Page 53 of Shadowkissed

This one? It takes memory. Specifically,his.

The spell is ancient. Rare. Created by fae desperate to protect their lovers from the wrath of the courts. It erases only one thing. One person. Me.

It doesn’t hurt him. Not physically. But it severs the bond. Itkillsthe thread between us. And gods, it already feels like dying.

I whisper the spell, voice shaking.

I see his face behind my eyes. That crooked half-smile. The little crease between his brows when he’s trying not to admit he cares too much. The way he says my name like it’s clean and unscathed.

I’ve never been loved like that before. I neverwillbe again.

The magic fights me at first. It doesn’t want to be used. But I force it.Willit. Because this is the only way to protect him from me—and from what Seraphiel plans to make of us both.

By the time I return to the loft, the spell is already in motion. I can feel it working. The bond pulling taut. Fraying.

I slip through the door without a sound. He’s slumped on the couch, jaw slack, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. The list of allies he was working on lies crumpled beside him.

Even now, half-dead with worry, he’s still trying to save me.

Gods, thishurts.

I step closer.

The light from the window paints him in gold and shadow. His tattoos are just visible beneath the edge of his shirt, old battle scars glowing faintly with residual magic.

He doesn’t stir.

I sink down beside him on my knees and press my lips to his forehead.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his skin. “For loving me when I didn’t think I could be and giving me the hope I need to end this.”

A tear slips down my cheek.

I don’t wipe it away.

“You won’t remember this,” I say softly. “Not the way you should. You’ll knowsomething’smissing. Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll be gone. And you’ll besafe.That has to be enough.”

He shifts slightly, murmurs something I can’t hear.

My heart cracks in two.

“Goodbye, wolf.”

I walk out the door and don’t look back.

26

DANTE

Iwake up choking on silence.

My mouth tastes like ash and copper, and my head feels like it got split open and sewn back together with broken glass. I sit up slow, one hand braced against the couch cushion, the other pressed to my chest where it aches like I’ve been stabbed.

Except there’s no blood. No wounds. Just this… emptiness. Thishollow.

I blink against the morning light bleeding through the blinds, trying to get my bearings. The loft’s quiet. Too quiet. Like something sacred just got stolen out from under my ribs.

“What the hell,” I mutter.

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