Chapter 15: Wren - Twisted Vows

Wren watched, helpless, as the flames devoured August. She’d had no time to process what he was doing. One second he’d been standing there, staring, and the next he’d stepped forward, entering the towering flames. But the horror Wren had felt upon seeing August willingly place himself inside the fire didn’t last.

Because August wasn’t burning. He wasn’t screaming in agony. His skin wasn’t melting, blistering and raw. He seemed . . . fine. Around him, flames roared, lapping at his skin, but he didn’t burn. He walked closer, step by step, until he was standing in front of the crystal. He stared at it, hands shaking, tears welling in his eyes.

Wren felt her legs move beneath her. She didn’t even think—it was as if her body knew what she had to do before her mind processed it. Second nature. As simple and innate as breathing.

Wren entered the flames. Just like August, she remained unharmed by the roaring fire around her. She approached August, gently placing her hand upon his shoulder. He looked back at her, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Let’s get out of here,” Wren whispered. “Okay?”

August nodded. “Okay.”

Together, they reached toward the third and final jewel, placing their hands upon it in unison. Just as they made contact with the jewel, fingers intertwining, Wren felt herself get propelled out of the mind integration. The world blurred as she was thrust away from the psyche landscape and back into reality.

Wren gasped, blinking, as she reemerged in the Opal Chamber.

August was standing in front of her, both of their hands still gripping the glistening emerald.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there, staring at one another, slightly out of breath. Then, slowly, a tentative grin crept onto August’s lips.

“I don’t know about you,” he muttered, rubbing a curl away from his face. He tossed the emerald into the air before slipping the glistening crystal into his pocket. “But I could use a drink.”

Wren released a low rumble of laughter, the tension finally dissipating from her body.

“I think that might be the first thing we’ve ever agreed on.”

* * *

Wren never thought she’d set foot into the Demon of Blackwood’s room. But when she did, there was nothing spooky about it—just like August, it turned out to be far more normal than she had imagined it would be. A large wooden desk littered with journals and half-burned candles. A single window adorned with gauzy white curtains. A neatly made bed that looked like it hadn’t been used in a very long time.

“So . . . this is where the notorious Augustine Hughes lives.”

August chuckled, closing the door behind them with a flick of his wrist. “Does it meet your expectations?”

Wren shrugged, sauntering deeper into the room, making her way to the desk. She let her finger lazily trace the wooden surface, pretending to rifle through his journals. “Dunno. I expected something a bit more . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Scary?” August offered with a smirk. Before Wren could answer, he disappeared into his closet for a brief moment. Wren could hear the clinking of glasses and a soft pop as August opened a bottle. A few seconds later, August reemerged, two glasses in one hand, while the other held a large glass decanter filled with a dark amber liquid.

“I think we’ve established I don’t find you scary,” Wren reminded him. They settled on the floor, sitting cross-legged across from one another.

August poured them each a glass of whatever he had grabbed from his closet, setting the decanter down between them. “Cheers to that.” He raised his glass in the air and Wren did the same, gently clinking their glasses together.

For a while, they drank in comfortable silence. Occasionally, August’s eyes would flutter up to meet Wren’s, their gazes snagging. It felt like a game. Who would look away first? Oftentimes it was Wren. But sometimes, she’d let her eyes linger on his, unafraid, and the two of them would stare at one another, eyes anchored on each other’s faces. It felt . . . good. Irritatingly good.

Eventually, once they’d finished their first two glasses, August sprawled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Wren copied his position, though she curled her body to the side so that she could look at him.

“What are you thinking about?” August said a beat later, the deep sound of his voice breaking the silent spell that had fallen over them.

Wren mulled the question over. She was thinking of a lot of things. But if she was honest with herself, there was one thing that was stuck in her mind like a stubborn thorn. She hadn’t been able to let go of the thought since the third jewel challenge. Since she’d had to walk through her old home and face the past.

“I miss my family,” Wren admitted softly. “A lot.”

August exhaled a long breath. “I know,” he said finally, his voice a whisper. “Me too.”

A surge of warmth fluttered in Wren’s chest. She had never expected August to open up to her, and she doubted he ever truly would, but hearing him admit that he missed his family, that he was just as human as she was, sent a wave of tenderness through her chest, and she was overcome with the sudden desire to wrap her arms around him.

“Does it ever get better?” Wren asked gently.

August turned his head to look at her. “You want the truth?” he asked.

Wren chuckled. “Always.”

August nodded. His face grew solemn, though there was a softness in his silver eyes.

“It never goes away,” he admitted in a whisper. “Not really. It’s like an injury that doesn’t quite heal the way it’s supposed to. Sure, it’s patched up, but every so often, there’s a lingering pain.” He placed his hand upon his chest, balling the fabric there. “A reminder of what was once there. It’s the same with grief. Every once in a while, you’re unwillingly reminded of it. A deep, resounding ache. A scar that will never fully go away.”

August paused, gently pulling his hand away from his chest, resting it in the space between them. “But why would we want it to? That pain is a reminder of the love you once shared. What a gift . . . to love somebody so much that their absence haunts you eternally. To love so deeply that that same love follows you. Even into death.”

Something warm slid down Wren’s cheeks, and it wasn’t until August reached out farther, gently brushing the slope of her face, that Wren realized she’d begun to cry. He wiped her tears without fuss, sinking back to the floor once he was done. Wren reached her own hand out, placing it mere inches away from his. Their fingers brushed. Their knuckles grazing.

“You know, August . . .” Wren’s voice was barely audible, a husky whisper. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you aren’t as bad as they make you out to be.”

“You’re right,” August replied. “I’m not as bad as they make me out to be . . .” He smirked, but his eyes remained soft and tender. “ . . . I’m worse.”

Wren rolled her eyes. She wouldn’t relent that easily.

“You’re a kind person,” she shot back.

August physically recoiled at the compliment, grimacing. “I think it’s time to get you to bed, Loughty. The enchanted whiskey has clearly gone to your head.”

He was right. She felt like she was melting into the floor. Her limbs buzzed. Her head swam. A bone-deep exhaustion had suddenly settled upon her, and it was taking every ounce of strength to remain awake, to not succumb to the slumber threatening to pull her under.

Wren blinked slowly. “Some might even say you’re good.”

August sat up on his elbows, chuckling. “Okay. That’s enough, Loughty. Let’s get you to your room—” But Wren interjected, as if she were suddenly possessed, unable to stop the three words from tumbling out of her mouth.

“Let me stay.”

August blinked. He stared down at her, mouth agape. He clamped his jaw shut and managed to choke out a single word in response. “What?”

With the whiskey coursing through her system, Wren felt inexplicably brave. A part of her knew she’d feel mortified the next morning for practically groveling to sleep in August’s room, but right now, she didn’t care. Right now . . . she just wanted to be near him.

“I don’t want to sleep alone,” she admitted. She placed her hand upon the floor. “I want to stay here with you.”

August hesitated. A battle raged inside him, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, before he ostensibly conceded, sinking back onto the floor beside Wren. He matched her position, curling his body in toward her. He extended his arm once again, placing his hand not quite upon hers, but close enough that their fingers were touching.

“Then stay,” he said simply.

Those words were enough for Wren to finally allow herself to accept the exhaustion of the enchanted whiskey, her eyes fluttering closed. And as Wren drifted to sleep, lying beside August, their hands touching, she felt, perhaps for the first time since arriving at Blackwood, completely and utterly and truly . . . safe.