Page 15 of Shadowkissed

He watches me like I’m a flame he lit a thousand years ago and forgot to put out.

Tonight’s no different. I curl up on the floor of the old theater I’ve been squatting in, surrounded by rusted scaffolding and broken velvet seats. The bones of the place are still good. Magic hums through the foundation, quiet and old. I can hide here for a little while.

But even in the stillness, something’s wrong. Because even though my dreams are haunted by Seraphiel, he’s not the one I can feel and sense in my waking hours.

And right now, as I feel the need to protect myself, I feel him again. The wolf.

I don’t even know his name, but he’sthere—on the edge of my senses. A burn. A whisper. A magnetic pull that makes me feel like I’m stitched to him by thread and thunder.

It’s been two days, and Istillfeel him. Which isnothow this is supposed to work.

Fae don’t bond. Not like shifters do. We enchant. We beguile. We don’t...connect. That shit’s for mortals and wolves and fools.

But I feel it anyway. That pulse in my chest like I’m walking downhill too fast. That need to see him. Toknowhim. To?—

No.

I shove the thought away and push to my feet, ignoring the ache in my ribs. The healing’s slow this time. Whatever I pulled out of the shadows during the alley fight—it took more than I meant to give.

I’m off-balance. Too raw.

And it’s making my magic stir.

I throw open the side door to get air, only to stop cold halfway down the alley. Because the sky isn’t sky anymore. It’sglowing. Not with moonlight. Not with stars. With fire.

Not literal fire, but magic—burning, creeping across the horizon like spilled gasoline catching a spark.

I freeze, hand tightening around the knife hidden in my jacket. My magic flares, unbidden. A second later, my visioncracks. I’m not in the alley anymore.

I’m in a hall of black stone and gold-veined marble, where shadows whisper in a language older than anything living. I know this place. I’vedreamedthis place.

The Court of Ash.

Seraphiel’s throne looms empty—but something stirs in its shadow.

“I warned you, Liora,” says a voice that is not a voice. “He will not save you. No one can.”

I spin, heart hammering, magic buzzing against my skin like bees trapped beneath it.

“You don’t own me,” I snap.

“You are mine by pact and prophecy.”

“You’re a nightmare with a god complex.”

A slow laugh coils around my spine. I can’t see him—but I know he’s near.

“The wolf cannot protect you. Like I said, no one can. They never could. Not in New Orleans. Not now.”

Pain lances through my chest at the memory.

Flashing lights. Screams. Blood painting the floor. Power tearing through flesh like paper. Twelve dead. Their names buried beneath headlines and classified reports.

I fall to my knees. Gasping. Shaking. The vision shatters and I’m back in the alley. But I’m not alone.

He’s here. Not Seraphiel. Not the wolf. Theenforcer.

Shit.

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