Erik
I’ve always been good at control.
Control of breath, of spellcraft, of thought. The kind of control that comes from fear, not confidence. Because when you lose it, people get hurt.
And lately, I’ve been losing it more than I want to admit.
The spell circle flickers beneath me, drawn in chalk, blood, and salt on the floor of my room. It’s not something I should be doing. Not without guidance. Not without her knowing.
But Scarlett’s asleep. And I’m out of time.
I kneel at the center of the glyphs, pulse thudding in my throat, every nerve frayed raw. I’ve read the text five times. The runes are steady. The wards are tight. The spell is simple in theory.
A binding. To myself. To my sanity.
To the part of me that’s slipping, too fast and too quiet for anyone else to see.
When Scarlett’s fire touched mine last night, it felt like I was falling.
Like drowning in something golden and endless and beautiful and entirely too big for me. And I loved her through it. But it didn’t feel safe.
I
