Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What are you doing here, Veirmont?” My voice comes out flat. Cold. No welcome in it.
Talen’s eyes flick to Bren, then back to me.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, voice low. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already kissing someone else?”
Bren rises beside me, chest still lifting from the kiss as he steps to my side—shoulders squared, jaw set. God, compared to Talen, he looks like a boy. Not because he isn’t strong—he is. But Talen? He’s all control and carved edges. Precision and danger, wrapped in skin.
“Cut the crap, Talen,” I say, keeping my voice low, loud enough for him but quiet enough that the others inside won’t hear. “Bren knows the relationship’s fake. We’re not in the Citadel anymore. Not playing by your rules.”
Bren’s eyes narrow, and I can practically hear the pieces clicking into place, loud and unwelcome. “Veirmont? Talen? The spice tax family? You kissed him?”
I shoot Bren a look—Not now. Please. I’ll explain later. Then I turn back to Talen. “How did you know I was here? What do you want?”
“Oh, please, Bloom. I’m a senior officer at the Citadel.
You don’t think I notice when four of my fucking second-year cadets vanish mid-patrol?
” Shit. Ezzy, Finn, Rowan. I was so close to getting out without dragging them into any of this.
“And since we’re apparently doing confessions—” His eyes flick to Bren, and the crooked grin that follows is pure arrogance.
“Yes, I kissed her. Would you like the full description, or just the highlights, how she tastes like—”
“Talen.” My voice slices through his, stopping him mid-sentence, but his lips still curl like he might keep going. Bren stiffens beside me, doesn’t say anything—but I can feel it in the way his shoulder brushes mine, tension held still.
“Anyway,” Talen continues, tone casual now. “Merrin asked me to give you these.” He lifts the package slightly. “Said you’re not coming back.”
“Thanks. You can go now.” I go to take it, but he pulls it just out of reach.
“Well, technically,” he adds, glancing at his watch, “you’re still under my command for another six hours.
” Of course I am. “And I’ve got strict orders to return these after your training ends.
So…” He lifts the package and shrugs. “I think I’ll stick around.
Join your little get-together. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I march you—and your friends—back to the Citadel for deserting patrol? ”
No, I can’t let that happen. I glance at Bren. One look. He knows exactly what I’m asking.
“Oh no,” Bren stiffens. “He’s not coming in.”
“It’s just a few hours,” I murmur. “Then I’m done.
Free. Please. I don’t want Ezzy or anyone else getting hurt because of me, and I need the journals.
They’re all I have left of my mum. Besides—” I glance at Talen, holding his gaze long enough to make the point.
“He still needs everyone inside to believe this relationship is real, so he’ll be on his best behaviour. ”
Talen doesn’t respond, only lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. I turn back to Bren, tilt my head, soften my eyes, just enough. He hates when I do it. Hates that it works.
And for the second time today, Bren exhales through his nose... and nods.
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it. The size of the room doesn’t help.
Ezzy, Finn, Bren, and I are crammed around his small kitchen table, knees bumping, elbows brushing.
His place is barely a room—kitchen bench, table, one battered chair.
The stairs to his loft creak if you breathe near them.
I know this place too well, one too many nights I should’ve spent anywhere else.
Rowan stands by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight—wearing the kind of I told you so that isn’t smug, just pissed off. Don’t blame him, he warned us we’d get caught.
Across the room, barely two strides away, Talen sits back in Bren’s armchair like he built it for himself.
One leg hooked over his knee, the package at his side.
He’s spinning one of his daggers between his fingers, casual as anything.
The second one sits on the armrest beside him—set down, not discarded.
Like he doesn’t need both to make his point.
And his gaze? Fixed on Bren, hasn’t even looked at me once.
I want him gone. I want those journals. But I can’t give him an excuse to drag me back, or worse, drag anyone else into this.
The silence holds a second too long—just enough to turn heavy—before Bren finally leans forward, elbows on the table, and cuts through it.
“So.” He taunts. “What brings a Citadel officer all the way out here? Reassigning innocent people for fun now?”
I shift under the table and kick Bren’s shin, just enough to say Don’t make this worse.
Talen grins. “Yes, actually, five today, if you must know.” He dusts an invisible fleck from his sleeve, casual as hell. “Though I’ll admit, I was hoping for more. Could always make it six. Interested?”
Bren’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. “You don’t joke about that. Not here.”
“Why not?” Talen leans back in the chair.
“Your people are practically handing it to us. Coordinating strikes on our supply runs. Patrol hits along the wall.” A beat.
“We’ve lost cadets, officers. Every week this month, it’s escalated.
And every week we’re back out here getting you lot back in order. ”
Strikes? Patrol hits? My head jerks toward Bren. I hadn’t heard anything was kicking off—but then again, why would the Citadel broadcast any proof they’re losing control?
Bren doesn’t look at me right away. His jaw flexes, shoulders tight. Then finally: “A lot’s changed since you’ve been gone, Lyra.”
An uncomfortable thought coils through me, tight and unwelcome.
Because I don’t even know how to answer that.
A month ago, I would’ve loved hearing the Outerlanders were striking back.
I would’ve called it justice. But now? Now I know cadets.
People, friends, like Ezzy. Like Finn and Rowan.
And the thought of us killing them… it doesn’t land the same.
So I don’t say anything.
Bren and Talen, however, keep throwing jabs, each one sharper than the last. It starts political, Outerlands, Innerlands, the Treaty, but it turns fast. Every word hits harder than the one before, until it's not about laws anymore. It’s personal.
Across the table, Ezzy and Finn keep exchanging looks, wide-eyed as if to say Are we supposed to be here for this? Rowan still lingers by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight—but he looks like he’s ready to bolt the second this turns worse.
Talen says something low and smug, it hits exactly the wrong nerve. Bren doesn’t flinch, but I see it. The shift. His jaw locks. Hands curl tight around the edge of the table like he’s holding himself in place. God, if either of them stands, this is going to turn into a fight.
“Enough.” My voice tight and clipped. “We’re not doing this.”
They both look at me. I meet Bren’s eyes first, then Talen’s. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just: Don’t. Talen exhales through his nose first and leans back like he’s being generous. In response, Bren eases his hands off the table, fingers flexing once before he looks away.
“He started it.” Talen mutters, dagger still in hand.
Beside me, Finn clears his throat, like he’s about to break the ice with something stupid, anything to cut the tension.
I shoot him a quick look, enough to pin him quiet.
But this has to end clean—Talen gone, journals in my hands, Bren and everyone clear of the fallout. But one punch and I’ll lose it all.
Across the room, I catch Rowan edging towards the door. I need to shift them fast, steer the conversation somewhere safer. Less flammable.
“How’s Rhiann?” I angle toward Bren. “And her boy? Charlie? God, they haven't had any Spice all month...”
His head tilts, like he’s not sure he heard me right. Then a flicker of softness cuts through the hard lines of his face.
“Still not good, though he’s getting better.
But… Lyra—” His brow furrows, confusion clear.
“Someone’s been dropping her Spice each week.
He told Rhiann you’d arranged it? That you’d set it up ahead of time?
‘Charming and drop-dead fuckable’ were her exact words.
She seems pretty taken with him. Which, for Rhiann, is saying a lot. ” He hesitates. “It wasn’t you?”
“No... how could I have?” The words scrape out, but my brain’s already scrambling. How would I have set that up? Who the hell even—None of it makes sense. My eyes cut to Talen before I can stop them.
Bren shrugs as he pushes back from the table and crosses to the bench behind me, setting the kettle on the stove like his hands need the distraction. “Anyone want a drink?”
Everyone shakes their heads—except Ezzy, who perks up, hand already halfway raised. “I’ll have some tea, please.”
Bren nods but doesn't turn around.
I decline, keeping my eyes fixed on Talen. He leans back in Bren’s armchair, palms lifted in mock surrender. “Don’t know why you’re staring at me.” His voice curls at my ear, too clear for the distance between us. “But it sounds like your friend’s got herself a catch.”
My breath stalls, tight in my throat. No.
It couldn’t be him, that doesn’t make sense.
He wouldn’t even know her, wouldn’t care.
He’s never cared about anything outside of his own smug orbit.
Except, my eyes went to him without thinking, like my body’s trying to connect dots my head refuses to make.
And he didn’t look surprised. Just smug.
“So… Lyra told me you have five sisters?” Ezzy asks as Bren sits back down and slides a mug toward her. She’s clearly been waiting for a gap to ask all her questions, jumping on the silence like it might close up again.
Bren doesn’t smile. Just blinks, like he’s still figuring out what to make of her.