I wake up choking.

Not literally—my lungs work fine, oxygen flows, the mechanics of breathing function exactly as they should. But something in my chest is locked down so tight it feels like I'm drowning in air, and my hands are already moving before my eyes open, already braced for impact, already searching for the exit that doesn't exist because I'm not there, I'm here, I'm safe, I'm—

The nightmare dissolves like smoke, but the panic stays.

My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough that I'm pretty sure it's trying to escape. The sheets are soaked through with sweat. My hands are shaking—actually trembling like I'm some fragile thing that breaks easily, which is funny because I don't break, I don't bend, I became unbreakable years ago and I'm not about to start now just because my subconscious decided to drag up old ghosts.

I swing out of bed and immediately regret it because the room tilts sideways.

Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to four. Hold. Count to four. Release. This is a technique I learned in survival mode, back when survival was the only mode I had. It works sometimes. Tonight it's useless because the panic isn't logical—it's ancient, it's cellular, it's the part of my brain that remembers being trapped and small and completely at someone else's mercy.

I stumble toward the window, needing air, needing space, needing to feel like I'm not suffocating in this beautiful cage.

The Twilight Court sprawls beneath me in shades of silver and shadow. Even at night—or whatever passes for night in a place where darkness never fully commits—it's gorgeous in that unsettling fae way. Nothing here is entirely real. Nothing is safe. And I'm standing in the middle of it with my heart trying to explode out of my chest because some part of me is still twenty-three years old and trapped in a studio apartment with a man who smiled like honey and hit like winter.

I press my forehead against the cool glass.

This is why I don't sleep deeply. This is why I don't let my guard down. This is why I've spent five years becoming someone who doesn't need anything from anyone, least of all comfort or tenderness or any of that vulnerable bullshit that gets you killed.

The door opens.

I don't even jump—that's how far gone I am. Instead, I just register the presence like a predator sensing another predator in the territory, and I don't turn around because turning around means acknowledging that I'm not alone, which means acknowledging that someone saw me break.

"Go away," I say to the window.

"No."

Of course it's Kael. Of course the one person I'm least equipped to handle is the one who finds me like this—shaking and sweating and barely holding the pieces of myself together. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

I hear him move closer, and every muscle in my body locks down in preparation for fight or flight. My hands curl into fists. My breath comes shallow and quick. This is the part where he uses what he's seeing against me. This is the part where vulnerability becomes a weapon.

But he stops a few feet away.

That's the first surprise.

"I can smell your fear," he says quietly. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just stating a fact the way you might mention the weather. "It tastes like lightning and iron. Like something wild caged too long."

I laugh, but it comes out broken. "Poetic. Are you about to make it worse, or are you just here to admire the view?"

"I'm here because you're suffering."

The words land like a punch.

I can't look at him. If I look at him, if I see actual concern in those luminous silver eyes, I'm going to completely fall apart, and falling apart is not an option because falling apart means I can be broken, and being broken means I'm vulnerable, and vulnerability is another word for dead.

"I'm fine," I say.

"You're lying."

"I'm always lying."

"Not to yourself."

That gets me to turn around, and it's a mistake because he's standing there in dark silk pants and nothing else, and even in my current state of psychological freefall, my body registers the fact that he's beautiful in a way that feels illegal. The scent of him hits me—night-blooming jasmine and ozone and something wild like the air before lightning—and my nervous system can't decide whether to run or surrender.

His eyes are glowing softly, like he's just barely keeping himself contained.

"What do you want?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

"To understand what just happened."

"Nothing happened. I had a bad dream. I'm fine. You can go."

He moves closer, and I should back away, should put the furniture between us, should do literally anything except stand here and let him invade my space like this. But I don't move. Some part of me that I thought I'd killed years ago is starving for this—for someone to see me break and not immediately start using the pieces as weapons.

"Talk to me," he says.

"No."

"Iris—"

"I said no." My voice is sharp now, armor reforming. "I don't do this. I don't cry on people's shoulders and tell them my trauma and bond over shared pain like we're at some kind of group therapy session. That's not who I am."

"I know who you are."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you survived something that was designed to destroy you," Kael says, and his voice is low and steady like he's talking to something wild that might bolt. "I know you built walls so high that no one could touch you. I know you're terrified right now, and instead of asking for help, you're trying to convince me to leave because asking for help means admitting you need something, and needing something means someone could take it away."

I stare at him.

"Did you just psychoanalyze me?"

"I've had two hundred years to study people," he says. "And I've never met anyone like you."

"Great. Congratulations. Now you can leave."

But I don't move. I'm still standing by the window like I'm pinned there, and he's still standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and the space between us feels like it's shrinking even though neither of us has moved.

"I'm not going anywhere," Kael says.

"You should."

"Why?"

Because you're dangerous, I think. Because you're starting to matter to me, and the last person who mattered to me tried to destroy me. Because I can feel myself wanting to lean into you, and that want is going to get me killed.

"Because I'm not worth the effort," I say instead.

His expression shifts—something dark and sharp crosses his face, and for a moment, I see the predator beneath the prince. "If you ever say that again, I will make you regret it."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

He reaches out, and I should flinch, should pull away, should do any of the hundred things my survival instincts are screaming at me to do. Instead, I watch his hand come toward me like I'm watching it happen to someone else. His fingers are long and elegant, adorned with silver that seems to move of its own accord, and they're gentle when they brush the sweat-damp hair away from my face.

My breath catches.

"Tell me," he says.

And maybe it's because I'm already broken. Maybe it's because he hasn't used my fear against me yet. Maybe it's because I'm so fucking tired of being alone that even the thought of connection feels like drowning in a good way.

Or maybe it's just that his touch is warm and steady and nothing like the hands that hurt me.

"There was someone," I say, and my voice doesn't sound like mine. "Before. A man. He was... he was good at making you feel special. At making you feel like you were the only thing that mattered to him. And I was stupid enough to believe it."

Kael's hand stills against my cheek.

"What did he do?"

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Everything. He did everything. He made me small. He made me afraid. He made me believe that I deserved it, that I'd done something to provoke it, that if I just tried harder or was better or was less of myself, he'd stop. Five years of that. Five years of learning that love was just another word for control, and trust was just another way to get hurt."

My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. I hate that I'm telling him this. I hate that I'm standing here letting him see me break like some kind of fragile thing.

"I learned to be untouchable," I continue, and the words keep coming like they've been waiting years to spill out. "I learned to not need anything from anyone. I learned to hurt before I could be hurt. I learned to run. And I was good at it—I was so fucking good at surviving that I forgot how to live. And then you dragged me here, and everything I built is starting to crack, and I can't—I can't do this. I can't let someone matter to me again. I can't let myself need you."

"Then don't," Kael says softly.

I look up at him, confused.

"Don't need me," he continues. "Don't trust me. Don't let me matter. Just... let me stay."

And that's when I break.

Actually break. Not the controlled, measured breaking that I've trained myself for, but the kind of breaking that comes from the soul, the kind where you stop fighting and just let yourself shatter because you're too tired to hold it together anymore.

I make a sound that might be a sob or might be a scream—I'm not entirely sure—and suddenly I'm pressing my face against his chest, and his arms are around me, and he's warm and solid and he smells like a thunderstorm and night-blooming flowers, and I'm crying so hard that I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except feel.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't try to fix it or minimize it or make it about him. He just holds me while I fall apart, one hand on the back of my head and the other on my lower back, and his touch is so gentle that it almost breaks me all over again.

I cry until my eyes are raw and my throat is shredded and there's nothing left inside me but empty space. And through it all, Kael stays. He doesn't move. Doesn't complain. Doesn't use any of this against me.

When I finally run out of tears, I'm exhausted in a way that sleep could never touch. I'm hollowed out. Exposed. Completely undone.

"I'm sorry," I whisper against his chest.

"Don't be."

"I'm a mess."

"You're human."

I pull back enough to look at him, and his eyes are dark now, the glow dimmed to almost nothing. There's something raw in his expression—something that looks like it might be pain.

"You're not supposed to be like this," I say.

"Like what?"

"Kind. Gentle. Real." I swallow hard. "You're supposed to be using this. You're supposed to be a monster."

"Maybe I'm both," Kael says. His thumb traces a slow circle on my lower back, and the sensation sends shivers across my skin. "Maybe I can be cruel and gentle depending on the moment. Maybe you bring out something in me that I didn't know existed."

"That's not a good thing."

"No," he agrees. "It's probably not."

But he doesn't let go, and I don't pull away, and we stand there in the darkness while the rest of the Twilight Court sleeps, and I realize that somewhere between the garden and now, I've started to care about this person in a way that terrifies me more than any nightmare ever could.

His hand moves from my back to my face, and his fingers trace the line of my cheekbone with such tenderness that it makes my chest ache. He's looking at me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting, something worth fighting for.

And that's when the fear hits.

Not the nightmare kind of fear—the other kind. The kind that says if I let this happen, if I let him matter, if I let myself want him, it's going to destroy me in ways I don't have defenses for.

"Don't," I say, and I pull away from him.

Kael's hand drops, but his eyes stay locked on mine.

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that. Don't make me feel like I'm something worth saving. Don't make me think this could be something real." I'm backing away now, putting distance between us, rebuilding the walls even as I'm speaking. "This is a game. You're a fae prince, and I'm a human you abducted. There's no version of this where I don't end up destroyed."

"Iris—"

"No." I hold up my hand. "We're done. Whatever this was, it's over. Go back to your room. Pretend this didn't happen."

He doesn't move for a long moment. Just stands there with his arms at his sides and his eyes glowing softly in the darkness, and I can see the exact moment when the prince reassembles itself over the man underneath.

"You're afraid," he says.

"Yes."

"Of me."

"No," I say, and it's the truest thing I've said all night. "Of myself. Of what I'd become if I let you matter."

He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, and we do this little dance until my back hits the wall.

"This isn't over," Kael says quietly. "You can push me away all you want, but it won't change what just happened. It won't change what you let me see."

"Watch me."

But even as I say it, I know he's right. Even as I'm rebuilding my armor and pulling my sarcasm back around me like a shield, I know that something fundamental has shifted. He's seen me break. He's held me while I fell apart. And he didn't destroy me.

Which is somehow so much worse than if he had.

He reaches out one more time, and this time I let him, because I'm apparently a glutton for punishment. His hand cups my face, and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and his eyes search mine like he's trying to memorize something.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll stay until you do."

"Kael—"

"Sleep, Iris."

And because I'm too tired to fight anymore, because his presence feels safer than the nightmares, because I'm apparently willing to make terrible decisions if it means not being alone, I nod.

He guides me back to bed, and he sits on the edge of the mattress while I lie down, and his hand stays on my hair, stroking gently while my eyes get heavier. The scent of him—jasmine and ozone and lightning—fills the space around me, and for the first time in five years, I don't feel like I'm drowning.

I feel like I'm being saved.

Which is exactly why I should be terrified.

"When you wake up," Kael says softly, "we're going to talk about this."

"No, we're not," I murmur, already half-asleep.

"Yes, we are."

I want to argue, but my eyes are closing, and his touch is too gentle, and the darkness is pulling me under, and for once, I'm not fighting it.

The last thing I register before sleep takes me is the feeling of his fingers in my hair and the realization that I've made a terrible, beautiful, catastrophic mistake.

I've let him in.

And now I have no idea how to get him out.