again, harder this time; but Talen doesn't flinch or even look my way, his grip just tightens.
And with it, the pressure builds, magic pressing up under my ribs.
Fuck, I want him off, I need him off—before Beth or Ryven start thinking I’m someone who gets dragged around. Before I can’t keep the lid on my Threads.
“Luc, what the fuck is this?” Talen shouts over the commotion. “Why the hell aren’t you stepping in?”
Lucien lifts a brow, gaze still fixed ahead.
“Thought about it,” he says, tone flat. “Then the merchant started fighting back. Got interesting.” Lucien turns, gaze dropping to Talen’s grip on my hand, a smile spreads. “Well, look at that. Didn’t peg you two for the hand-holding type...”
Heat flares in my face, anger, not embarrassment. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I yank my arm again, fast and rough and this time, Talen lets go.
For a beat, Lucien holds his stare, grin twitching wider—then nods back to the fight, voice louder this time. “Says it’s our fault his assistant didn’t show up for work this week.”
“It is your fault!” The merchant snarls, spit flying as Strannt pins him against the cart. “One minute he’s here. Working, minding his own business, and the next, you white-cloaked Citadel guards drag him off like he’s nothing!”
Beside me Talen stiffens, muttering something under his breath then pulls Lucien aside.
I don’t wait, I swing my pack around, fingers slipping inside just enough to brush the duck, just enough to calm the storm that's brewing beneath my skin.
The relief is instant. Blissful even. Jaw unclenches, shoulders drop and the pressure eases.
I mean to hold on longer, but then I feel it, eyes on me.
Talen. Lucien’s still at his side, talking, but he’s not listening.
His gaze catches mine, then drops to the pack.
I shove it back over my shoulder, too fast, not casual.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say a word.
Then a shout cuts through the air, and both our heads snap toward it.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good, loyal workers anymore? Ones who actually stay?” The merchant yells.
Strannt doesn’t hesitate. Open palm, full force, he slaps the merchant across the face, hard. The crack splits the air as the man’s head whips sideways.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” Strannt sneers back, too loud, like he’s enjoying the sound of his own authority. “If he was taken, there’s a reason. Probably a traitor to the Treaty.”
But still the merchant doesn’t back down, just stares straight into Strannt’s face and spits. A collective breath holds across the growing crowd, more footsteps, more bodies edging closer.
A tight hitch catches in my chest as Strannt goes still. No shouting, just a slow smile creeping across his face, thin and vicious.
“Oh, you’re going to regret that,” he murmurs as Threads start to flicker at his fingertips, dark and volatile, warping the air around him. He draws his arm back, one second from breaking bone—
Then, suddenly, a hand snaps around his wrist, stopping the swing mid-air, fast and brutal.
“That’s enough.” Talen’s voice echoes through the square like thunder. Strannt shifts, but Talen doesn’t let go, doesn’t blink. Just stares him down, grip locked tight between them as he steps in closer. “He's not worth our time. We've got better things to waste our energy on.”
Tension bleeds between them as Strannt’s weaselly eyes flick to Talen, narrowing. One arm caught in his grip, the other still knotted in the merchant’s collar.
Threads hum beneath his skin, chest rising too fast, jaw clenched tight and for a second I think Strannt’s going to do it—ignore the warning, drive the strike through anyway—but Talen doesn’t look away, just hardens that cold, steel-edged stare.
Strannt holds it a beat longer before his mouth twists.
‘Fine,’ he mutters at last, barely audible, and Talen drops him without a word.
Strannt storms off, shoving through the patrol, fury in every step.
He keeps walking, crossing the square in a straight line of rage, his boot kicking into a crate of apples as he passes.
Wood cracks and fruit explodes across the stone—bouncing and bruising as it scatters.
No one moves.
Ryven stands with Elijah, Beth hovers near Lucien, and Rowan’s slipped back to my side, silent and watchful. None of them seem to know what to make of it, hell, I don’t know what to make of it.
Talen stopped him... stepped in just in time, like he was doing the right thing. Why would he do that?
My brows pinch before I catch myself as my gaze drags from the square, where Strannt is still kicking an apple like it owes him, back to Talen.
He’s facing the merchant now, jaw tight, and whatever flicker of concern I thought I saw, thought I heard, is gone, replaced by something much colder.
“You know who I am?” Talen demands.
The merchant nods, face pale.
“And you know who my family is?”
Another nod, faster this time.