Page 76 of Ashes to Ashes

The knock explodes through my skull. I’m pressed against the far wall before thought catches up—back flat against stone, eyes scanning for weapons that aren’t there. Blind. Deaf. Human.

The pendant is working too well, making me vulnerable in the name of control.

“Professor Morgan?” Finnian’s voice, muffled through wood. “Reports of the boundary incident reached faculty... I found myself rather concerned for your welfare.”

My heart slams against my ribs as I scramble for clothes—leggings, sweater, fingers combing through wet hair. Ridiculous behavior, yet I can’t stop myself.

I open the door to find Finnian standing with his hand raised, about to knock again. His amber eyes track every detail—damp hair escaping its braid, the glow that won’t quite die at my wrists, green bleeding through gray irises. His breathing catches. Pupils blown wide with recognition.

“You’re safe,” he breathes, relief flooding his features so completely that his composure cracks. “When word spread through the Academy about boundary hunters attacking faculty members... I discovered myself far more concerned than academic detachment would typically allow.”

“Yeah, well. Still breathing.” The casual deflection tastes like copper. “Takes more than a couple overgrown attack dogs to put me down.”

His gaze lingers on my face, my eyes. Does he see the green bleeding through the gray? Does he notice how the pendant doesn’t hide everything anymore?

“May I?” He gestures toward the threshold, amber eyes holding mine with careful intensity that makes my pulse skip. “I’ve brought something that might ease the... aftermath of encounters with ancient magic.”

I step back, too aware of him passing close, too aware of his scent—books and herbs and something underneath that’s warm like sunshine trapped in honey. Heat claws through the pendant’s ice, pooling liquid and dangerous between my thighs. My pulse hammers against my throat where he can watch it jump.

Focus, Ash. Focus.

He watches me too carefully, eyes catching on my wrist where the faintest pattern pulses beneath skin. “Boundary hunters leave few survivors,” he says, voice carefully modulated yet unable to hide the thread of something deeper. “Those who do survive rarely emerge... entirely unchanged.”

I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted beyond words. “Had backup.”

“Yes. Prince Nightshade’s intervention has caused quite the stir among Academy circles.” Something lives in his voice—not jealousy but awareness of currents running deeper than surface politics.

He sets a small jar on my table, its contents shifting like trapped sunlight. “For the marks the forest left behind,” he explains, voice dropping to something almost reverent. “Encounters with that level of ancient magic leave impressions that conventional healing simply... cannot reach.”

I reach for it. As our fingers brush, sensation zips up my arm like electricity finding the path of least resistance. Recognition—the moment his skin touches mine, every pattern beneath the pendant strains toward the contact like iron filings to a magnet.

“Thanks.” I pull back too quickly, unsettled by my own reactions.

I just need time to process, to breathe.

He settles across from me, maintaining careful distance yet somehow filling the space with quiet intensity. “The Academy affects everyone differently,” he says, watching me with those too-knowing amber eyes. “Though rarely with such... immediate manifestations.”

The unspoken question creates space for me to reveal or conceal.

“Things have been getting weird.” I gesture vaguely at myself, at what’s happening beneath my skin. “And by weird, I mean impossible.”

He nods, unsurprised. “The boundaries between human and Fae consciousness aren’t nearly as solid as most believe. Perhaps what feels impossible is simply... recognition awakening.”

“Recognition of what?”

“Perhaps the body remembering what the mind has deliberately forgotten.” His voice softens with something that might be understanding. “Sometimes suppression serves protection until we’re strong enough to bear the truth.”

Kieran’s words—the exact same fucking sentiment from Kieran’s mouth. The echo from these two very different men sends chills racing down my spine.

“My parents believed in connections that transcended court boundaries,” Finnian continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “They died for those beliefs. The Seelie Court executed them for researching Wild Court restoration protocols.”

The revelation hits like a physical blow. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It was long ago, but their research survived, including theoretical texts on something called the changeling protocol.”

My heart stutters. “Which is what, exactly?”

“A theoretical method,” he says carefully, eyes never leaving mine, “for concealing royal Fae children among humans untilthey reach maturity. Age twenty-seven, typically. Sometimes a year later. It’s the age we enter immortality, you see. A way of safeguarding endangered bloodlines during times of conflict by temporarily suppressing their true nature.”

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