Nico could feel his friend’s pain. It was more than apparent to him that Raphael wanted Miryam, but he wouldn’t keep her from being with her mate, even if it tortured him.

  Miryam’s breath caught. She looked at him, really looked, and Nico saw something pass between them—a fragile, electric connection that made the air hum.

  Morgan looked away, but her voice was thick with emotion. “I apologize for my comment.” She looked at Raphael and then Nico. “It is a big choice, but honestly, I don’t have anything to go back to. I was on my own before I was taken, and fighting to make ends meet. Unless my future mate is abusive or cheats on me, pretty sure my life can’t get worse than what it was.”

  Nico’s voice was gentle but firm. “No Damarian male would ever hurt his mate. They’d sooner slit their own throat than cause any harm to their female. And as far as being unfaithful, it’s pretty much impossible. But, again, that would cause their mate pain, therefore they’d never do it.”

  Akira’s gaze was steady. “Why do you care about us, Nico? You’re not a shifter, correct? Do you have a mate? Is there a chance one of the animi could be your mate?”

  He felt the question cut straight through him, exposing everything he’d tried to hide behind bravado and sarcasm. He swallowed, then answered honestly. “No, I am not a shifter. And as a shaman, having a mate is quite rare. And I care because you matter. You have value and worth and should be treated that way. When I look at you, I see someone who has been through the fire and has come out still standing strong. Someone who reminds me what it’s like to hope, even when hope is dangerous. And because . . . the moment I saw you, I knew my life wouldn’t be the same.” His voice faltered, roughened by honesty. “I haven’t dared to hope for a mate in a very long time. But you’ve changed that.” Was he being intense? Yes. But then he was a shaman who’d lived through quite a bit of hell in his long life, and he’d never felt anything like what Akira stirred up in him. Nico wasn’t about to turn away from that until he was completely sure she belonged to someone else. Screw being careful, or worried about rejection. His life was long lived, and he was sick of living as if he was waiting for something or someone.

  A flush crept up Akira’s cheeks, but she held his gaze, unflinching. “That’s a lot to lay on someone you just met.”

  He smiled, small and self-deprecating. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Chaos, sweetheart. We don’t do anything halfway.”

  Morgan let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “This is insane. We’re sitting in the back area of a dry cleaner, hiding from murderous shifters, pouring our sorry lives out to each other, and you two are flirting.”

  Akira arched an eyebrow. “What else are we supposed to do? Curl up and die? And I’ll have you know, my life wasn’t sorry. A tad mundane? Yes, but not sorry.”

  Miryam pulled her hand from Raphael’s and gave it an affectionate pat, then said, “There will be no dying of any kind. We’re going to turn our sorry, or mundane lives into something better.” She gave Morgan and Akira a playful smirk. “I think everything happens for a reason. Obviously, there’s something unique about the three of us. I’m not going to turn my back on the possibility of something great.” Her eyes met Raphael’s briefly before looking back at the other two females. “Now that we know we’ve got people on our side, I say we go for it. Get the tattoos, jump in with both feet, and as Nico said, don’t do anything halfway.”

  “What about your family?” Akira asked Miryam. “Are you willing to let them go for this life?”

  “You can see them again,” Raphael added quickly. “We will just need to come up with a story as to why you went missing. And they can’t know about our world.” He paused as if considering something then asked, “How long have you three been in captivity?”

  “Roughly six months,” Akira answered.

  “Feels like six years,” Morgan added dryly. “Not because we were mistreated. We weren’t. But it was boring as hell.”

  “She’s not wrong,” Miryam agreed.

  Akira nodded as she made a sound of agreement. To Nico, she said, “It does make a difference that we will be able to get in touch with our families.”

  “Good,” Nico said, feeling some of the tightness in his chest loosen. He hadn’t realized how wound up he’d been, waiting on Akira’s feelings about the situation. “But give us time to make that happen. If we contact them now, they’re going to want to see you right away and know all the things, and we need to have stories straight and situations taken care of. Can you all be patient with us?” He looked at each of them. The three girls nodded and more of the tightness loosened.

  Nico began to pace again as the room grew quiet. He was restless, and not just because he wanted to nail Wolfgang to a wall and throw axes at him. He had to focus on the task at hand and all the things that could go wrong, but what he wanted to focus on was Akira. Everything about her was distracting. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He needed to keep his head in the game and worry about his heart later.

  As time passed, Akira and Morgan both moved to the couch where Miryam sat. Their whispered voices were background noise as Nico stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze darting between the doorway to the front area of the building and the bright-lit city beyond. The air was thick with anticipation—something electric, wild, and almost sacred.

  Raphael hovered near the kitchen, pretending to scroll through his phone, but Nico saw the way his eyes kept darting to the girls, especially Miryam. The demon’s jaw was set, his body tense, as if bracing for a blow.

  A heavy knock rattled the back door.

  Nico moved first, letting his magic prickle under his skin, just in case. He cracked the door and peered out, then exhaled in relief. “Verion. Took you long enough.”

  The tattoo artist swept in, all long limbs and sharp angles, a living canvas of ink and attitude. His eyes were the color of spilled ink, ancient and a little too knowing. His jet black hair was shaved on the sides while the top was worn slicked back. With a jawline that could no doubt take a punch and cheek bones a female would kill for, Verion was a good looking male by Nico’s estimation. The arachnid shifter was intense and a little unhinged, but Nico admired that about him. Verion carried his kit like a priest with a reliquary and walked with purpose towards the table near the kitchen.

  Verion gave a sharp nod to Nico, then to Raphael, before turning to the girls. “Who’s first?”

  Morgan’s hand shot up, but she immediately tried to play it cool, lowering it halfway and giving a sheepish grin. “I mean . . . might as well get it over with, right?”

  Verion grunted, motioning her to sit at a chair beside the small table. He began to arrange his tools, the scent of antiseptic filling the space. Morgan glanced at Nico, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

  He softened his voice. “You can back out.”

  Morgan shook her head but then looked at Verion. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

  Verion snorted as he worked with practiced hands, grabbing a sheet of paper and pulling over another chair. His dark eyes met hers and he narrowed them on her. “I’ve been inking people long before electricity was even a thing. I assure you, I know what I’m doing.” He stared at her, pen in hand and pad resting on his lap.

  Morgan stared back, her eyes a little wide.

  After a full minute of silence–Nico was actually impressed that she waited that long–Morgan slowly said, “Am I supposed to give you some ideas?”

  Verion continued to stare at her, and then his pencil began to move over the paper. Every now and then he would glance down at his progress, but then he’d look back at Morgan. Nobody spoke, as if that would somehow break his concentration. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, his hand stopped and Verion stared down at whatever he’d drawn. His brow drew into a deep “v.”

  “Interesting,” he muttered. Then set it aside, face down, and put on gloves. “Last chance,” he told Morgan.

  “Don’t I get to see it?” She glanced at the upside down paper.

  Verion smiled, a little wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think it’s more interesting if the animi are surprised. Like how humans do those gender reveal things.”

  Morgan didn’t look convinced but also didn’t appear to want to argue with the arachnid shifter.

  When he was ready, Verion picked up his tattoo gun, and the motor began buzzing as he winked at her. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Seven

  “If you want to truly know someone, get trapped and starved with him by a bunch of overgrown magical spiders. Trust me, you’ll learn things you never wanted to know.”

  ~Maddie

  The darkness had teeth. It chewed at Roan’s patience, gnawed at his composure, and threatened to swallow the tiny, stubborn spark of hope that had gotten him through too many hard centuries to count. Three days—though time was a slippery thing in the dark, and his body, ancient and resilient as it was, told him the truth. Three days since anyone had come, three days since he and Maddie had tasted anything but the sticky-sweet nectar forced through the slit in their cocoon.

  He’d spent three days pressed so tightly against Maddie that he could count each of her breaths, feel the flutter of her heart against his ribs, and feel the restless twitch of her fingers whenever she thought he wasn’t paying attention. The webbing was relentless, a second skin—sticky, stifling, scented with dust, fear, and a faint undertone of sweet rot.

  Maddie, for her part, seemed determined to fill the silence with whatever thoughts tumbled from her head—sharp, bright, and utterly unpredictable.

  “You know,” she muttered, voice muffled by his shirt, “if I survive this, I’m never wearing silk again. It feels like betrayal. Like, can you imagine? ‘Oh, what’s this blouse made from?’ ‘Oh, you know, the bodily fluids of the creatures that almost digested me alive.’”

  Roan snorted, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “You’re being dramatic. And human silk clothes are made from silk worms, not spiders.”

  “I’m being traumatized,” she shot back. “There’s a difference. Also, I’m pretty sure I have a strand of web in my nose. If I sneeze it out, I expect you to be supportive. And, wearing silk that came from a worm is just as gross as spider butt silk.”

  “I’ll be supportive if you don’t make it worse,” Roan replied dryly. He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his shoulder, but the cocoon only tightened in protest. “Don’t move so much. I think the web’s enchanted. I’ve noticed that the more you struggle, the tighter it holds. Tiny shifts don’t seem to affect it, but actively fighting against it tightens it. At least briefly. Then it seems to loosen back up.”

  “Oh, so now you tell me,” Maddie grumbled. “I’ve only been wriggling for three days. I could have been conserving my energy—maybe plotting my escape, or planning your surprise birthday party.”

  Roan tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. “I don’t celebrate birthdays. Not for a long time.”

  Maddie stilled, and for a moment, a hush fell. He could feel her thinking, the way her energy changed—curiosity blooming in the dark.

  “How old are you, actually?” she asked, her tone softer, less teasing. “And don’t say ‘old enough to know better,’ because that’s what my mom used to say to me right after I did something dumb. To which I had to point out that I obviously wasn’t ‘old enough to know better’ because I did the dumb thing.”

  Roan exhaled, the sound heavy. “Let’s just say I’m older than much of your civilization.” Roan didn’t know why he was so hesitant to tell her his age. Something inside of him wanted her to look at him as a man, not a supernatural being, or–Visata forbid—an ancient artifact.

  Maddie let out a low whistle, impressed. “Damn. You look good for your age, Roan. Like, if I saw you in a bar, I’d guess . . . twenty eight? Maybe twenty-five, if I was feeling generous.”

  A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. “The magic slows everything down. We age, but not like mortals. Most of us live,” he paused, wary of telling her the complete truth. “Many, many human lifetimes before, well, before the end.”

  “The end. Cheery,” Maddie quipped. But her voice was thoughtful. “So. What do you do with all that time? I mean, besides getting kidnapped by eight-legged freaks and babysitting mouthy humans? It seems like you’d get bored. There’s only so much to learn and do on this floating ball of oxygen.”

  He didn’t answer right away. The truth was, he hadn’t really lived, not the way she meant. His existence had been duty, service, endless war, and negotiation. For centuries, he’d buried himself in the work, the rituals, the politics—the things that kept him from remembering what he’d lost, and what he’d never dared hope for.

  “You survive,” he said finally. “You serve. You try to keep the kingdoms from tearing each other—and the world—apart. Sometimes you make a difference. Sometimes you just . . . endure. Each shaman has a duty to the kingdom they’re assigned to, but their first duty is to Visata.”

  Maddie was quiet for a long moment, her breath fanning warm against his chest. “So you’re not really a part of that kingdom. You’re an outsider constantly observing. Sounds lonely.”

  Roan stiffened, surprised by the pang her words sent through him. “I suppose that is one way to look at it. But it’s necessary.”

  “Necessary isn’t the same as good for you,” she said, so softly he almost missed it. “Just because you have a duty doesn’t mean you should neglect your own needs.”

  “That’s exactly what being a servant to the Creator is. A sacrifice of self.” He could hear the frustration in his voice and felt guilt rise up. Roan served faithfully to Visata and loved his Creator. He knew that Visata loved his creations deeply and wanted what was best for them. It was why he’d allowed them to come into the human realm. But there was a part of him that did wish he could have something for himself. Something that belonged only to him, not another kingdom.

  Maddie made a noise that sounded very much like she disagreed. And then proved it. “Mmm, no. I don’t agree. I’ve never been religious, but I do believe in God. I believe that much like we create humans, so to speak, and though I don’t have any experience in this, we love our children deeply. I mean, I can tell my mother loves me deeply.” There was a sadness in her tone as she spoke of her mom, but she continued speaking quickly, as if she needed to stay away from that topic. “I would think that God must love us the same way, and if He does, then he’d want us to find joy in the life he’s given us. Yes, I think we need to love, be kind, and help others. But, how do we not get drained until we’re empty from that if we’re not being refilled in some way? Isn’t that what a relationship is? Two people who love each other and refill the cup that gets drained by the world?”

  “Our Creator can refill that cup more effectively than any living being,” Roan said, a bit defensively. He bit back his annoyance as he continued. “I’m not saying that having a partner in life wouldn’t enrich our lives more. But our Creator is sufficient for our needs.”

  “Perhaps the Creator meets those needs through another person.”

  Her words punched him in the gut. For one so young, he had to admit she was more mature than many females he knew at her age. Roan didn’t respond. He couldn’t. If he did, he had a feeling he’d blurt out that he wanted her to be his partner, to be the one that helped fill his cup, and he wanted to be that for her. He didn’t think Maddie was ready to hear that. And he wasn’t really ready to admit it. Instead, he let the silence stretch, listening to the skittering of spider legs somewhere in the darkness, the faint hum of old magic in the air.

  Maddie’s mind was a riot of thoughts, bouncing between panic, boredom, and outright fascination. Being trapped against Roan should have been awkward, maybe even embarrassing. But after three days, she’d gotten used to the constant contact—the way his heartbeat became her metronome, the way his breathing steadied hers when the panic got too big. And his warmth, well, she couldn’t focus too much on that. She’d never cozied up next to a guy and didn’t have a clue that it would be so—nice. Is that really the word I’m looking for? she asked herself. It wasn’t, there was a much better word for it, but she felt it was better if her mind didn’t go down that particular highway, which would definitely lead to a gutter. Keep moving, Maddie, she told her mind, and her hormones.

  She was hungry—so hungry it almost didn’t matter anymore. Her stomach had stopped growling and settled for sulking. The nectar the spiders brought each day took the edge off, but it left her feeling weirdly numb, like she was floating slightly outside her own body. Occasionally, her fingertips tingled, and her thoughts felt slow, sticky, like honey. She was starting to suspect the stuff was more than just food.

  But now, with Roan pressed so close, she was determined to learn something real about him. What more could they do anyways? Might as well work out whatever thorn she was in his side and see if she could get past the walls. Though it would be tough. He was a fortress—strong, silent, stubborn. But he wasn’t as unreadable as he thought.

  “So what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen in all your years?” she asked, tilting her head as much as the web would allow. She tried really hard not to rub her cheek against his chest, which was part of the reason she was attempting to pull back a little from him.

  Roan’s pause was telling. “Define ‘weird.’”

  “Like . . . strangest magical creature. Most awkward diplomatic incident. Most ridiculous shaman fashion disaster. Surprise me.”

  He huffed. “There was a year when the Kingdom of Hooves king decided kilts were the new official uniform for their warriors. Some of the older males refused to wear anything under them. It was . . . a problem.”

  Maddie barked a laugh, her ribs aching. “Seriously? How did they expect to go into battle with their, umm, well, goods so vulnerable?”