Neither of us speaks for a long stretch of time. Then I say, “If he feeds on me, it’ll change our relationship.”
“One could assume.”
“I don’t know how though.”
After a short moment of silence, Isis says, “This is what troubles you. You’re afraid of the unknown.”
I am. I’m afraid of what’ll happen afterward, how I’ll feel toward Severin, how he’ll feel toward me. My magic already longs for him, and when he’s not around, it misses him.
Imiss him.
If he feeds on me, will I lose myself in him? And if I do, will I even want to find myself again?
I’ve never wanted to rely on anyone else. I’ve prided myself on my independence, on not needing anyone.
But slowly, I’m starting to feel like I need him.
No, maybe that’s not right. Maybe I don’t need him; maybe I just want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else. Maybe this is what it feels like to—
To fall in love.
The thought startles me enough that my heart stutters, and Isis lets out a small hiss. I reach up and stroke a finger over her smooth head, and she settles at my touch, slithering back under the blanket and coiling herself into a tight little bundle.
But even after she drifts back off into sleep, I continue lying awake, considering what this might mean.
I know that I trust him. I know that I want him. And I think...
I think I want to take the leap, like Poppy said.
Even if I don’t know what’s waiting for me at the bottom.
Chapter 30
Maeve
TONIGHT, I’M ALONE ON THE spire. It’s just me and the wind and the storm crackling beneath my skin, where it lives within my veins.
The air smells of deep autumn: wet fallen leaves, the warm scent of woodsmoke, the crispness of a not-so-far-off winter. Overhead, the moon is bright, unimpeded by clouds. It bathes the campus in cool silver-white light and casts shadows as I step to the center of the tower, barefoot, grounding myself the way Severin has been teaching me.
But Severin isn’t here with me. Because I need this moment to think, without being influenced by him—and the desire my magic feels toward him.
Drawing a deep breath, I close my eyes, focusing on my senses: the cold breeze on my cheeks, the frigid stone under my bare feet, the whisper of air through the trees sprinkled across the campus courtyard.
And when I’ve fully grounded myself, am fully in control, I lift my hands and call my storm.
As usual, it answers immediately, like there’s no boundary between my magic’s thoughts and my own.
Lightning crackles through my veins, ready and eager to be released. I gather the energy at my fingertips, pulling it from my body and from the air, threading it together like strands of a silver tapestry.
This used to be difficult for me. But with practice, I’ve learned how to shape my magic.
Now I just have to figure out how to contain it.
I guide the threads of energy into a sphere, working it between my palms, coaxing more and more life into it, and it begins to swirl.
At first, my magic behaves as I intend for it to. The bright white globe of magic crackles in my hold, rotating in tight arcs of contained electricity.
Around me, the air shifts, a breeze brushing across my cheeks and neck, and it reminds me of Severin—of his hands on my waist, his chest pressed to mine, his breath dancing across the curve of my throat.
