Page 125 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

Because that conversation would go over wonderfully.

No, Nyx was the perfect solution. Present, protective, and unlikely to ask uncomfortable questions about ancient evils or marital honesty.

The confrontation with Kaz this morning had been a masterclass in barely controlled tension. When dawn came, I’d found Kaz still in the library, shadows pooling around him like he’d forgotten how to dismiss them.

“Did you sleep at all?” I’d asked.

“No.” The word had been clipped, exhausted. “But I will find him. I will find whoever’s behind this.”

“You need rest.”

“I need answers.”

“You need—” I’d bitten off the rest. You need to stop letting the thing inside you drive you to exhaustion. “Fine. Do what you want.”

His laugh had been bitter. “Since when do I need your permission?”

And there it was. The heart of our problem, laid bare in seven words. We’d gone from forced proximity to genuine partnership to this careful dance around each other’s feelings. Too proud to apologize. Too connected to truly separate.

Nyx had chosen that moment to squeeze through the doorway, plant herself between us, and growl at Kaz. Just like last night, I’d expected him to be furious. And, just like last night, he’d surprised me.

“Keep her with you,” he’d said. “At all times.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You need protec—” He’d cut himself off, jaw clenching. I’d felt the effort it took not to lock me somewhere safe until he’d eliminated every possible threat. “Just… keep the dragon close.”

And then he’d left to go back to his hunt.

I’d left right after. Obviously, he hadn’t wanted me with him during the day any more than he’d wanted me there last night—not really. But that didn’t mean I had to sit around and twiddle my thumbs all day in the apartment.

Now, standing in this alley with my possibly catastrophic decision in a bottle, I wondered if I was making things worse. I’d been wandering the market levels for the better part of an hour, the vial burning a hole in my pocket, until I’d ducked into this narrow space between shops and thought: Screw it.

I needed to know. Needed to understand what had been taken from me, what memories Auremar’s mages had locked away. Maybe they’d help me understand why I was drawn to dangerous men with ancient souls. Maybe they’d show me how to help Kaz without destroying what was left of him.

Or maybe they’d drive me mad. Only one way to find out.

“If this goes badly,” I told Nyx, “don’t let me jump out a window. Or set anything important on fire. Or marry any more Dark Lords.”

She rumbled agreement, though I caught a hint of amusement at that last part. Her attention sharpened, silver eyes fixed on me with an intensity that suggested she understood the gravity of what I was about to do.

I uncorked the vial. The scent hit me immediately—roses and copper and something that made my heroic bloodline sing with recognition. My mother’s magic, maybe. Or just the echo of what had been stolen.

“Bottoms up,” I muttered, and downed it in one go.

For a moment, nothing happened. The potion tasted of summer rain and old books, sliding down my throat smoothly. I had enough time to think maybe Mnemosyne had given me a dud, some overpriced placebo for desperate nobles.

Then the world exploded into fragments of the past, and I understood why she’d wanted someone trustworthy nearby.

The alley tilted sideways. Nyx’s concerned rumble seemed to come from very far away as the first memory crashed into me.

Mother’s hands, gentle on my hair. “Remember, little rose, power isn’t in the magic itself. It’s in choosing when to bloom and when to show your thorns.”

Another memory, sharper now. A dark-haired man with stern eyes kneeling beside my bed. “Your mother is sick, Arabella, and the tower helps her feel better.”

The memories came faster now, each one a shard of glass cutting through the fog of forgetfulness. My mother teaching me to channel light into my palms. My father—and it was strange to see him young, almost caring—warning me to hide my gifts. “The king has uses for girls like you,” he’d said. “Best he never knows what you can do.”

But I’d been young. Proud. Stupid.