Damn it, time was supposed to prove these feelings were just a crush.

“What’s his name?” I ask because my mind will start contemplating what-ifs if I don’t focus on the real reason Kyol is here.

“Betor, son of Jallon.”

Déjà vu hits me so hard my head aches. No. This can’t be déjà vu. I can predict what happens next.

“Is he worse than Thrain?” I hear myself ask.

“Not yet. We hope to capture him before he organizes another attack.” Kyol doesn’t meet my eyes. There’s no inflection in his voice.

“You don’t want my help.”

“No.”

“Then why did you come?”

“ Atroth thought I could convince you to map a few fae. I’m to tell you that you won’t be in any large-scale battles. You’ll be used . . . covertly?” He looks up. At my nod, he continues. “When we learn the location of one of the rebels, my swordsmen will attempt to arrest him. I’ll escort you, and if the rebel fissures out, you will map his shadows.”

It sounds safe enough. It’s better than being used to see through fae illusions in a full-on confrontation.

“I can do that,” I say.

Kyol’s hands tighten on his knees. “When Thrain found you, you had to help us. But this false-blood doesn’t know who you are. This isn’t your war. If you help us, it’s because you choose to and . . . and, McKenzie, there can be nothing between us.”

I close my eyes. That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there’s a chance the king might change his mind or make an exception.

“I’m sorry,” Kyol says as he rises.

I force a smile and stand as well. “It’s no problem. I get it. I’m probably better off dating my own kind, anyway.”

“Yes,” he says, peering down at me.

We’re standing closer than we should. We both know it, yet neither one of us takes a step back. Kyol brushes my hair from my face, lets his fingers linger alongside my cheek, and without conscious thought, my chin tilts up.

Time slows.

Our lips meet.

It’s supposed to be a last kiss, and if we were both human or both fae, it might have been, but the moment before we separate, chaos lusters explode through me. The jerk of his body, his sudden inhalation, tells me he feels them, too, and instead of moving apart, we move closer. So much closer.

One kiss turns into two, two into three, then there’s the brush of his tongue and I can’t concentrate enough to count. He cups the back of my neck—gently, as if my humanity makes me fragile—but if this is the last time we touch like this, I don’t want to hold anything back.

I wrap my arms around him when he would pull away, and another strike of lightning ricochets through us. That’s the end of his restraint. When he kisses me now, it’s like being caught in the gale of a storm. I’m completely swept away as he lowers me to the couch, as his hands slide up my arms, as they drop to my hips, then slip under my shirt.

Something happens with the chaos lusters. With our chaos lusters. We’re on Earth but white bolts of lightning sear across my body. They tangle with his, and a fire sizzles through us.

Both our lips are parted, our breaths shallow. He knows what he’s doing; I try to act like I do, too, but the intensity of the chaos lusters build, and I’m not sure I can handle this.

He must see that moment of uncertainty in my eyes. “You’re untouched?”

A part of me realizes this is a dream, and if it’s a dream, I should be able to change my response.

I can’t. I hear myself tell him yes, hear him say he can’t take this away from me. I protest, but he smoothes down my clothes with an apology and a light kiss on my cheek. His fingers slide from my skin, and the heat of his lightning fades away. It feels like a part of my soul fades, too. I’m still breathing hard, but the air I draw in is cold and empty. When he fissures out, I want to be angry. I want to hate him for his self-control, for leaving me when I’m craving more than his touch, and for not being a typical, human male. But I don’t hate him. If anything, his restraint makes me love him more.

YOU’D think the agony stabbing through my right arm would eclipse any discomfort caused by my bed, but there’s a spring or a knife—I’m not entirely sure which—digging into my spine. I’m unwilling to shift away from it. My arm might be splinted and wrapped in strips of cloth, but the slightest movement sends me careening toward the edge of consciousness. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I can’t stand the loneliness that descended at the end of my dream.

Hours pass. My muscles stiffen and I grow bored of staring at the ceiling. The cracks zigzagging through it make me frown. I shouldn’t be able to see them, not with the door closed and the window boarded up. Slowly, I turn my head to the right and find the source of the room’s light: an upside-down mason jar sitting on the floor. Bright swirls of white and blue mists battle for dominance within the glass confines. That’s how the fae light their world after dark. Of course, they don’t usually use mason jars. The Realm’s glassmakers make lamps, wall sconces, and hanging orbs that the fae can light with a touch of their magic. That’s all fine and good if you’re fae. If you’re human, not so much.

I experiment with lifting my head a few times. When that’s tolerable, I bend my knees until my feet rest on the mattress. This puts more of my weight on my spine, though, so I finally try to scooch ever so slightly to the side.

I squeeze my eyes shut as pain shoots down my arm. God, running was a bad idea. What made me think I could escape? The fae outnumber me. They’re faster and more familiar with the terrain. Even if they didn’t have magic, I’d have little hope of slipping away.

The throbbing in my arm slowly fades. I think I’ll feel better if I sit up, so this time, I go all in. I hold my breath, spin my feet toward the side of the bed, and use my good arm to push up.

Nausea grips me as the room spins. I focus on breathing. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as a chill creeps into my bones. Panic’s edging in on me, making my chest ache, my throat burn. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be involved in this war. I was going to get out of it. If the rebels had waited just three days, I would have graduated and retired from the Court. Aren’s shadow-witch would have faded to a myth and I’d be safe. Safe and unhurt.

I swallow back my emotions and force myself to deal with the pain radiating up my forearm. After a few minutes of deep breathing, the room settles.

Okay. So the escape attempt didn’t work. I can’t give up. I’ll just have to plan my next move better. I’ll have to—

The door clicks. It opens inward and Kelia enters. She’s carrying a waterskin and a second magically lit mason jar. When she sees I’m awake, she crosses the room to stand in front of me.

“That was a stupid thing you did.”

“Yep,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained.

“You’re lucky Aren was adamant about you being kept alive.”

Lucky? Lucky would have been me escaping. Or me not being captured in the first place.

Kelia pauses, cocks her head to the side. “How’s your arm?” “Feels great.”

She mutters some Fae word I haven’t learned yet and then reaches into her pocket. “Hold out your hand.”