Page 72 of Too Dangerous To Die

But he’s not.

Rhaegar stands a few feet away, his back to me, shoulders heaving. His wings twitch violently, and his magic lashes around him like a wild beast broken free. I recognize the signs. He’s losing control.

No, he’s being pulled apart.

“Medea,” I whisper.

She’s here. I feel her presence—thick and cloying, a scent of roses rotting on the vine. She’s speaking to him. Not in words. In promises. In temptation.

And he’s listening.

Not because he wants to.

Because he’s afraid.

Afraid of what I’m becoming. Afraid of what he might have to do to stop it. Afraid of failing again.

“No,” I croak, pushing to my feet.

My legs barely hold me. But I cross the room.

I reach him. Touch his shoulder.

He flinches.

“Rhaegar,” I whisper, louder now.

He turns, and for one horrifying second, I see not the man—but the monster. His eyes blaze with gold and crimson. His fangs drip with power. His skin is cracking at the edges like obsidian under pressure.

And still, he’s beautiful to me.

Because he’s mine.

I don’t think.

I just act.

I kiss him.

Not to save him.

To remind him.

Of us and what we are fighting for.

Of who we are when we are not broken.

His body goes rigid, then softens. The magic slams into me like a tidal wave—our connection reigniting, pulling me into his storm. But this time, I don’t let it consume me. I become the anchor.

I kiss him harder. Deeper. Until his magic remembers me. Until it stops trying to rewrite him into something he’s not.

When we break apart, he’s panting.

His claws have dug into the stone floor.

“I almost—” he chokes out. “I heard her. I saw what she wanted us to be. It was so… easy.”

“I saw it too,” I whisper, resting my forehead to his. “But easy doesn’t mean right.”

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