Page 133 of Ashes to Ashes

“Lord Malachar is many things. Gentle is not among them.” His jaw tightens. “What did they do to you?”

“Tried to strip away magic they thought was concealment. Would have killed me if the Morrigan hadn’t intervened.” The words taste like copper and near-death. “Turns out attempted regicide through ignorance is still regicide.”

Something dangerous flickers across his features. “They nearly?—”

“But they didn’t.” I step closer, drawn by the steady cold radiating from him. “I’m alive. Exposed, politically fucked, and probably marked for assassination, but alive.”

Those pale eyes search my face, looking for damage beyond the physical. “What do you need?”

The simple question nearly breaks me. Not what I owe, not what’s expected, not what serves court politics. What do I need?

I don’t answer right away. I’m watching him—this cold, composed male standing too still, too silent.

And then I see it. The tremor in his fingers, the pulse fluttering too fast in his throat.

He’s not okay either.

“Kieran,” I whisper.

He looks away like it hurts to meet my gaze. Like he’s afraid I’ll see how close he is to shattering.

My throat tightens. I grip the wall to keep from sinking to the floor. The corridor tilts slightly—either the lighting or my sense of self is fracturing.

No one’s asked me that in years. Not since before the betrayals. Not since before Davis rewrote my idea of choice.

And the fact that Kieran—cold, deadly, Unseelie prince Kieran—is the one asking?

Maybe that’s what undoes me.

“I need to stop thinking about tomorrow. About trials that might be my execution. About dying without ever...” I swallow hard. “I need to feel alive, Kieran. Really alive. If tonight’s all I have, I want it to matter. I want to remember what I’m fighting for.”

Understanding flashes across his features—not just desire, but recognition of the same desperation clawing at his chest. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t demand compliance. Just turns and walks toward the northern tower, shadows parting before him like willing servants. The choice is mine.

I follow.

His quarters are exactly what I expected—elegant, controlled, cold enough to see my breath. But tonight, warmth radiates from the fireplace, and soft lamplight replaces the usual harsh illumination. He slowly shuts and locks the door before facing me.

I expect hunger in his gaze. Lust. What I don’t expect is hesitation. Pain.

He swallows hard, like he’s holding back something sharp.

“This isn’t how I imagined this,” he says, voice gravel-edged. “I thought there’d be time. A real choice.”

“I still have one,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“What if I don’t survive tomorrow?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “What if I die in those trials without ever really living?”

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, then stops a breath away. His hands stay at his sides. His voice is low, ragged. “You deserve more than desperation in the dark.”

He exhales, as if it kills him to say it. “But if this is all we have... I’ll give you everything. And still wish it was more.”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair positioned between firelight and shadow. “You’re shaking.”

I am. Adrenaline crash combining with magical exhaustion from hours of three-court assault. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.

The room spins slightly, emotional exhaustion mixing with magical overload. The weight of tomorrow’s trials presses against my consciousness like a physical thing.

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