Page 19 of Magic Unmasked

For a moment, Lilith melted into him, her own desire flaring to life despite the anger that still simmered in her veins. She kissed him back with just as much intensity, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer, their magic sparking between them.

But then, just as quickly as she had given in, her instinct to fight kicked in again.

Ronan pulled back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at her, his golden eyes searching her face for something—an answer, perhaps, or maybe just an acknowledgment of the fire burning between them. His lips were swollen from the force of the kiss, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts.

But Lilith wasn’t going to give him what he wanted.

With a sharp movement, she headbutted him, her forehead colliding with his nose with enough force to make him grunt in pain. The second he loosened his grip on her, Lilith acted. She spread her wings—glorious, translucent, and shimmering in the moonlight—and launched herself into the sky, leaving Ronan on the ground, cursing beneath his breath.

“Lilith!” he roared, the sound echoing through the narrow alley as he watched her ascend, fury and desire warring within him.

But before he could react further, a sharp, telepathic cry ripped through his mind, cutting through the frustration and the heat that still buzzed between them.

‘Ronan! Help us!’

The voice was unmistakable—Savannah Duvall, her plea laced with fear and desperation. She would have to be desperate to be reaching out for him.

Without hesitation, Ronan turned and bolted, his body moving on instinct as he followed the invisible thread of Savannah’s cry through the city. His feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, his muscles coiled with tension as he raced through the twisting alleys and narrow streets, his senses zeroed in on her location. The hum of the city—laughter, music, the buzz of life—faded into the background as he focused solely on finding her.

He tracked her to an ancient cemetery on the outskirts of the French Quarter, a place where the dead lay entombed in ornate crypts, their resting places guarded by wrought iron fences and overgrown ivy. The air here was thick with magic, heavy and oppressive, carrying the scent of dark sorcery and decaying flowers.

And there, trapped in the center of the cemetery, he saw them—the Duvall sisters. All four of them lay together, their faces drawn with exhaustion and pain, a shimmering magical barrier surrounding them, pulsating with an eerie, sickly light. The magic was ancient, dark, and far beyond anything Ronan had seen before. At the edge of the barrier stood Oberon Whisperwind, his elegant features twisted into a cruel smile, his silver hair gleaming in the moonlight as his eyes glittered with malice.

Oberon's magic wrapped around Ronan’s chest, constricting it as if to squeeze the very life’s breath from him. He could barely draw a breath, every intake of air scraping against his ribs like shards of glass. He struggled to keep himself upright, but Oberon’s magic coiled tighter, a serpent wrapping around his lungs, squeezing out the last bit of fight.

The four Duvall sisters—so powerful, so untouchable—lay crumpled on the ground, barely conscious within the shimmering prison Oberon had conjured. Why hadn’t they reached out to their mates? Was Oberon’s magic so powerful that it could negate the bond of a fated mate?

The magical barrier around them pulsed with a sickening, oily light, draining their powers with every second that passed. Savannah pressed her hands against the translucent wall, her ocean-blue hair clinging to her sweat-slicked skin as her water magic flickered uselessly against the barrier. Beside her, Phoenix’s fiery magic sputtered and died, swallowed by the dark enchantment that seemed to feed on their efforts.

Ronan’s rage threatened to boil over, but it was useless. His sabretooth stirred, snarling to be unleashed, but no amount of brute strength would save them from this. Oberon had planned this perfectly.

And that was what gnawed at Ronan’s gut like a festering wound—Oberon could have done this at any time. If he’d had the power to contain the Duvalls all along, why send Lilith? Why orchestrate this elaborate game?

Oberon stood tall among the tombstones, silver hair gleaming under the moonlight, his expression a mask of smug triumph. Around him, his loyal fae warriors—cold, blank-eyed puppets—stood like statues, their wills bent entirely to his command. They radiated the same magic that constricted Ronan, holding him down like invisible chains.

“You’re too late, shifter,” Oberon called, his voice smooth and deliberate. “The Duvall sisters are mine now, and with their powers, the old ways will crumble beneath my heel.” His smile turned sharp. “I won’t just rule the fae realm. I’ll rule everything.”

Ronan’s muscles quaked as he tried to rise, but the magic pressed down harder, forcing him to his knees. He could feel the blood pooling in his mouth, metallic and bitter, as if Oberon's magic was crushing his very bones.

“You really thought you could stop me?” Oberon sneered, stepping closer with the leisurely grace of a predator who knew the hunt was over. “You’re nothing, Ronan Rousseau. Just an old beast in a world that has long outgrown you.”

A growl tore from Ronan’s throat, low and broken, his beast clawing desperately against the magical vice holding them down. He wouldn’t die like this—not on his knees, not while the Duvall sisters lay powerless, waiting for a fate worse than death.

But just as the darkness threatened to close in, the air around him shifted.

Lilith.

Her presence cut through the suffocating magic like a blade through silk. Ronan lifted his head, his heart pounding as her silhouette emerged from the shadows, wings slicing the night air with deadly precision. Her violet eyes glowed with fierce purpose, her pale blonde hair catching the faint light, making her look like a vengeful goddess descending from the stars. She landed between him and Oberon’s minions, her stance wide and ready, every movement deliberate and controlled.

Lilith didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The moment her gaze locked with Ronan’s, the tension in his chest eased—not because the danger had passed, but because he knew she would fight alongside him, and they wouldn’t lose.

Without a flicker of hesitation, she unfurled her wings, raised her hands to hold off Oberon and tossed Ronan her sword. He might not be able to wield magic, but he could wield a sword. He launched into the fray. Her sword flashed in his hands like lightning, the silver-blue blade singing through the air. The first fae warrior didn’t even have time to react before Lilith’s blade cut him down, his body crumpling into the mist. A second warrior tried to conjure a spell, but Lilith was faster. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a blast of magic into his chest, shattering his ward with a deafening crack so that Ronan could take his head.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ronan could see she watched him with admiration and respect as he moved like a storm unleashed, her magic and his swordplay merging into one deadly force. The last of Oberon's minions fell, their bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds.

Oberon’s silver eyes narrowed as Ronan came to stand behind her, facing him, the blade glinting with residual magic. Oberon raised a hand, and the air hummed with dark energy, but neither of them flinched.

“You’ve overplayed your hand, Oberon,” Lilith said, her voice cold and sharp as steel. “You wanted to use me, just like you’ve used everyone else. But I don’t belong to you anymore.”

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