And though he would never admit it, bearing the weight of our collective burdens costs him a little more of himself every day.
My heart fills with a deep love and admiration. I lay my hands against his chest and smile up at him, still marveling at the fact that I can touch him so freely now, so openly.
Through a soft smile, I whisper, “I couldneverhate you, Cassius Devane.”
He tries for a smile of his own, but it falters quickly, a familiar shame burning through his energy. Turning away from my touch, he shakes his head and says, “You don’t know me well enough to make a proclamation like that.”
“I may not know all your stories,” I say, reaching for his hand and pulling him back toward me. “Or your history. But I know your heart, Doc. That’s the one thing youcan’thide from me.”
He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm, whispering against my skin. “And that, my Star, may be our downfall.”
The sadness in his eyes makes me ache for him—for all the pain he’s endured, for all the guilt he still carries. But just as I sense the shame and loss hiding within him, I also know it’s not the time to push. He’s still learning what it means to truly, deeply trust.
And he’s got a long way to go.
So do we, if we have any hope of escaping this place.
“We’ll see about that,” I tease, sensing we both need a bit of levity. “So what’s our next move, Mr. Ninety-Nine Percent Right?”
This gets a small laugh, some of the light returning to his eyes. “Well, I suppose we just make our way back. Right?”
I nod, but we both know it won’t be that simple—this isn’t a regular dream that will fade away the moment we wake up in the morning. Though it wasn’t our intention, we arrived here magickally, just like the guys and I did last time.
Getting back means our souls need to reconnect with our bodies, hopefully without the direct interference of our enemies. And I have no idea how to make that happen. So for now, we just walk.
We’re about ten steps along the riverbank when the air shimmers like a sheer curtain before us, wrapping us in warm, tingling magick. It recedes as quickly as it arrived, leaving us both fully dry, styled, and runway-ready.
My blood-red gown shimmers beneath the moonlight, my hair woven into the same elaborate style as last time, complete with purple hyacinths. In my hand, the requisite bouquet of black dahlias appears.
I let out a deep sigh and toss the flowers to the ground. “Great. More tricks.”
Doc, who’s now dressed in a sky-blue button-down shirt and black slacks with faint gray pinstripes, can only gape.
“Don’t,” I warn, sensing the compliment on his lips.
“I have to. Goddess, you’re absolutelystunning. Like some sort of… vampire gothic princess of old. Only, not old. And really much more of a queen than a princess, if we’re being honest.”
“Aww. I bet you say that to all the human sacrifices.”
“The… what?”
“This dress is… Well, think less Goth Barbie’s dream wedding and more sacrificial gown worn in days of old by women deemed unfit to carry the magick within them.”
His eyes darken, lips curling in disgust.
“Yeah, apparently it was a wholethingback then,” I explain. “They’d doll you up in the dress and toss your sparkly ass into the fire, hoping it would prove to the elemental deities and the First Fool that magick was more important to them than a woman’s life.” A shudder rolls through me, but I shake it off. “Lala told me it’s symbolic—I keep showing up here in some form of this dress because deep down, I don’t believe I’m worthy of my magick. I’m—”
“Get rid of it. Now.” His eyes go from dark storm to raging inferno in a heartbeat. Without waiting for a response, he hastily unbuttons his shirt, revealing the smooth, glorious muscles I had the distinct pleasure of being pinned beneath only hours ago.
I’m still staring at him, equally confused and turned on, when he fists the bodice of my dress in both hands and tears it right down the middle, shredding the delicate lace and casting sequins all along the riverbank. The skirt drops away, leaving me bare in his presence once again.
Despite its elaborate construction, the remnants of my dress are no more substantial than tissue paper in Doc’s strong hands.
Goddess, he’s fucking crazy.
Goddess, I’m fucking wet.
“Cassius Devane, ladies and gentlemen,” I tease. “Proving once again that no article of clothing is safe in the hands of a mental magicks professor with control issues.”
