“Where’ve you gone?” The clipped lilt of Braxton’s English accent draws me away from Versailles and back to Gray Wolf, Braxton’s luxurious suite, and his plush canopy bed. “Because you’re clearly not present.”

  I rise onto my elbows and return my focus to him. “I was thinking about what Arthur said.”

  Braxton’s lips curve into a grin. “Arthur’s a bit of a windbag. You’ll need to be more specific.”

  I push a hand to my belly, and, deepening my voice, I say, “You alone are the alchemist of the reality you create.” It’s my best impression of our…boss, leader, mentor, king? I’m still not sure how to refer to the reclusive tech trillionaire responsible for bringing me here. The man whose first initial is on the gold signet ring I wear, proclaiming me to be a member of the AAD, or Arthur’s Artful Dodgers. The man who, I’m starting to suspect, is tracking our every move. And though I didn’t sound anything like him, Braxton laughs, and that alone feels like a win.

  “Aw, yes,” Braxton says. “Amor fati.”

  “What did you say?” I turn onto my side, my gaze poring over his ridiculously beautiful face, moving from those ocean-blue eyes to the bit of a bend in his nose to those warm, inviting lips that really know how to kiss.

  “Amor—”

  “No,” I cut in, “I know the phrase. It’s just—how do you know it?”

  “My dad used to say it. It’s about learning to make the best of what happens—transforming the unwanted experiences into something meaningful.”

  I gaze at him in wonder. Our connection was undeniable from the start, no matter how hard I tried to fight it at first. But this—well, I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s too strange and specific to be a coincidence.

  “What?” He shoots me an inquisitive look as he cups a hand to my cheek. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because my dad used to say it, too,” I tell him. “And what are the chances of that?”

  Braxton’s gaze burns into mine. “Probably about the same chances as the two of us ending up here, in this gilded cage.”

  A lovely rush of warmth blooms in my chest when his fingers find the talisman that hangs from the slim gold chain at my neck. The gift he commissioned for my eighteenth birthday. The blue lapis moon and the diamond pavé star nestled inside the fine golden cage act as both a symbol of us and our lives lived inside this snow globe–like fortress, and a sort of insurance against getting lost in a Fade—lost in time, never to return.

  Like what happened to Anjou, and probably Song, and once upon a time to Killian, too. The idea of it is so horrible, I instinctively shudder.

  “You all right?” Braxton smooths a hand down my arm, erasing the chills. And when his eyes meet mine, his gaze is so open, so caring, I know in my heart that either Killian is lying, or he’s completely mistaken.

  Braxton just doesn’t have it in him to ever leave anyone stranded in time.

  “Of course I’m all right,” I tell him. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?” I look him square in the face, and the weird thing is, I don’t even blush when I say it.

  With Braxton, there’s no need for pretending my feelings either don’t exist or, worse, that he shouldn’t concern himself with them. And there’s absolutely no shame in showing up as my real, flawed, totally authentic self.

  As for the L word… We’re not quite there yet. But, like everything else with us, there’s no rush. Here at Gray Wolf, we have all the time in the world.

  Braxton lets go of the talisman and watches it slide down my chest, falling beneath the deep V of my silk camisole. Then he slips a finger under the strap, tugs it down past my shoulder, and presses a trail of soft kisses along the ridge of my collarbone.

  Despite having kissed well into the night, kissing ourselves to sleep, I can never get enough of the warmth of his lips, the electric charge of his fingers questing over my skin.

  I push closer, losing my hands in his soft tousle of hair. And when his mouth finally finds mine, my lips instantly part, surrendering to his kiss—to the heated thrum that begins at my core, radiates through my skin, and straight into his.

  “Do you feel it?” he whispers into the kiss. “This energy between us. This frisson.”

  “Always,” I murmur. “Always when I’m with you.”

  I pull away, needing to see his beautiful bottomless gaze.

  But instead of Braxton, I find the duke’s hideous face staring right back.

  2

  My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

  My body is frozen, my throat closing in on itself.

  “Tasha—” Braxton speaks in the sort of reassuring whisper you might use with a small child or sleepwalker. “Darling.” He places a careful hand on my arm. “Please—look at me.”

  I want to, but I can’t. Not while there’s a part of me that’s still caught in the duke’s grip.

  I haul myself up against the headboard, drop my head in my hands, and fight with all I have in me to will the duke’s image out of my brain.

  No, I silently scold his arrogant face. Go the fuck away. You are dead to me, and I’m done talking about you—done thinking about you…

  “It’s not real,” Braxton says. “You were having a flashback. He can never harm you again, never get anywhere near you. Arthur will never send you back to that timeline.”

  It’s a few beats for my breath to grow steady and my heart to resume a more regular pace. And when I finally open my eyes to find Braxton keeping a close and careful watch over me, I’ve never been more determined to banish that stupid duke from my mind, whatever it takes.

  “Maybe this week’s session doesn’t have to be your last.” Braxton eyes me cautiously.

  I turn away, trying to hide my humiliation. Claiming I’d been cured, only to fall into a full-blown relapse just a few moments later, leaves me feeling deeply embarrassed.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling even worse when I see how worried I’ve made him. “No quick fixes, no rushing toward a conclusion. I promise.”

  “Tasha—” Braxton’s voice is edged with concern. “It’s not about me—it’s for you. I just want to see you feeling whole again, safe in the world. I see Dr. Lucy sometimes, too, you know. There’s no shame in it.”

  “I guess we each have our nightmares.” I sigh, hoping to put an end to it, when I’m struck by a telling sting at the back of my eyes. And I quickly lower my chin, blinking away the threat of tears until I’m sure it’s passed for good.

  After years of taking care of my mom and putting my own needs aside in the struggle to fill all of hers, it’s been a big adjustment for me to get used to being cared for, looked after, in the way Braxton cares for and looks after me. And the truth is, while I’ve gotten so much better at sharing my feelings and being open to his, there are also times when his big-hearted displays knock me so sideways, I have to fight the urge to push him away.

  For so many years, being alone felt safe. Even now, despite all the self-work I’ve done, there’s still a shadowy part of me that insists I don’t deserve Braxton’s affections—that I’m not the sort of girl worth sticking around for.

  Of course, somewhere deep down inside, I know it’s not true. But it’s not always enough to stop that persistent voice of gloom.

  A long stretch of silence swells like an ocean between us until I finally lift my chin, level my gaze on his, and breach the quiet by saying, “I will feel safe again. Someday soon, I’m sure. But for now, I was hoping you could remind me just exactly where we left off.”

  I attempt a sexy grin, but it feels so awkward on my face, I’m sure I’ve fallen short. Still, what I lack in skill I make up for in determination, and I push away from the headboard and lean closer to him until my fingers are grazing the bold curve of his biceps.

  There was a time when I used to make out with random boys in a quest to escape the monotony of my life.

  Am I doing that now?

  Seeking physical affection as a way to avoid real emotions and a hard conversation?

  Maybe.

  Probably.

  For me, intimate conversations always feel like a much bigger risk than an intimate act.

  But I also know what I want. And right now, I want Braxton.

  My fingers trail up his arm, and while I know he wants me, too, there’s no mistaking the tightening of his jaw, the stiffening of his spine, or the way he holds himself in check, refusing to fully give in.

  “Darling,” he says, his brow slanting, lips pulling into a frown. “You don’t have to—”

  But I don’t let him finish. I have something to prove, partly to him, but mostly to me. I need to show us both that we can enjoy a romantic moment without the duke constantly intruding.

  “It’s fine,” I say, practically begging him to believe it so that maybe I’ll believe it as well. “Really. It was just a glitch. It won’t happen again.”

  My hands slide over his shoulders as I lay claim to his mouth. My tongue playfully nudging until he opens to me, to the kiss, to the unspoken promise to come.

  A low groan sounds deep in his throat as he pulls me closer and kisses me so thoroughly that all traces of the duke are long gone. Then, he slides us both down the mattress, centers my body over his, and wastes no time reclaiming my mouth, my neck, the lobe of my ear. His lips leave a tingling trail in their wake that sets my body aflame.

  “This,” I whisper, conforming my body to the hard contours of his. “This is exactly what I want.” I sink my teeth into his shoulder, biting playfully but still leaving a faint, crescent-shaped mark.

  All this and then some more. So. Much. More. The words trill through my head, but I don’t speak them. I’d much rather show than tell.

  There’ve been so many nights when we’ve kissed for what feels like forever—wearing ourselves out with the searing scrape of our tongues, the sweet sweep of our fingers exploring each other. We’ve done all we can to take it slow—to build a solid foundation of comfort and trust. But now it feels like time to move on to… Well, everything else.

  And I know he feels the same. I can feel it in the feverish roll of his hips, the urgent brush of his thumbs as they slide under my camisole, along the crook of my waist, where they pause at the curve of my breasts.

  I press a palm to his chest and angle myself to his side so I can drag my gaze down the length of him, tracking my hand as it skims along the muscled valley of his abs, drawing a slow circle just south of his navel that sets his heart drumming so hard I can feel the pulse of it under his skin.

  Then I inch my hand lower.

  And then lower still.

  Slipping past the waistband of his briefs until I find him. Laying claim to the warmest part of him. My lips curling with anticipation when I see the way he trembles under my touch, immediately ceding all power, yielding to whatever I want.

  “Tasha,” he groans, turning until his lips find mine, the kiss growing so heated we’re forced to withdraw. “You have no idea how much I want this,” he says. “How much I want you.”

  His lips return to a crushing, fiery grind before skimming their way down my throat, all the way to where his hands are now cupping my breasts.

  “Show me. Show me exactly how much,” I command, and Braxton is quick to obey.

  Between the push and pull of his kiss and the sweet rhythmic circling of our hips, I don’t want this to end. I only want more. More of us. More of him.

  I tug at his briefs, desperate to remove all barriers left standing between us. “See?” I say, gliding my tongue around the shell of his ear, watching his eyes glaze as my hand begins to move. “There’s no need to worry. Clearly, I’m cured.”

  Braxton’s mouth falls slack as he draws in a long, tortured breath. And just when I think we’re going to actually, really, finally go there, his fingers circle my wrist, stopping my hand.

  “But Tasha—are you sure?” His voice is a rasp, telling me it’s taking every ounce of his strength to hold back and do the right thing. The gentlemanly thing. The Braxton thing.

  Which only makes me want him more.

  I sink my teeth into my lower lip. I’m so, so ready for this.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. My tone is teasing, convinced I already know the answer.

  He lifts his hands to my face, his gaze brimming with such unbridled reverence it simultaneously scares me and makes my heart sing.

  We close the space between us, our lips finding each other once more, when, from seemingly out of nowhere, a blast of Beethoven crashes into the room.

  3

  Well before the first four notes of “da-da-da-dum” that mark the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth can sound, I know it’s a message from Arthur.

  Which also explains the speed with which Braxton rolls out from under me, makes a leap for his nightstand, retrieves his Gray Wolf–issued tablet, and gives it his full attention.

  I prop my head onto my elbow and release a frustrated sigh. Since everything at Gray Wolf happens by Arthur’s design, it’s no accident he chose this piece as his musical avatar. According to what Beethoven’s secretary and biographer revealed after his death, the idea behind the piece was Fate knocking at the door. Which means Arthur’s use of the symphony of fate to announce all his calls is yet another reminder that we are all here because of him.

  Arthur is the ruler of all our destinies.

  I stare at Braxton’s back, watching as he hunches over his tablet, his attention entirely forfeited to whatever Arthur is requesting of him.

  And if it were me in his place, I’d be doing the same.

  Here, on this remote outcropping of rock, a place of perpetual wind, rain, and fog, Arthur stands in for the sun, and all of us orbit around him.

  My gaze moves inward to the memory of the girl I was before I came to this place. Back then, I had zero interest in anything having to do with the past. For me, it was a day-to-day struggle just to survive in the present. But here at Gray Wolf, I’m up to my eyeballs in history, since Arthur goes to great lengths to shield us from the modern world outside these walls.

  At first, I was determined to rebel against everything here. But the longer I stay, the more I realize that immersing us in the cultures of previous centuries makes it easier to blend in when we’re out time-traveling—or Tripping, as we call it. Which, in turn, helps keep us safe.

  “Sorry.” Braxton tosses a rueful look over his shoulder. “You know I have to respond.” He returns to his slab, typing a reply with his thumbs.

  “I also know it’s Sunday,” I grumble, my body still quivering in all the places Braxton touched me and all the places he was about to touch me. “Whatever Arthur wants, it can wait.”

  “Not sure he’d agree.” Braxton pushes away from the mattress, rakes a hand through his bed-tousled hair, and lets out a sigh. “I need to shower,” he says, and before I can offer to join him, he adds, “Trust me, it’ll be a very cold shower.” He grins.

  I pull a pillow to my chest and make an exaggerated frowny face. But Braxton just laughs, plants a kiss on my forehead, and heads for the bathroom. “To be continued,” he calls.

  A moment later, I hear a spray of water coming from the shower, and I slip out of bed and head for his closet in search of something to wear so I don’t have to walk through the halls in last night’s dress.

  Not that anyone would care. Gray Wolf operates on an entirely different set of rules than the typical school. Still, the dress is sort of skimpy, and I’m in the mood for something warmer. And if it happens to smell like Braxton, well, bonus.

  Like everything in this place, Braxton’s closet is pure luxury. A spacious walk-in filled with so many designer pieces, it’s like wandering into an upscale men’s store. I tip onto my toes, reaching for the very top shelf, and I grab a black Gray Wolf sweatshirt with the academy logo emblazoned on the front. And I can’t help but wonder what the color might represent.

  New arrivals at Gray Wolf always start off as Green. And honestly, I hated every moment of being a newbie. Not that being a Yellow was much better. All it really meant was that I was no longer a Green but not yet a Blue. Which also meant I was forced to eat my meals alone. If it wasn’t for Braxton volunteering to share a table with me, I’m not sure how I would’ve made it through.

  But that’s all in the past. And now, after working my ass off to finally make Blue, I eat my meals with my friends and Trip to whatever timeline Arthur sees fit to send me.

  At first, the idea of time travel seemed like the ultimate mind fuck. But then I made my first Trip back to 1745 Versailles, and my mind was blown open for real.

  I pull the academy sweatshirt over my head, and just as I hoped, I catch a hint of Braxton’s warm, spicy scent. After burying my face in the sleeve and inhaling again, I grab a pair of old sweatpants, cinch them at the waist, and am just about to go hunt down my shoes when I spot a pair of dusty black boots shoved into a far corner, and a jagged shard of memory slices right through me.

  Last time I saw those boots, I joked that I should wear them, since they’re obviously too small for Braxton. I was just having fun, but his reaction was so weird, the moment stuck with me.

  His face turned ashen. His gaze went hollow and dark. Then he snatched the boots from my hands and tossed them into the corner where they lie now.

  And seeing them again… Well, I have that same prick at the back of my neck, that same insistent twinge in my belly, when I remember the way he replied when I called him out for acting so strangely.

  They remind me of a long-ago event I prefer not to dwell on, he’d said.

  So why do you keep them? I asked.

  Because I can’t afford to forget.