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Valentin goes deathly still inside the bond.

Then the Tower shakes with his roar.

EIRA!

I grip the edge of the dresser and stay upright as my tongue burns and my throat tightens beneath the invisible hand closing around the name before it can rise.

Whatever Selphine built inside me is awake and furious.

Good.

So am I. I push again. ‘Ly⁠—’

The second attempt cuts deeper.

Fuck. Blood spills over my lower lip and splashes onto Valentin’s shirt. The Glass flares red. The younger reflection in the shard presses one hand to the other side, eyes wide and wet and wild.

Valentin’s presence crashes towards me through the bond.

Little hunter, whatever you are doing, STOP.

‘No.’ My voice is a rasp, wet with blood.

Whatever she’s doing, she can’t win, he snarls. I won’t let her.

The door flies open. Valentin appears in the doorway, fearsome in black, hair loose and wild, eyes burning with such terror it almost breaks me. His mark has crawled higher, dark as spilled ink beneath his skin. He looks like a king coming apart in full view of his own kingdom.

He sees the blood on my mouth and his face goes white.

No. Whatever you mean to do, the answer is no. I fucking command it.

My lips curve into something that hurts. ‘You can’t stop me. And don’t try that sleeping thing again. I know what you did earlier. If you do it again, I’ll never forgive you.’

His jaw locks, his eyes black and frantic. ‘I merely wanted you to rest.’

‘You compelled me.’

‘I gave your body what your pride would have refused.’

‘Very elegant way of saying you knocked me out.’

His eyes flash, but the anger cannot hold. Fear devours it too quickly. ‘You still need rest, little hunter.’

He takes a step towards me. Stumbles.

My heart lurches.

The mark pulses black against his throat. He catches himself with one hand against the wall, and the sight of that – Valentin Moretti, ancient, lethal, impossible, bracing himself like the curse has reached into his bones and shattered – nearly steals my nerve.

Nearly.

I step back before he can reach me. ‘No.’

His head lifts. Agony twists his features at the word. ‘Eira. Please.’

That voice. Gods, that voice. He says my name like a warning, a plea, a command, and a prayer he would deny making.

I press one hand to my throat. Blood slides between my fingers. ‘I need to do this.’