“I was talking to him,” I say. “To Tex.”
Jace’s chest rises with a slow inhale.
“He’d probably say I’m getting soft,” I add with a faint, tired smile. “Sitting out here crying to the stars.”
“He’d say that,” Jace agrees. “Then offer to punch someone about it.”
That makes me laugh, just a little. The kind that cracks in my throat and doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
Jace turns his head to press a kiss to the crown of my head. His voice is low. “Whatever you said to him… he heard you.”
“I hope so.”
Silence settles over us again. Like it has space for everything we aren’t saying yet. Grief. Rage. Hope.
“I meant it,” I whisper. “This year… they pay.”
“I know,” he replies. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
I look up at him. His face was lit only by the moonlight, casting shadows that harden the angles of his cheekbones, but it’s the sureness in his eyes that undoes me.
“Thank you,” I swallow. “For coming out here. For not trying to fix it.”
“You don’t need fixing, Isobel.” His fingers lace gently through mine. “I’m just here.”
We stay like that for a while—fingers entwined, eyes lifted to the sky, hearts still aching but not alone.
And when we finally stand to go back inside, the stars don’t feel quite so distant anymore.
15 BACK TO BLACKMOORE
The Guild lounge was mercifully empty.
I just needed silence after the day. Walking the halls without Tex is still hard, and it feels wrong. Jace is always there. Waiting.
But I just need to breathe. Adjust.
Dim with golden lamplight and deep leather chairs, the lounge has the kind of hush that wraps around you. I’ve been avoiding people all day, and this was the first place I found that didn’t make me want to claw my skin off. I curl deeper into the armchair by the fire, knees tucked to my chest, book open on my lap but unread. The first true quiet I’ve found.
I don’t hear the door open. Don’t sense him at all until he speaks.
“Interesting choice of hiding spot.” The voice slithers across the room.
My head snaps up, and immediately, every muscle in my body fills with tension. He stands just inside the lounge, holding the door open behind him. The flames from the fireplace cast flickering shadows across his features. He’s dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, not a single thread out of place. His eyes land on me with a cool disinterest, like he’s appraising someone far beneath him.
He sets every instinct in my body on edge as he closes the door with a soft click and steps closer.
“Don’t get up,” he says mildly. “I prefer to speak with people when they’re comfortable.”
I stand anyway.
“Suit yourself.” He smiles faintly. Recognition flickers in my brain.
“Gideon.” My voice comes out stronger than I feel.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. Glad to know my reputation precedes me. We’ve never had the pleasure of a one-on-one chat before. A tête-à-tête, as the French say.” He extends a hand as if it were a social event.
I don’t move. Don’t take his hand. His smile widens a fraction—something about it twisted.
