Page 118 of Claimed

‘Yes.’

Her breath leaves slowly. ‘So Selphine is with Volkov.’

‘The image may be old.’

That earns me a small, unwilling glance. Barely enough but I will take it.

Aaron gestures to the route map. ‘Volkov appears to be central. Tavish and Elian answered to him. And they all connect to Selphine, initially facilitated by Vey. Dorian’s mercenaries may have been testing your stability or flushing her from cover for him through Eira.’

Eira looks up then. ‘What if Selphine isn’t working for Volkov?’

Every eye turns to her.

She keeps going, voice steadier now. ‘You saw the way they looked at each other. What if she’s working with him? Or for something he promised her?’

‘Something like what, little hunter?’

She stares directly at me. ‘The most prized commodity around, apparently.’

‘Immortality,’ Orion says quietly.

The word chills the room, but Eira’s face tightens. ‘Sure, immortality. But more than that. What if she’s doing all this for the ultimate prize? The love of a fated mate?’

Something dizzying and devastating moves through me.

Eira.

Don’t you see? It explains everything.

‘How far have you gone to find your fated mate?’ she asks out loud.

And that same dizziness turns dark, harrowing. Because I haven’t thought of Lyra Hannigan for a single moment in… days.

No, that is not accurate.

I have thought about her. Then immediately shoved her back into the ‘don’t touch’ vault. As if she is of no consequence. As if she no longer matters.

‘Volkov is a vampire,’ she says, her eyes still fixed to my face. But the haunted look is receding, replaced by a kind of solemn understanding. ‘Selphine is a witch. If she wants to be with him⁠—’

‘She would need transformation,’ Rowan finishes from the doorway.

We all turn as the witch enters, carrying a bowl of pale smoke in both hands, sleeves rolled to her elbows, runes drawn in dark ink along her forearms. She looks as if she has spent the last several hours arguing with dead languages.

‘I found a temporary solution,’ she says.

My entire body goes still as Eira’s breath catches beside me.

Rowan’s gaze flicks between us. ‘Temporary. Ugly. Painful. But better than bleeding to death or falling into Netheris every time one of you makes a poor emotional decision.’

‘Specificity,’ Eira murmurs, ‘feels targeted.’

‘It is.’

‘What solution?’ I ask.

Before Rowan can answer, the Tower shudders from its very foundations. The wards do not break but they bow as every light in the room dims to a low, swamp-gold glow.

The scent reaches me first. Magnolia, rain-wet earth. Old magic.