“I hesitated,” I scream, hating myself. “I could have killed them in an instant, could have ordered them to turn on one another, ordered them to stop breathing. But I hesitated to plan, to determine the perfect course of action, and they got away.” I sink to my knees in anguish, my failure closing in on me. A too familiar weight settles on my chest, restricting my breathing. Thorne sinks to his knees beside me as I try to catch my breath through the panic-induced shortness of breath.

“You can’t blame yourself,” he says gently, rubbing my back. “They brought enough air channelers today that their plan was clearly to leave if they lost.” Lunaria nuzzles her nose into my thigh, and I frantically check the spot where she was cut, but she’s fully healed. Relief makes me breathe out deeply.

“Thank you for helping Lunaria.” I rest my head against her side, letting her intense purring soothe my nerves. “And thank you—thank you for staying out of the fight. I can’t imagine that was easy for you.”

His hands clench, and his eyes harden. “No, it wasn’t.”

The room is littered with dozens of bodies, blood spewed across the floor and dripping from all the water left behind from the fight. “We should get help to clean this up,” I say with a sigh, standing.

“Can’t you just do your poofing trick?” he asks, and I can’t help the small laugh that I let out.

“No. It’s a long story, but once a fae has died, the aether leaves their body. My magic only works when aether is present.” It’s too much information, practically a confession about my magic. But Thorne doesn’t pry, and I’m not panicked about the slip.

“Maybe you should get cleaned up first?” he suggests. “You’re covered in blood, like literally every inch of your body. And you ripped off your skirt, which makes you look a bit unhinged. The smeared red lipstick and smudged kohl doesn’t help with that either. It’s sexy as fuck, but a little scary.” He smirks, and I howl with laughter, clutching my side from the stitches.

“I don’t think anyone has ever told me I looked unhinged,” I say between gulps of air.

“That’s what mates are for, witchling.” He shoves my shoulder with his in a gesture that feels so natural, like we’ve been doing it for centuries.

Rolling my eyes, my magic gathers to aerstep us to my rooms, when I realize the rebels may have gone to the manor, where Carex and his team are sitting targets. “Oakton,” I whisper. “We need to help them.” Thorne’s eyes widen in realization, and I aerstep us to the manor in Oakton, not worried about blowing Thorne’s cover this time. My focus is singular—catch the rebels who got away.