Page 109 of Ashen Souls

This was never a brand of ownership inflicted upon a captive. It was a mutual vow. An eternal imprint, sealed by unyielding devotion.

Before I could breathe, time snatched me forward, launching me into a moment of deafening chaos.

Daeren was consumed by the pull of an open void. I was witnessing his exile again, but this time I saw what was taken from him.

As the dimensional rift claimed him, his chest arched. Something radiant wrenched away from his falling body. His soul sheared free, left suspended in our realm as the magic banished his vessel into the dark.

The gateway crashed shut. The severed fragment of his soul lingered in the shadows, abandoned.

The vision didn't give me time to process the horror. It folded inward again, dropping me into a nightmare yet to come.

Daeren sat on a throne of jagged obsidian. The infernal realm pulsed in sick synchronization with his presence. Monstrous silhouettes groveled at the base of his throne. He wasn't just a prisoner there as I had thought.

He was a god.

And as Daeren raised a single hand, the boundary between our worlds shattered.

Living nightmares poured through the rift, flooding the concrete streets of my world. The roar of unnatural fire drowned out the distant wail of sirens. Human screams echoed through the ash-choked air as the shadows consumed everything they touched.

I slammed back into reality. The sigil on my wrist scorched my skin, sending violent tremors through my limbs.

My fingers clawed at my left hand. I ripped the ring off and hurled it across the room. The metal clattered against the hardwood floorboards.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, suffocating a sob as nausea rolled through me. The taste scorched concrete still coated the back of my throat.

The banishment spell had cleaved Daeren in half. His true form ruled the infernal ruins, while his severed soul lingered here. He didn't care about reclaiming his lost humanity. He only sought to break the dimensional lock.

And I was the living bridge. The final key.

Tears spilled onto my hands. Every touch, every whisper in the dark, every intimate concession—none of them stemmed just from passion.

Giving him the one word he wanted wouldn't just seal our bond. Yielding to him meant handing over the matches to burn my world to the ground.

30

♫ FOALS—INTO THE SURF

My bedroom felt like ground zero of a disaster. No glass had been smashed. No furniture overturned. Yet the space had been irrevocably violated. The ring lay somewhere on the floorboards, and I refused to look down and acknowledge it.

He hadn’t just lied. He had weaponized my own body against me.

I couldn't trust my own skin anymore. He had buried himself so deep inside my head that I couldn't tell where my own heartbeat ended and his influence began.

I planted my hands flat against the mattress and forced myself to stand. I needed to leave. The stagnant air of the apartment was suffocating me. If I stayed in this silence for another second, I would start listening for his voice. I would catch myself waiting for him.

I pulled on the first clothes within reach: an oversized hoodie, black leggings, mismatched socks.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand as I shoved my keys into my pocket. Harper’s name lit the cracked screen.

Conversation required a coherent mind, and I barely had enough focus to breathe. I picked up the phone and swiped to send a text instead.

Me: Just need air. I’ll explain later.

Before I could toss it onto the bed, it vibrated again. Harper never double-called unless someone was bleeding.

I pressed the speaker icon. “Harp, I really can't…”

“Aveline.” Her voice was a trembling rasp. “Are you sitting down?”