Page 74 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Then explain the heroic bloodline’s role in activating the Heirloom, and the roses inside the crown. Coincidence?”

“Long exposure to high magic can shape bloodlines. It’s not necessarily divine or mythical.”

My truth-sense told me he wasn’t being fully honest. “Have you discovered why the Heirloom failed?”

Kazimir shook his head. “No. We’re still investigating.”

Lie. I felt it, but swallowed the retort. If I forced the issue he’d retreat behind his walls, and I wanted to know what he was hiding before confrontation became inevitable.

He exhaled slowly, as if relieved I hadn’t pressed, then nodded at the dishes. “If you’re finished, let’s go back to bed.”

I slid from the counter—the wine left me pleasantly light-headed. He extinguished the lamps with a wave, leaving only the embers in the hearth.

When we arrived back in his chambers, I paused near the threshold, suddenly uncertain. The bed loomed, a familiar battleground of tension and carefully negotiated boundaries. But the memory of the wine, warmth, and Kazimir’s low confessions lingered around me.

He rested a hand on the doorframe near my shoulder, leaning close enough that I caught the scent of winter storms and steel. “Feeling better?”

The almost-tender note in his voice tightened my throat. “Yes,” I murmured. “Warmer.”

“Good.” His gaze traced the line of my mouth.

I took a deep breath and looked away from his intensity. But my eyes only landed on the buttons of his loose shirt, and my mind helpfully supplied the image of what lay beneath. I couldn’t blame it on the wine; I hadn’t drunk enough.

His hand lifted—slow, almost hesitant—fingers brushing a stray curl near my temple. He paused, and I looked up to see the question plain in his eyes.

Something in my chest cracked. If he touched me, I might forget every reason to resist. I caught his wrist gently, moving his hand before stepping out of reach. A flicker of disappointment crossed his features, but he dipped his chin in acceptance and let his hand fall.

I retreated to the bed, where the pillow wall already waited. Still wrapped in my blankets, I crawled in on my side, pulse still thrumming with the phantom of his almost-touch.

Instead of joining me, Kazimir remained at the doorway, watching as I attempted to get comfortable under his gaze. The quiet stretched, thick with things unsaid. Finally, he straightened. “Good night, Arabella.” His voice was rough with unsated want.

Before I could respond, he left, closing the door behind him.

His side of the bed stayed empty all night, and I couldn’t decide which was more surprising—that he possessed enough restraint to keep his distance, or that I’d spent half the night wishing he hadn’t.

31

REVIVE THE DEAD (BUT JUST A LITTLE)

ARABELLA

“We’ve been over this,” I said, sending a pulse of my magic through the withered rose. “I can make it move, but I can’t make it truly live again. There’s a difference.”

The shriveled petals twitched in a macabre little dance before they slumped back into stillness. After weeks of intensive magical training, we’d established a routine: Kazimir’s impossibly demanding instruction, my skepticism, and the explosive moments when I surprised us both.

Kazimir paced behind me, so quiet he might’ve been a ghost. “You’re still seeing life and death as fixed points,” he said. “They’re a continuum. Everything carries both.”

I pivoted, leveling him with an exasperated glare. “That’s a charming philosophical take, but this flower is very clearly dead.”

He exhaled like I was missing the obvious. Moving to the table, he held a hand over the desiccated rose. “You’ve already shown you can animate it. You can make it unfurl, bend, move—none of that is imaginary. You’re pouring your energy into it.”

Crossing my arms, I huffed, “That’s just puppetry. I’m not giving it life, just wearing it like a necromantic glove.” For emphasis, I wiggled my fingers in the air.

“That’s one way to see it.” He narrowed his eyes even as he fought off a smile. He’d been doing that more lately—unwilling to show vulnerability after that near-moment in the doorway. “Life is energy in motion. You’re the source. Stop overcomplicating it.”

I grabbed a silver letter opener we’d been using for practice, tapping the flat edge against my palm. “If you try to sell me on necromancy as a brand of ‘aggressive gardening’, I might have to stab you.”

“Try again,” he said, stepping closer. “But this time, don’t force it. Think of what it was.”

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