The first thing I register is warmth.

Not the suffocating heat of a nightmare or the volatile spike of my magic—but something softer. Heavier. Real.

Cassie Fairborn is wrapped around me.

My brain stutters. Everything after the court dinner flashes in disconnected shards: the stinging insult of Zyrella’s voice, the clink of silverware, the weight of Daevan’s gaze, the tightness in my chest when Cassie stood up and spoke—

And now this.

Her arm is slung around my waist like it belongs there. Her breath fans over the back of my neck, warm and steady. Her thigh hooks over mine, pressing through silk pajama shorts that were never designed for enemy entanglement. My camisole clings in all the wrong places, reminding me exactly how bare the space between us is.

And my glamour is still in place.

It takes me a second to realize it. Normally, it slips the moment I fall too deep into sleep, like a dropped mask. But right now? Flawless. Seamless. Not even a flicker of my starlit eyes bleeding through.

Either I’ve become a glamour prodigy overnight… or someone else reinforced it.

The thought of Seara bending over me while I slept sends a shiver down my spine—equal parts gratitude and violation.

I stay perfectly still. Afraid that breathing too loud will detonate whatever this is.

Then I do breathe—too deep—and Cassie shifts against me, her perfume breaking through: frosted citrus first, sharp as judgment; white camellia brushing soft at the edges; chilled vanilla musk lingering like she owns the room even in sleep. It tangles with my own scent, and I feel the telltale flare of betrayal: a bright spark of citrus igniting over my usual marshmallow-stargazer warmth. Attraction. Adrenaline. Gods, no.

Shit. She’s waking up.

Cassie inhales once, deep, the kind of inhale that says I’m conscious. I’m processing. A second passes. A third.

Then, stiffly, she untangles herself like she’s defusing a live bomb.

I roll away at the same time, yanking my blanket up over my shoulder, and we both freeze, deer caught in each other’s judgment.

She’s flushed. I’m flushed. My nails tap against the blanket seam like they’re trying to carve a rhythm out of panic.

“Well,” she mutters, brushing sleep-wild hair out of her face, “that wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever woken up to.”

I glare at her. “Careful. You’re still in stabbing range.”

“Relax, Firebrand. I wasn’t copping a feel. You sleep like you’re trying to escape gravity.”

The snort slips out before I can stop it. Then I hate myself for it, because she’s infuriating. Dangerous. The human equivalent of leaning too far over a balcony railing—and my traitorous body thinks she’s safe.

I stare hard at the foot of the bed like it has the answers to this disaster.

Cassie swings her legs over the side, stretching, and the borrowed Ravenrest shirt rides up just enough to reveal the line of her back. I whip my gaze away—to the desk, the notebooks, the highlighters. The project.

We didn’t finish it. We were supposed to—

“Oh my god.” Her voice cuts sharp. “What time is it?”

I grab my phone, hands still trembling. “Uh… six thirty. Closer to seven.”

She bolts upright. “Shit. Shitshitshit. I didn’t text my parents—I didn’t tell them I was staying—”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. Welcome to Friday. We spooned. We failed school. We probably broke mortal-fae etiquette. And I’m still not wearing a bra.

Cassie paces like a panther in silk, bare feet whispering across my rug. “This is bad. This is really bad. My parents are going to kill me. Actually kill me.”

“You’re alive. You’re not hungover. Your skirt’s still on. They’ll cope,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my tangles as I stagger toward the closet. My pajama strap slides down my shoulder; I don’t bother fixing it. Sleepwear solidarity, or whatever.

Cassie whirls on me. “I fell asleep in your bed. Without telling them. Do you even understand the optics of that?”

“Oh, I do,” I say, too dry. “I’m the poster girl for scandalous optics. Half-blood spawn sleeping with the enemy. Tragic. Tabloid-worthy. Totally untrue.”

“Wait—what?” she says, blinking.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” I yank the closet door open with more force than necessary and disappear inside. “I think I’ve got a uniform that’ll fit you.”

Cassie hesitates in the doorway, still looking frazzled. “Seriously?”

I rifle through a few hangers until I find a backup Ravenrest uniform in her size. My fingers tap against the wooden hanger twice—three times—before I toss it at her. “I hoard options. What can I say? Princess privilege.” My voice sounds too casual for someone whose brain is currently shrieking Cassie Fairborn is in your bedroom in the morning, Mira, this is not normal. “Try this. Socks are in the bottom drawer. Underwear drawer is…” I gesture vaguely. “Far left. Go wild.”

She blinks. “Wait. You’re offering me underwear?”

I shrug, stepping back out with a bra slung over one finger. My nails drum against the fabric before I hand it over. “It’s either that or go commando in front of the entire history department. I’m generous, not judgmental.”

Cassie’s cheeks flush pink. “You are impossible.”

And yet here you are, my brain supplies, annoyingly smug. I don’t say it.

Instead: “And yet, here you are. Borrowing my clothes. Rooting through my underwear drawer. Sleeping in my bed.”

“I didn’t mean to—” she starts, then cuts herself off, holding up the uniform like it might bite her. “Whatever. Fine. Where’s the shower?”

“Through there.” I nod toward the en suite. “Fresh towels on the shelf. Take your time.”

She walks past me without another word, but her fingers brush mine as she takes the bra. Just a slip. Static electricity. But the heat it leaves behind blooms across my skin—and with it, the faintest citrus spark in my scent, sharp and betraying. Her gaze flicks, like she clocked it. Then she’s gone, door clicking shut.

Water starts running.

I exhale, press my back to the closet door, and stare at the ceiling like it holds answers. My leg starts bouncing—hard enough that I have to press my palm against my thigh to make it stop. Cassie’s in my shower. Naked. You’re thinking about her naked. Stop thinking about her naked.

I clap my hands together once—sharp, grounding—and move.

I conjure a little flicker of light between my palms, the magic buzzing against my skin like static as I turn toward the bed—

—only to realize the chaos I swear we left there is now neatly stacked on my desk. Papers, notes, highlighters, Cassie’s tiny binder full of tabs and sarcastic margin comments. Seara. It has her tidiness written all over it.

Somehow, we’re supposed to present this in… what, two hours?

Gods. I hope the professor accepts gay panic as a valid excuse for mediocre formatting.

The bathroom door creaks open, and steam spills out like it’s trying to escape the scene of a crime.

Cassie emerges in my spare uniform—skirt slightly shorter on her than on me, blouse unbuttoned one too many for Ravenrest’s strict dress code. My eyes do the unforgivable thing of tracing the damp curve of her hair before my brain catches up and screams look away. Her honey-blonde curls are still dripping at the ends, framing her face in a way that is downright unfair for this early in the morning.

“Mirror’s fogged to hell,” she says, rubbing a towel over the back of her neck. “I had to guess on the eyeliner.”

I glance up from where I’ve been smoothing the final pages of our history notes and blink like an idiot. “You’ll still make someone cry with one glance, so mission accomplished.”

Cassie raises a brow. “That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I’m tired,” I mumble, standing to gather the last of the folders. “Sleep deprivation lowers my sarcasm threshold.”

She smirks but doesn’t press it. Instead, she crosses to the desk and scans the now-neat pile of materials. “You did all this while I showered?”

I shrug. “I multitask when emotionally compromised.”

There’s a beat where she doesn’t respond, just looks at me like she’s trying to see something through a fogged mirror of her own. My nails start drumming against the edge of the folder before I catch myself.

Then, like flipping a switch, she brushes past me toward the mirror above my vanity. “Decent hair products. I’m shocked.”

“I’ll pretend that wasn’t slander,” I say, edging toward the bathroom.

“You’d better,” she says, already pulling her damp hair into a ponytail. “I am not presenting in front of half the school while you’re still smelling like toasted sugar and thunderstorms.”

I freeze in the doorway, glancing back. “You know you don’t have to describe me like a scented candle.”

Her reflection smirks, icy blue gaze locked on her own ponytail. “You know you don’t have to make it so easy.”

I slam the bathroom door closed before she can see my face go up in flames.

The shower blasts hot as I step in, but it doesn’t help. The water is loud, almost too loud, and the citrus-bright spike in my scent lingers like Cassie left fingerprints on the air. No amount of scrubbing rinses it away.

Steam swallows me whole. The heat prickles against my skin, loosening the knots in my shoulders, but my brain refuses to follow.

Cassie Fairborn is in my room.

Cassie Fairborn is wearing my clothes.

Cassie Fairborn was naked in this shower two minutes ago and—

Nope. Absolutely not. Shut it down, Firebrand.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the anchors: the rich spice-sweet of my stargazer body wash, the slippery pull of damp curls between my fingers, the drumbeat of water on tile. My hands twitch, restless, so I curl one lock around my finger until it stings. It doesn’t settle me.

By the time I step out, my magic simmers just beneath my skin, restless and too warm. I wrap myself in a towel, braid my hair back on autopilot, slide into my uniform, grab my bag.

Cassie’s at my vanity, adjusting her ponytail like she owns the space. She looks up in the mirror when I enter, gaze holding for half a second too long before sliding away.

“Ready?” she asks, voice light. Eyes sharp.

No. Not even close.

“Yeah,” I lie.

We head for the stairs. My shoulder brushes hers on the way out, and for the life of me, I can’t tell if it’s an accident or a choice.

We creep down the marble staircase like fugitives in uniform.

Cassie’s steps are nearly silent—of course she’s the kind of girl who could assassinate someone in ballet flats.

Mine? Every heel-strike echoes like a drumbeat, ricocheting into the vaulted ceilings, announcing my guilt to the house.

My mind ping-pongs—our half-finished project, her arm around my waist, the inevitability of court gossip if anyone saw us like that. Too much heat under my skin. Too much awareness of her just to my left.

Morning light slants through the stained glass, painting us in fractured amber and crimson. The house seems to arch an eyebrow. Too warm. Too knowing.

“We’re in the clear,” I whisper. “If we just—”

“You’re not.”

The voice cuts clean through the air.

Cassie startles, slamming to a halt. My spine locks. Casual is impossible now.

Seara stands at the base of the arch, obsidian and judgment wrapped in crimson silk. Her robes shift though there’s no wind. She doesn’t need wind. She is the storm.

“Going somewhere?” Smooth voice. But smooth like a knife just before it slices.

I square my shoulders. “School. We’ve got a project to present. Don’t want to disappoint the humans.”

The words land sharper than I intend, but I can’t stand her look—the one that says you’ve already made a mistake; I’m just deciding how costly it will be.

Cassie shifts behind me, caught between wanting to vanish and wanting to defend herself.

Seara’s gaze flicks to her. Not soft. Not cruel. Weighing. Calculating.

“Miss Fairborn. You were not scheduled to stay the night.”

Cassie’s voice is tight. “I wasn’t. I—I fell asleep. We were working. I meant to text—”

“You didn’t.” Not accusation. Fact. Precision. Somehow worse.

Cassie pales. I feel the humiliation radiating off her, heat sharp against my back. My magic prickles in response, the marshmallow warmth of my scent singeing into wildfire at the edges.

“They were gracious,” Seara says, still studying her like she’s a specimen under glass. “We shared tea. They left once they saw you were… safe.”

Then she adds, deliberately, without looking away from me:

“I moved your schoolwork to the desk so you wouldn’t crush it in your sleep. And I tucked the two of you in.”

Heat floods my neck, dizzying. I roll my eyes—small enough to read as teenage petulance, big enough to mask how the words land like a strange, unwanted tenderness.

“Thanks, Mom,” I mutter, aiming for dry, but it comes out thinner than I want.

I hate that I’m suddenly thinking about the weight of the comforter being pulled over us, the faint smell of chamomile clinging to the air. Hate that a part of me is… grateful.

“So we’re good, right? No harm done.”

Seara’s eyes narrow slightly. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you plan to keep dragging your enemies into your sanctuary and waking up tangled in them like a scandal waiting to happen.”

My jaw tightens. She’s not wrong, but the way she says it makes me want to argue anyway.

Beside me, Cassie makes a small, choked sound—half incredulity, half embarrassment.

Seara takes a single step forward, her presence filling the space like a tide. “I won’t forbid it. But if you’re going to invite mortals to entangle themselves in our world, you’ll need to learn to do it with intention. Secrets rot faster when shared in pieces.”

The word mortals lands in my stomach like a stone. My scent spikes—ember-sweet marshmallow souring at the edges, Stargazer Bloom sharpening, faint salt in the air. I keep my face neutral. “I didn’t invite her.”

“No,” Seara says. “You just didn’t make her leave.”

And then she turns, crimson silk sliding away like a closing curtain.

Cassie looks like she’s holding her breath, like if she exhales too fast she’ll shatter. My own pulse hammers against my ribs. Without thinking, I grab her hand—quick, instinctive—and tug her toward the door.

“Come on. Let’s go pretend we’re still normal.”

The foyer feels too open, too bright, like someone’s watching from every angle. We’re almost to the door when Cassie stops.

“Mortal?”

I freeze mid-step.

Her voice is quiet, careful. Not a challenge—yet.

“What?”

She steps closer, her breath brushing between us. “She called me a mortal. Like it’s something different than what you are.”

My mouth goes dry.

“I mean…” She tries to laugh, brittle as glass. “That’s just her being dramatic, right? She’s got a flair for the Shakespearean.”

“Sure,” I say. Too quickly. Too flat.

Cassie’s eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”

I run a hand through my curls, now frizzing in the morning light and from the restless simmer of my magic. “Can we not do this right now? I’m barely holding it together as it is, and we still have to present in front of half the student body like sleep-deprived disasters.”

“Mira.”

That softer tone again. The one that makes my chest ache.

“I’ll explain,” I say, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “I promise. Just… not now. Not in front of anyone. Not before we make it through today without burning down our academic futures.”

She studies me, and the question is still burning in her eyes. Finally, she nods once. “Fine.”

But the look she gives me as we step outside?

Yeah. She already knows I’m not just lying to the teachers, or the court, or the squad.

I’m lying to her.

And I don’t know how long before the truth sets itself on fire.

----------------------------------------

The lights in the history classroom feel like interrogation lamps—too bright, too white. Or maybe I’m just too tired. My brain is still caught somewhere between my bed and the walk here, and my eyeliner’s threatening to bail on me entirely.

The board hums as the projector warms, the title slide glaring behind us in sterile blue text:

“The Formation of Dominveil’s City-State Model and Its Impact on Modern Governance.”

Which is a mouthful even before I remember I haven’t had coffee, breakfast, or a reason to breathe easy.

Cassie stands beside me like she was born for this—straight-backed, gloss catching the light, her borrowed uniform crisp enough to cut. She looks untouchable.

Except I know her hair is still damp from my shower.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Halloway says, arms folded, his tone balanced between skepticism and boredom. The scent of chalk dust clings to him like an aura.

Cassie starts, because of course she does. “Our presentation explores the transition of Dominveil from fractured territories to its current city-state governance structure,” she says, voice smooth and perfectly measured. She could be reading the will of a dead queen and still make it sound like law. “We traced its foundations to the Treaty of Concordia—”

I take the cue without missing a beat. “—which unified the warring merchant factions under a centralized council system. What most textbooks omit, however, is the violent suppression that preceded that peace.”

A ripple moves through the room—restless shifting, a chair squeak, a pen tapping twice against a desk. My nails press into the podium, grounding myself against the heat curling low in my stomach.

Cassie’s tone doesn’t falter. “We found inconsistencies in the primary records. Burned archives. Political erasures. Figures who were later framed as traitors when they had originally been signatories to the council agreement.”

I click to the next slide. The one she argued against. The one she lost. Now she lets it linger, but the sharp edge in her glance dares me to gloat.

“A revisionist history,” I say, savoring it like a sin. “We argue that Dominveil’s government isn’t just built on compromise—it’s built on the erasure of rebellion.”

A cough from the back. Mr. Halloway actually leans forward.

Cassie tilts her head, catching my eye. Her look says your move. My pulse spikes. It’s the same current from the library stacks when we cracked open the forbidden tome, the same as when she stood in my room this morning, dripping water over my rug like she belonged there.

I meet her gaze head-on. “And if you erase enough of a rebellion, eventually people forget it ever existed.”

The silence after feels like it’s waiting for one of us to blink first.

Mr. Halloway clears his throat. “Bold interpretation.”

Cassie doesn’t blink. “Isn’t that the point of history?”

Whispers ripple across the room, but neither of us look away.

The questions come fast—sources, citations, what we “really” think happened. Cassie parries like a duelist, precise and relentless. I cut in sharp where it hurts, making the room flinch. Every rebuttal is a clash; every perfectly timed counterpoint is another strike. Too smooth. Too practiced. Too much like a dance choreographed to draw blood.

We’re sparring, and the class thinks it’s teamwork.

By the time we sink back into our seats, my pulse is still high. Under the desk, my pen cap clicks open and shut in a rhythm I can’t stop. Cassie’s hand brushes mine—not a grab, not a hold, just enough to still me.

She leaves it there a beat too long.

Not friendship. Not forgiveness. A dare.

She doesn’t look at me again for the rest of class.

Not when Halloway drones about assignments.

Not when the room rustles with whispers.

But her hand…

It finds mine again when we’re sliding our papers into folders. Just a graze against my knuckles, light as breath.

Accident.

Obviously.

Definitely.

…Probably.

It’s enough to burn the coil of tension down to a molten hum. Enough to make my chest loosen like I’ve been holding it too tight since dawn.

She didn’t have to notice.

She didn’t have to care.

But she did.

And that fleeting, infuriating touch leaves me sitting straighter, pulse racing like I just won a round neither of us will admit we’re fighting.

When the bell rings, I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll see victory in her smirk.

Or worse—

I’ll see that she’s not sure who won.

The bell splits the silence like a blade. Chairs scrape. Paper shuffles. The room exhales, but I can’t. Not yet.

Cassie stands first, gathering her things with that maddening precision—every folder squared, every pen capped like she’s closing arguments in court. I scoop my notes without finesse, because of course she’s going to look like order incarnate while I look like I survived a bar fight.

We slip into the current of bodies spilling into the hallway, too close, shoulders brushing every few steps. Her perfume—frosted citrus, camellia, that soft vanilla edge—curls sharp in my lungs, slicing clean through the chalk-dust air. I hate that I notice.

“You almost derailed us with that rebellion line,” she says, voice pitched low enough for only me. Cool. Controlled. Cutting.

I shoot her a sidelong look. “You mean the part that made Halloway lean forward for the first time in his boring little life? You’re welcome.”

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Something sharper. “You’re lucky I carried the citations, or your dramatic flair would’ve crashed us into a C.”

I let out a soft laugh, heat curling under it. “Please. You live for my dramatic flair. Admit it.”

She angles toward me, walking backward a few steps just to prove she can. “I live for accuracy. You’re just… a tolerable side effect.”

The hall swallows the sound of my laugh, but it’s too late. My pulse already betrayed me, kicking harder at the way she said tolerable like it was sin.

I close the distance, my shoulder brushing hers again—harder this time, intentional. “Funny. Didn’t look like a side effect when you couldn’t keep your hand off mine.”

Her cheeks flush, quick and sharp, but she doesn’t break stride. “Don’t flatter yourself, Firebrand. I was keeping you from clicking that pen like a nervous freshman.”

“Sure,” I murmur, leaning close enough for her hair to brush my sleeve. “That’s all it was.”

She meets my gaze head-on, eyes cold fire, daring me to blink first. For a heartbeat, the hallway noise falls away—just me, just her, this razor-wire space where rivalry tastes too much like heat.

Then she smirks, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder like a dismissal. “Careful. People might think we work well together.”

I roll my eyes so hard it should be fatal. “Perish the thought.”

But my chest is still tight, too full of sparks that don’t know where to go.