I met his gaze, searching his eyes for any sign of deception or ulterior motives. "And why are you telling me this now?" I asked. “You could have explained all of this before.”

  He remained silent.

  “You didn’t think I’d actually go, did you?” I asked. I couldn’t stop the bitterness from creeping in my voice. “You thought you could flash those baby blues and give me one of your charm smiles and I’d just fall in line just like all the other girls, huh?”

  “What other –”

  “Well, I’m not like them, okay?” I snapped. “I’m going to go and I’m going to decide for myself what I’m capable of, what I can handle, all of it. I don’t need you anymore. I don’t want—I want a divorce.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, but now that they were there, between us, I realized it was the truth.

  I wanted to divorce him.

  I wanted him to see me as a person, not a promise, not an obligation.

  And this marriage was a bond that reminded me every damn day that we were tied together because of some sense of duty. And I didn’t want that anymore.

  His eyes weren’t soft this time.

  They didn’t shimmer with mischief or warmth or that quiet steadiness I’d gotten used to. No—this time, they were cold. Sharp. The kind of look that made the air feel thinner, like I’d just stepped into a blizzard barefoot.

  I froze.

  He didn’t say a word, but the silence between us was loud—stacked with things neither of us had the courage to say. And gods, he had never looked at me like that. Not even when we were at our worst. Not like I was a stranger. Not like I was the one who’d cut him.

  I’d always known there was danger in Toru. People whispered about it—how powerful he was, how untouchable. Some of them worshipped him like he outranked the Guardians. I never understood it. Not really. Not until this moment, with him standing in front of me, all that power simmering just beneath the surface, and one hard stare pinning me in place like I was nothing more than a bug under glass.

  Then he smiled. If you could even call it that. Tight. Humorless. Razor-sharp.

  “Divorce, huh?”

  The way he said it—low, clipped, like it tasted wrong in his mouth—sent a shiver through me.

  I forced myself to meet his eyes. I wasn’t going to cower, even if my chest felt like it was caving in. “Yes,” I said. Simple. Firm. The tiniest bit hollow. “I think it’s best for both of us.”

  My voice held. Barely. My knees, not so much.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like he was trying to burn through me with sheer will. There was anger in that look, yeah. Hurt too. But something else curled underneath it—darker, heavier, something I couldn’t name and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “You want to leave,” he said. Not a question. More like an accusation. “Is that it?”

  And stars help me, I didn’t have an answer that would make either of us feel better.

  "It's not that simple," I replied. "I have a duty, Toru. I need to go to the Celestial Institute, prove myself as a Guardian. I need to be my own person away from you. You can’t protect me forever."

  A bitter laugh escaped him, the sound echoing in the room. "And you think a divorce is the way to do that?" he asked.

  "It's about freedom, Toru," I said, my voice finally trembling despite my efforts to keep it steady. "For both of us. We deserve to be free from a marriage that was born out of obligation."

  Toru's gaze darkened further, his eyes narrowing as he regarded me. "Elara, I will not divorce you."

  I felt a jolt of surprise at his words. “What do you mean?” I demanded. I wasn’t scared anymore. I was pissed. “You can't deny me this."

  A flicker of something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I can, and I will,” he said. “You want to go to the Celestial Institute? Fine. But you aren’t leaving me."

  His words landed like a slap—sharp, final, impossible to argue with. I felt them settle between us like a wall I couldn’t climb, couldn’t even crack.

  My chest burned with frustration. “You can’t keep me tied to a marriage we never even wanted,” I snapped, jaw tight.

  Toru didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “This marriage serves a purpose,” he said, cool and immovable. “It gives you protection. Stability. I’ll take you to the Celestial Institute. But I won’t release you.”

  Just like that. No emotion. No room for discussion. Just a line drawn in the sand, and I was on the wrong side of it.

  The weight of it hit me all at once.

  I had let myself hope—for freedom, a clean slate, something mine for once. But that hope cracked under his words, left behind in pieces at my feet. He wasn’t budging. And now I was locked into something I didn’t understand the full cost of. Not yet.

  I hated how steady he looked, how calm. Like he’d already thought this through a hundred times and I was the last to know.

  “Get on,” he said, nodding at the bike. “Before I change my mind.”

  Ten

  The night air was cool against my skin, laced with secrets I wasn’t ready to hear. I stood beside Toru’s bike, the low rumble of the engine humming like a promise I didn’t fully understand. Moonlight slicked across the pavement, stretching our shadows long and sharp.

  My heart wouldn’t calm down.

  Toru turned to me, eyes unreadable, and held out a helmet. “Put this on,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

  I reached for it. Our fingers brushed, and that stupid, familiar jolt shot through me—hot and uninvited. I hated how easily it happened. Like my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were over. Like it still remembered what it was like to belong to him.

  Helmet in place, I looked up—and there it was.

  Heat.

  His gaze met mine and didn’t flinch, like he was daring me to admit I felt it too. That same pull. That same tension that had always danced at the edges of us, waiting to catch fire.

  Without a word, he pulled off his jacket and dropped it over my shoulders.

  I froze.

  The scent hit first—clean, warm, unmistakably him. It wrapped around me like a memory I didn’t want but couldn’t shake. I slid my arms into the sleeves on instinct; the leather swallowing me whole. Too tight. Too close. Too him. It burned. It branded. And I knew I’d never get the smell out of my lungs.

  “Ready?” he asked, voice rougher now. Watching me like he already knew the answer.

  I nodded.

  I climbed on behind him, the bike roaring to life beneath us. My arms slid around his waist, hesitant at first, then tighter than I meant them to be. The heat of his back seeped through the jacket and into my skin like a secret I didn’t want to keep.

  We pulled into the street; the city blurring around us in silver and shadow. I leaned with him into every turn, our bodies moving in sync like we’d done this a thousand times. Maybe we had. Maybe not like this.

  The wind whipped past, tugging at my hair, but it couldn’t shake the feeling building in my chest. The closeness. The tension. That quiet, electric pull between us that only seemed to grow stronger the further we went.

  I held on tighter, fingers curled into the back of his jacket like I needed something solid to anchor me. My heart pounded in rhythm with the motorcycle, the world smearing past us in streaks of shadow and light. For a moment, it was just him and me. No voices. No past. No future. Just motion.

  But the longer we rode, the more the space between us disappeared—physically, emotionally, in ways that made my skin prickle.

  His body was solid against mine. The engine throbbed beneath us. The wind slid over my face, sharp and cold, but everything inside me was too warm, too aware. It was all too much.

  Shit.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  This was Toru.

  The same infuriating man who treated our marriage like a business contract, who acted like he knew what was best for me, who had just looked me dead in the eye and said no. No to freedom. No to choice. No to me.

  And still—still—I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice dropped when he got possessive, or the fire in his eyes when I challenged him. It messed with my head. Made my cheeks burn.

  I wasn’t one of those girls. I wasn’t.

  They could swoon over him all they wanted. They could giggle and bat their lashes and fantasize about what it would be like to matter to him.

  I didn’t want to matter to him.

  I wanted out.

  So why did jealousy curl through my chest like smoke? Why did it choke me to the point I could barely breathe?

  I hated this.

  I hated him.

  I wished he’d just said yes. Given me the divorce. Cut the thread and let me go. Instead, I was stuck—half-bound, half-forgotten, floating in the middle of something I didn’t choose.

  The city faded behind us, all sharp edges and noise giving way to quiet roads and rolling hills. Stars blinked overhead like they knew more than I did. The night air cooled, carrying the damp, earthy scent of the forest. Everything felt still, but my head wouldn’t stop spinning.

  The bike purred beneath us. The road stretched ahead in silver ribbons.

  And somewhere beyond all of this, the Celestial Institute waited.

  But right now, I couldn’t think about destiny or training or whatever life was waiting for me.

  Not when I was wrapped in Toru’s jacket, pressed against his back, and drowning in feelings I didn’t want to name.

  The wind skimmed across my cheeks, cool and insistent, mixing with the adrenaline already humming through me. I stayed tucked close to Toru, his back solid, steady. He handled every curve in the road like he was born on two wheels—calm, focused, in control.

  The farther we got from the city, the more something between us started to shift. It wasn’t obvious. Just subtle things—his breathing, my grip, the way the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy. Out here, in the quiet dark with nothing but road ahead and memories behind, it was like we could pretend for a second that things weren’t so complicated.

  I kept my hands around his waist—not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to keep steady. But even that small contact buzzed through me, soft and sharp all at once. Familiar. Dangerous.

  Because no matter how far I’d tried to move past him, there were still pieces of us tucked into my bones.

  The road wound forward in long, dark stretches. No lights. Just stars and moonlight and the steady growl of the engine beneath us. Every mile brought us closer to the Institute, and I could feel it building—something in my chest tightening with every passing second.

  This was it.

  The start of everything I’d never been allowed to want. A chance to stand on my own, to prove I could be more than a shadow trailing behind someone else’s legacy. But also—Gosh—it was terrifying.

  Up ahead, the spires came into view, piercing the night sky like the pages of a story I hadn’t read yet.

  And suddenly, everything felt real.

  The jacket around me, the hum of the engine, the weight of my choices. The gravity of where I was going and who I’d have to become to survive it.

  I sat up a little straighter, heart racing as we neared the gates. I didn’t know what was waiting inside. I didn’t know what I’d have to give up to make it through.

  But I wanted this.

  Even if I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  The Celestial Institute loomed ahead, silent and breathtaking, its towers glowing under the moonlight. The air felt charged, like it knew who I was and what I’d come here to do.

  I took a shaky breath, pulse thundering, and whispered to myself:

  Don’t screw this up.

  Toru brought the bike to a stop, the engine quieting into a low purr before fading completely. Silence settled over us like fog. The Institute rose ahead, tall and sharp against the night sky, its spires silvered in moonlight. It looked like something out of a dream—and just as likely to turn into a nightmare.

  I peeled off my helmet, heart hammering. Nerves, adrenaline, maybe even a flicker of excitement. I turned to say something—anything—to break the silence between us.

  But he beat me to it.

  “Lar,” he said, voice low. Softer than I’d ever heard it.

  I blinked.

  He wasn’t looking at the Institute anymore. He was looking at me. And not in that usual smug, I-know-better way he had. There was something raw in his eyes. Unsteady. Real.

  He cleared his throat like the words were caught somewhere in his chest. “Before you go in… there’s something I need to say.”

  I stiffened, unsure if I should brace myself or run. This wasn’t like him. Toru didn’t do vulnerable. He didn’t do talking. He deflected, teased, deflected some more. Whatever this was? It felt like peeling open a wound.

  He didn’t look away. “I know we’ve got history,” he said. “Messy, complicated… and not always good. And I’ve made choices I shouldn’t have. But everything I did—everything—I swear it was to protect you. Whether you believe that or not.”

  The words hit harder than I expected. Honest. Unpolished. Not wrapped in sarcasm or a smirk.

  And damn it, that made them harder to ignore.

  My chest tightened, a rush of feelings I wasn’t ready to sort through flooding in. I didn’t want to forgive him. I didn’t even know if I should. But hearing that? It cracked something I’d buried.

  He kept going. “You’re about to step into a world that doesn’t play fair. That doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve been through. So just… promise me you’ll be smart. Trust your instincts.” His voice dipped. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

  For a second, I couldn’t breathe. He meant it. Every word.

  And stars help me—I felt it.

  “I promise,” I said, quiet but steady. “I’ll be careful. I’ll protect myself.” I hesitated, then added, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  Toru’s expression softened, barely, but it was there. A flicker of relief. “I’ll always worry about you,” he murmured. “Because I couldn’t bear to see anything happen to you.”

  My breath caught.

  He didn’t say it like a line. Didn’t say it to win me over or shut me up. He meant it—raw and unguarded—and that made it worse somehow. Because it was easier to hate him when he was cold and distant and infuriating.

  Not like this.

  Not real.

  The air between us felt too still, too heavy with everything unspoken. For just a second, all the noise—resentment, blame, history—fell away. And I saw him.

  Not the babysitter. Not the arrogant ass with too many secrets and too much control.

  But a man.

  Someone who felt things deeply and just didn’t know how to show it without setting something on fire.

  And maybe… maybe he always had.

  Toru looked at me like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, steadier.

  “With you at the Institute,” he said, “things will change. For both of us.”

  Something in me tensed.

  “I’ve decided to move into the professor campus,” he went on. “It’s close to the Institute. I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  It slipped out sharper than I meant. But I couldn’t hide the sudden spike of emotion—shock, confusion, something tangled and complicated that curled up in my throat.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked, more cautious now.

  “I’m still your husband,” he said.

  My jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask⁠—”

  “And you’ll never have to,” he cut in. “Don’t you get that?”

  I did. That was the problem.

  I didn’t want to fight—not here, not with the Institute rising behind me like some mythical beast waiting to devour its next hopeful soul. I didn’t have the energy.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” I said, meeting his gaze. My voice came out thinner than I liked. “But I don’t want you making decisions just because of me.”

  His mouth twitched, just barely—something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “Believe it or not,” he said, “this one’s for both of us. I’ve spent a long time keeping people out.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “But somehow, you always manage to get under my skin.” And then, with that maddening glint in his eye, he added, “Wife.”

  Stars.

  The word hit like a strike to the ribs—equal parts fire and ache. I didn’t know whether I wanted to laugh or shove him off the damn bike.

  My chest tightened. I hated how easy it was for him to break through my defenses when he was like this—unguarded. Honest. That version of Toru didn’t show up often, but when he did, he wrecked me.

  “I’ll be nearby,” he said, quieter now. “If you ever need anything… just say the word.”

  It wasn’t just an offer.

  It was a promise.

  The kind that carried weight. The kind I wasn’t sure I could take from him without giving something back.

  I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t ready to unpack the truth behind those words—his or mine.

  Toru looked at me for another beat, then nodded toward the gates. “Let’s get you inside.”

  And just like that, the moment shifted again—back to business. Back to reality.

  But part of me was still stuck in the space between what we were and what we might’ve been if things had gone differently.

  Or worse… what we still could be.

  Eleven

  The Celestial Institute rose ahead like something out of a storybook—spires gleaming in the early morning light, too perfect to be real. My pulse kicked up as Toru and I walked toward the entrance, the path narrowing beneath our feet. Every step brought a fresh wave of nerves. Excitement too, but the nerves were winning.

  The trees that lined the path were old—ancient, really. Their branches stretched toward the sky like they had something to say, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze. I caught the scent of damp earth and pine and something… brighter. Like possibility.