Page 36 of Broken Star

“So, I suppose you have a refined, regaltastein classical compositions, Your Highness?” I say, letting sarcasm drip from every word. “Maybe some brooding orchestral pieces to match your whole frozen heart aesthetic?”

“I prefer the sound of me correcting your form when you spar.” He smirks, then adds, “Your Highness.”

“Call me that again, and you’re walking to Montauk,” I snap, turning the music back up—but notallthe way up.

He glances at the console, but this time, he doesn’t touch it.

“I see you’re leaving me to strategize alone about how to keep us alive,” he muses. “Therefore not giving yourself a chance to voice your opinions and have a say in your future.”

He shifts gears effortlessly.

“You hate me because I made decisions for you,” he continues, “and now you hate me because I’m trying to have a conversation with you. There really is no winning, is there?”

My magic surges, sending so much wind blasting through the car that the dashboard vents rattle, as if a storm has burst to life.

He barely reacts. He doesn’t tense, doesn’t glance at me, and doesn’t bother telling me to calm down.

“The mysterious cloaked girl ominously waiting in the park to assign us a deadly quest said we were supposed to drive away from the storm,” he says. “Not bring it into the car with us.”

I force a breath through my nose, clenching my fists to keep them from shaking.

The storm dies down, but I can still feel it thrumming beneath my skin, ready to lash out again the next time he decides to push me.

“Then talk,” I say, lowering the volume—just a little. “Strategize. Whatever you need to do to keep yourself and your favorite asset alive.”

His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. But then, just as quickly, his face hardens, becoming cold and detached.

“Don’t you mean to keep me and mywifealive?” he finally says, and the frost on the steering wheel thickens, creeping up his wrists like a silent tether.

I don’t dignify him with a response. I just cross my arms again, focus on the suburbs rolling by alongside the highway, and let him speak.

Sapphire

Montauk is eerilyquiet when we arrive.

The ocean stretches out beside us, restless and dark, waves slamming against the shore in slow, steady crashes. Almost like Poseidon himself is warning us about what’s to come.

The house that the cloaked girl’s map led us to sits near the pier, abandoned-looking and skeletal. Paint peels in strips from its wooden siding, and the windows are dark and vacant, like empty eyes watching us approach.

Riven pulls up next to it, stops, and kills the engine.

Neither of us moves.

The space between us is charged with so much energy that every muscle in my body feels too tight, like a string about to snap.

“This is it,” he finally says, eying the house like it personally offended him.

“Perfect,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest as I size up our new nightmare. “I much prefer haunted cabins to igloos and ice caves.”

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel before turning to look at me. And when his silver eyes meet mine, something flickers in them—something dark and unreadable. And for a moment, I swear it almost softens.

Then it’s gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.

“And here I thought we had such educational times in the cave and igloos,” he says, and I rip off my seatbelt, hurrying out of the car.

I need distance. Space. Air that doesn’t smell like him—like winter, pine, and everything I’m trying to forget.

Behind me, he follows, moving with that infuriatingly smooth grace of his and popping the trunk open. “Let’s see what Cloaked Girl left us,” he says, and I step beside him, careful not to standtooclose.

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