Page 8 of Our Radiant Embers

“Best sex of your life,” Cassandra interjected.

I scoffed, ignoring the warmth that rose to my cheeks, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I never said that.”

“Honey.” Her tone dripped affectionate condescension. “Sweetie, babe, darling.”

“Please don’t patronise me.”

“Fine.” A faint smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “The thing is, I know you. And the way you looked when you told me about it? Yeah, best sex of your life.”

She sounded sympathetic, not like she was trying to prove a point just for the sake of it. So I paused to consider her claim.

Well. Given the state of my life, my options were limited. Dating apps? Haha, no. I’d ventured into gay clubs a handful of times, sticking to the shadows and keeping my head down. The magical community didn’t have much of an independent nightlife, so just like other Londoners in need of a good time, we went to Soho, Vauxhall, and Camden—which meant that someone might recognise me. Sure, they’d be there too, but as the heir to a dynasty, I had a lot more at stake than the average closeted mage. Twice, my night had ended with a quick fumble in the toilets, and once in a back alley. The other times, I didn’t have the guts to do more than a bit of sloppy grinding on the dance floor.

So…yeah. A drunken hookup in the backseat of my car with someone I disliked? Liam’s solid weight pressing me down, his teeth on my throat, a hard thigh between my legs and his dick in my mouth, almost more than I could handle. But oh, I’d wanted it.

Yeah, best I’d had. Christ, I was pathetic.

I sighed. “Hate to say it, but ‘best sex of my life’ is not a high bar to clear.”

“I suppose not.” Her words were tinged with a hint of sadness. Not because she was jealous—God no, we’d tried kissing once and had agreed to never speak of it. But sometimes, it felt like she minded my situation more than me. Did I love shelving an integral part of myself? Of course not. Could I handle it? Yes. Between Cassandra and Gale, I was honest with the two most important people in my life. The rest was…manageable.

Manageable, yeah. Just like the fact that Liam Morgan knew about me.

“Hey.” I let my gaze drift to the fireplace, coaxing the embers to rise in a fleeting spiral pattern. “Do you think…”

“What?” she asked after a second of silence.

I shook my head and let the embers fade into ash. “Never mind.”

Cassandra crossed her legs, propped her elbows on her thighs, and waited.

“Do you think…” I glanced away. “Like, with me the only one with real power in my generation, right? And how sometimes the magic in one family just fades while a new powerful family pops up elsewhere, like it’s just nature keeping the gene pool fresh.” I might not have thought this all the way through, but in for a penny, in for a pound. “Maybe I’m gay so I won’t have a dozen kids all over the place?”

For a second—nothing. Then Cassandra shook her head. “Oh my God.”

“What?” I asked, tipping up my chin.

Her laugh was quiet and warm. “Ever heard of IVF?”

“Yes.” I narrowed my eyes. “But magic is old-fashioned. Maybe she hasn’t.”

“I adore you.” Cassandra infused it with the kind of affection one might reserve for a particularly slow child.

“You say that like I’m your favourite idiot.”

“You are.” She reached out to pat my cheek. “Anyway, so. Liam Morgan.”

A dog with a bone—she wasn’t about to let this one go, so I succumbed to my inevitable fate. “He’s infuriating.”

He was. Now, to be honest, I hadn’t given him much thought in the past. In school, we’d been in the same year, true, but he’d been the quiet type and we’d moved in different circles. When technomancy suddenly screeched onto the scene in the form of his dehydration device, I’d been repulsed. Sure, a capable water mage could throw daggers made of ice or shape a blade that sliced off limbs—but a device that sucked a person dry? It was so…impersonal. It also required far less raw power to operate, exponentially increasing the lethal potential of our entire community.

Still I hadn’t given him all that much thought.

Then I’d washed up in some random pub that displayed a discreet rainbow flag in the window. It had come on the heels of an argument with my dad about the right time to try for children—now, according to him; definitely not now, according to me. My one-person pity party had been on its second beer when Liam walked in, greeting everyone like he owned the place.

I’d chosen to acknowledge him because maybe I didn’t actually want to be alone with my thoughts, and the rainbow flag was subtle enough to afford plausible deniability. ‘Seems like you come here a lot,’ I’d pointed out. It was hardly a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes given someone slid a pint in front of him without even asking.

‘I used to work here,’ he’d told me. ‘During uni.’

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