Page 55 of Shadowkissed

Just that list. Just the ache of something I can’t even remember.

Until I dream again.

And this time, the violet eyes don’t look at me with warmth.

They’re full ofgoodbye.

27

LIORA

Ican’t feel him anymore.

Not fully.

There’s still a... scar, maybe. A ghost of something that once connected us. A thread that’s been burned away, leaving only smoke and memory.

But the bond? Gone. And gods, it feels like part of me went with it.

The worst part is—I did this.

I erased myself from his mind like I was some damn curse to be exorcised. And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But I’d rather be forgotten than watch Seraphiel rip Dante apart piece by piece. Or worse, watch Dante throw himself into the fire to protect me like I’m worth saving.

He wouldn’t have stopped.

That’s what terrifies me the most.

He would’ve burned the world to keep me safe. So I burned myself out of his.

The abandoned theater sits like a broken cathedral in the heart of the dead zone—part of the city swallowed by time and superstition. Humans stay out. Supernaturals only enter when they want to disappear.

It used to be my safe place. Before Thorne. Before Dante. Before the whole damn prophecy carved itself into my chest like a brand.

It still smells like dust and phantom applause. Like perfume and blood. The heavy red curtains hang limp, moth-eaten. The stage is cracked, but the bones of it are still beautiful.

I walk slowly across the warped wood floor, trailing my fingers along the velvet-covered seats. I don’t use glamor here. There’s no one left to lie to.

I’m so fucking tired of lying.

I drop my bag near the front row, sit on the edge of the stage, and pull out the crumpled notes I scribbled after the council meeting. There’s gotta be a loophole. A counter-spell. Something to sever Seraphiel’s claim without binding me to someone else.

If the union completes, everything unravels—magic, time, reality. But if I kill him before the ritual, then maybe…. But how do I kill an immortal? There has to be a weak point, some sort of weakness–

I freeze.

Because I’m not alone.

The air changes. Not like a breeze. More like a presence crawling in under my skin.

“You always did love the dramatic,” a voice purrs from the darkness beyond the wings of the stage.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Riven.

One of Seraphiel’s enforcers. Loyal lapdog and sadist wrapped in silk and shadow. A creature carved from desire and delusion, with eyes that gleam like oil and teeth too sharp when he smiles.

I stand slowly, shoving the notes back into my bag.

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