Chapter 34

Chapter 34
Celeste's POV

Moonlight moved across Jax's fur like liquid silver, soft and slow. I could feel the rhythm of his back muscles shifting beneath me, feel the deliberate restraint in every step — he was holding back his pace on purpose, as if he didn't want the ride to end.

Neither did I.

But the lighthouse was getting closer. That white tower rose from the dark shoreline like a bone driven into the sky. My cage. My stage. The place I had no choice but to return to.

Jax stopped in the shadow at the base of the tower and lowered himself slowly so I could slide off. The moment my feet touched the ground, he began shifting back — the sound of bones rearranging themselves was sharp and unmistakable in the silence.

A few seconds later, he stood before me, moonlight breaking unevenly across his face.

Neither of us spoke. The air between us was heavy with something I couldn't name, like the last held breath before a goodbye.

"You should go up." Jax broke first, his voice low, carrying a gentleness I didn't let myself think too hard about. "It's almost dawn. If Quillon notices you're gone—"

I nodded. My throat had closed around whatever I'd meant to say.

He stepped back, like he was forcing himself to put distance between us. "Take care of yourself."

"You too." I heard myself say it, barely above a whisper.

He reached up and touched the green stud in his ear — it caught the darkness with a faint gleam, a quiet echo of the ring on my hand.

"Remember." His voice dropped. "Don't trust Quillon. Whatever he tells you, don't believe it."

I wanted to answer. I wanted to say I'll be careful, but something was lodged in my throat and wouldn't move. I just nodded, then turned and walked toward the freight lift built into the lighthouse's outer wall.

The old mechanism waited there in the dark, its wooden platform worn pale in the moonlight. I stepped on, gripped the rough hemp rope, and began working the pulley hand over hand.

The lift groaned softly as it rose.

I looked back. Jax was still standing where I'd left him, his face tilted up toward me. The moonlight traced the line of his shoulders — solitary, stubborn, rooted to the ground.

Then he turned and disappeared into the dark.

I bit down on the inside of my lip and kept pulling. The lift carried me up, slow and steady, until the top floor swallowed the night below.

The room was quiet when I climbed back in. Only the wind off the water, threading through the gaps in the walls with a low, hollow moan.

I exhaled and moved quickly toward the dressing table. I needed to get back into the white ceremonial robes before Quillon had any reason to come looking.

I'd just reached for the fabric draped over the chair when something slammed into me from behind — massive, sudden, no warning at all.

My forehead cracked against the tabletop before I understood what was happening.

The impact detonated behind my eyes. Something warm began running down from my brow, thick and slow, smearing across my right eye until I couldn't see. I tried to push back, tried to scream, but my throat had seized up and all that came out was a broken, airless sound.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?"

Quillon's voice came from directly above me, cold enough to cut.

His palm drove down against the back of my skull, grinding my face into the wood with a pressure that felt like it could crush bone. His scent washed over me — cigars, saltwater, and underneath those, something else. Something rotten that turned my stomach.

"You had the nerve to slip out from under my nose." Every word landed like something detonated close to my ear. "You reek of the Lower District. Did you think changing your clothes would be enough?"

I fought to lift my head. His hand didn't shift an inch. Blood reached my lips — salt and iron — and my stomach lurched.

"You are not a goddess." He laughed then, a sound like a fingernail dragged across glass. "You're a gutter orphan. A fraud. I pulled you out of the filth, gave you food and a roof and made you into something this city believes in — and this is how you repay me?"

He let go. I collapsed, chest heaving. Before I could even get my hands under me, his shoe came down on my back, the sole grinding slowly across my spine until I couldn't breathe.

"What were you doing with that Lower District rat?" He leaned down, his voice dropping to something quieter and worse. "Did he teach you how to steal? How to lie? Or just how to spit in the face of the person who kept you alive?"

"I didn't—" The rest of it never made it out. His boot connected with my ribs.

The crack was loud enough to hear.

"Don't lie to me." His voice had gone almost gentle, which was somehow more frightening than the shouting. "I can smell it — that Lower District stench. Cheap rum, fish rot, and—" He paused. When he spoke again, something had shifted behind his eyes. "Werewolf."

My heart stopped.

He crouched down, grabbed my jaw, and wrenched my face toward his. His eyes had that particular light in them — not anger exactly, but something that lived past anger, something feral and deliberate. "Tell me who it was. Which one of those rats touched what's mine?"

"No one." My voice shook apart on the words. "I just — I only wanted to go outside, I just wanted to see—"

"See?" He released my jaw and stood, looking down at me with something like amusement. "You think I'm going to believe that?"

He moved to the window and stood with his back to me, his silhouette motionless against the pale sky. "I'll find him," he said, in the same tone he might use to discuss the weather. "Whoever he is, wherever he's hiding. He'll understand what it means to put his hands on something that doesn't belong to him."

"No—" I forced my head up, vision swimming. "Please — this had nothing to do with anyone else. I went on my own. It was my decision—"

He spun around. Three steps and his hand was in my hair, dragging me upright. The pain was white and total.

"Please?" He brought his face close to mine. Cigars and salt. "What exactly gives you the right to ask me for anything? You're a tool, Celeste. A puppet that happens to speak. I've kept you alive because you're useful. But if you ever pull something like this again—"

He dropped me. I hit the floor hard.

"I'll send you back." His voice was almost pleasant now. "Not to the orphanage. Somewhere worse. You know the kind of men who can't afford passage out of this city — you've seen them at the docks, in the corners of the black market. Do you have any idea what they'd do with a fallen goddess?"

I was shaking, and it had nothing to do with the pain.

I had seen those men. Eyes like empty rooms. If I ended up in their hands—

"Please." My voice had worn down to almost nothing. "I'll do whatever you say. I'll behave. I swear — it won't happen again—"

Quillon stared at me for a long time. Long enough that I genuinely believed he might just leave me there on the floor.

Then he smiled.

"Good." There was something sick in his satisfaction. "At least you're not completely stupid."

He turned back to the window and stood in silence for a moment, like he was working something out. When he looked at me again, the moonlight caught his face at an angle that made it look wrong in a way I couldn't name.

"I could be persuaded to overlook this." He let the words settle. "But you'd have to do something for me in return. Something only you can do." He paused. "Find the other half."

"The other half of what?" My voice came out barely above a breath.

He didn't answer. He crossed the room, grabbed my arm, and hauled me upright. I staggered, the room tilting. "We're going to the place your father worked." His voice had taken on that particular quality — too bright, too eager, the tone he used when he'd already decided something. "There's something on that wreck I need. And you—"

He leaned in close enough that his breath hit my face.

"You're going to help me find it. Aren't you?"

I closed my eyes. The tears came, mixing with the blood still drying on my cheek. Jax's face surfaced in the dark behind my eyelids — his smile, the warmth in his hands, the way his voice had sounded when he said mate, like the word meant something he'd been carrying for a long time.

As long as Quillon didn't know it was him. As long as Jax was safe.

"Yes." I heard myself say it from somewhere far away. "I'll help you."

Quillon's grip loosened. He stepped back, and I sank to the floor, watching him walk toward the door.

"Good girl." He opened it and glanced back at me — the same look he'd give a tool he'd set down and picked back up. "Clean yourself up. We leave soon. And Celeste—"

His eyes held mine for just a moment.

"Don't disappoint me."