CHAPTER 153
CHAPTER 153
SELENE
I took a slow breath and tried to tune in.
Hey I thought, reaching for that inner power like it was a skittish cat hiding under a couch and absolutely judging me.
I know you’re new to me and I’m new to you, but… can we try this together? Just a little growth. Nothing dramatic. No turning the cottage into a jungle. Just… wake up a bit? Please?
I stared.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The spark inside me stayed stubbornly silent, like it had rolled over, pulled a blanket over its head, and flipped me off with a tiny glowing hand before going back to sleep.
I tried again, pushing harder, imagining roots and sunlight and all that poetic nature‑nonsense Morgana had lectured me about.
Still nothing.
Brilliant.
I literally broke Darius — prince of vampires, ancient brooding overlord, walking gothic magical chokehold — with ONE WORD.
One.
Uno.
A single syllable.
And now I can’t make a sad houseplant do a single thing?
Not even a polite wiggle?
What kind of cosmic joke was this?
Like seriously.
The universe gave me enough power to shatter an immortal’s hold but not enough to convince a fern to do its one job?
Embarrassing.
Humiliating.
I glared at the pot like it had personally betrayed me.
Great performance, Selene.
Truly.
I’m sure the universe is somewhere in the background, doubled over, wheezing, wiping tears from its cosmic eyes, whispering, Look at her. Look at this idiot. She thinks she can do magic.
No.
No, I refuse to be defeated by a houseplant.
I poked the soil.
It remained soil.
“Come on…” I muttered through gritted teeth, like I was trying to negotiate with a toddler mid‑tantrum.
Of all the things I’ve done — outwitted an ancient vampire, shrugged off compulsion like it was a bad Tinder date, survived things that would make a lesser person sob into a cardigan — and now I’m bested by a pot of dirt.
A pot.
Of.
Dirt.
Legendary half‑fae, breaker of curses, tamer of brooding princes… reduced to coaxing a succulent like it’s a recalcitrant teenager refusing to text back.
Glorious.
I sighed, dramatically, because someone had to.
At this point, I should just put “emotionally bullied by plants” on my résumé.
Maybe underline it.
Add a fun little star.
Maybe two.
Morgana watched me with the patience of someone who had already decided I was a lost cause and was simply waiting for the universe to confirm it.
She let out a long, theatrical sigh — the kind that said I regret every life choice that led me to this moment — and then delivered the killing blow with a smirk sharp enough to slice fruit.
“Oh boy…look at that. Isn’t this exciting,” she drawled, dripping sarcasm like venom.
“You did absolutely nothing. The fae clan must be so proud right now. I bet your ancestors are somewhere up there, facepalming so hard they’re creating new constellations. ‘Ah yes, behold — the Star of Utter Disappointment.’”
My jaw clenched so hard I felt my molars protest.
Darius is right, I thought viciously.
She is a fucking bitch.
Meanwhile, the stupid plant sat there like the world’s most judgmental lump of green disappointment.
Mocking me.
Morgana wasn’t done. Oh no. She inhaled like she was preparing for an encore performance of “Selene’s Magical Failures: A Dramatic Reading,” then delivered it with a flourish.
“Truly riveting. I haven’t seen this level of magical productivity since that time a toddler tried to enchant a rock.”
My eye twitched.
I glared at the fern with the intensity of someone trying to set it on fire with sheer willpower.
Sprout I demanded internally.
Grow.
Wiggle.
Do something.
Anything. I am begging you.
You’re a plant. Your entire job is exist and maybe grow a little. I’m not asking you to solve world hunger. I’m asking you to unfurl a leaf. A leaf. One. Uno. Singular. The bare minimum
The fern, of course, did nothing.
I could practically hear Morgana smirking behind me, ready to deliver another soul‑crushing commentary on my magical incompetence.
And honestly?
If she did, I might throw the plant at her.
Not magically.
Physically.
At this point, it would be the most successful thing I’d done all morning.
Morgana flicked her hand at me like she was shooing away a mildly annoying pigeon.
“This is a waste of my time,” she announced.
“Go. Take a walk. Stare at a tree. Cry into the dirt. I don’t care. Just stop… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely at my entire existence.
“Come back when you’re not spiritually constipated.”
My spine snapped straight.
“No.”
She blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no,” I repeated, heat rising in my cheeks.
“I’m trying again.”
Morgana stared at me like I’d just declared war on common sense.
“Oh, adorable,” she said.
“Determination. Precious. Completely useless, but precious.”
She sighed again — louder this time, because apparently she needed the acoustics.
“Fine. Go ahead. Continue your riveting performance of ‘Girl Begs Plant, Plant Remains Unimpressed.’ Truly, I’ve never seen anything so inspiring.”
Ignore her.
I turned back to the plant, refusing to let Morgana or the universe or this smug little fern defeat me.
I closed my eyes again, cheeks burning so hot I was surprised the cottage didn't spontaneously combust.
The spark inside me gave the tiniest stir - not helpful, not cooperative, just... entertained.
Like it had dragged over a tiny celestial lawn chair and was now sipping a drink while watching me flail.
Of course it was.
Morgana let out a sigh so dramatic I was pretty sure she practiced it in the mirror.
"This is going to be a long three days, isn't it?" she drawled, already sounding exhausted by my existence.
"Honestly, Selene, I've seen rocks with more magical initiative. Stop treating your spark like a stubborn mule you're trying to drag uphill."
She waved a hand at me, the gesture so lazy and unimpressed it could've peeled paint off the walls.
"Ask it nicely. Whisper sweet nothings. Flirt with it. Seduce the damn thing. I don't care. Just stop standing there looking like you're trying to pass a magical kidney stone."
If humiliation were a sport, I'd be winning gold.
The spark stayed silent. Possibly dead. Possibly laughing. Honestly, I wasn't sure which was worse.
Morgana clicked her tongue.
"At this point, I'm not even asking for growth. I'd settle for a leaf twitch. A polite wiggle. Hell, a vibe. But no - your spark is apparently on strike. Probably unionized. Good for it."
I cracked one eye open, mortified.
"I'm trying."
"Oh, I can tell," she said sweetly - the kind of sweet that could corrode metal.
She leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper like she was about to share ancient wisdom instead of roast me alive.
"Here's a tip: magic responds to intention. Confidence. Desire. Not whatever... constipated grimace you're doing right now. If your spark had legs, it would've packed a suitcase and left."
I groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Because apparently that's who I was now.
Morgana patted my shoulder with all the warmth of someone touching a damp, disappointing towel.
"Don't worry. We'll get there. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Assuming your spark ever wakes up from its beauty sleep."
I resisted the urge to lie down on the floor and accept death. Barely.
"Now stop glaring and Seduce the damn thing."
I couldn't hold back the sarcastic bite that slipped out.
"Oh, sorry, my mistake," I shot back, my voice dripping with mock sweetness.
"I didn't realize I was supposed to romance a houseplant like it was my prom date. Should I bring it flowers? Write it a poem? 'Roses are red, violets are blue, please grow for me before I lose my damn mind too'?"
Morgana's eyebrows shot up, and for a split second I thought I saw actual amusement flicker in her eyes before her default sarcasm slammed back into place.
"The fae girl has teeth," she said, clapping slowly.
"I was starting to worry you were all sparkles and no spine. But yes. Seduce the damn thing. Magic isn't a math equation. It's a conversation. Be polite. Be persuasive. Tell it how pretty its leaves could be if it just tried a little harder. Compliment its potential. Whisper sweet nothings about how magnificent it could look if it stopped sulking in the dirt like a dramatic teenager. Or keep standing there looking like you swallowed a lemon and your spark decided to go on strike. Your choice, sparkplug."
I bit back the retort clawing its way up my throat and closed my eyes again, because apparently I was committed to this humiliation.
I inhaled slowly, trying to summon calm, serenity, inner peace — any of that spiritual bullshit Morgana kept preaching.
Instead, all I found was a tiny, exhausted voice inside me whispering:
God help me — or at least send coffee, a miracle, and a fern that gives a damn. Amen, you cosmic asshole.