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My arm locks around her.

Rowan’s voice softens, though she would likely deny it. ‘The veil will continue to fall. The shock may be severe. Feed slowly. Keep her warm. Let her sleep if she can. Do not interrogate her until she can speak without bleeding.’

My gaze lifts as Rowan adds, ‘In case I wasn’t clear, that instruction applies to you, vampire.’

‘I understood,’ I growl.

‘No, you heard. Understanding has historically taken you longer.’

Lyra makes a small sound against my chest. A wounded, breathless laugh. The sound reaches into the ruin of me and finds something alive.

Rowan works quickly after that, sealing the worst of the torn magic, muttering about Selphine’s arrogance, old swamp-work, and layers designed by someone with ‘a horrifying flair for long-term manipulation’.

I am aware my questions emerge with the politeness of a drawn sword. Rowan answers what she can, glaring when I do not permit her attempts to shut me down when I push too hard. Eventually, she finishes and gathers her things. ‘I’ll return with stabilising draughts. Don’t let the Glass pull either of you while I am gone.’

The Glass pulses softly at that, and Lyra lifts her head enough to look at it. ‘It has opinions.’

‘Yes,’ Rowan says. ‘Most of them terrible.’

She leaves us alone.

My chambers settle into silence, though I can feel the Twelve gathering outside the range of my tolerance, feel the bloodline, confused and shaken by the storm of recognition that has just moved through me. Six feet away, the Heartshard Glass watching.

But most of all, I feel her.

Eira Cross.

Lyra Hannigan.

In my fucking arms.

Her breathing is ragged as her true scent fights to resurface beneath Selphine’s ruins, and each new note of it strikes me with memory and fresh hunger.

Six years.

I hunted her for six years.

I hired her, fucked her, trusted and punished and drank from her, fell into ruin with her, and still did not know quickly enough. ‘I should have known.’

Her fingers curl weakly in my shirt. ‘That’s your opening line? Really?’

‘I should have known,’ I insist.

‘Valentin.’

‘I tasted you.’

‘Several times, yes. With enthusiasm. We can review your technique later.’

‘My blood knew you.’

‘Your blood has been very loud lately.’

‘I put you in a dungeon.’

Her grip tightens. The reminder darkens the air between us. ‘Yes,’ she says.

I close my eyes. There is no defence that deserves sound. ‘I threatened you. Demanded truth from a spell that punished you for reaching towards it.’