He lay on the narrow cot staring at the ceiling. At least they'd put him in a solitary cell. He wouldn't have to establish dominance with cellmates again.

  He'd been in a place like this once before, back in his homeland. That time he'd shared the cell with an arrogant thug who kept trying to humiliate him. One magical gesture, and the thug had lain paralyzed on his cot, unable to move or even speak.

  This time wouldn't end so well.

  Once the investigators discovered his alibi was false, they'd have him cornered. And Arcanis Thorne would find out — that bitch Daphne would crack eventually. She wanted to marry Sevrin, which was the only reason she'd agreed to cover for him in the first place.

  Idiot.

  The only thing that had attracted Sevrin to Daphne was her hair. Long, thick, copper-red — just like hers. If he took Daphne from behind, he could almost imagine it was her. But then the fool had dyed it blonde. Decided the look was sexier. Sevrin had left that same night.

  Maybe he should just confess everything. What was the point of freedom anymore? She was dead again. This time she'd rejected him herself. There was no one left to live for.

  He remembered the first time he'd seen her in the Kingdom of Grolas. She'd been radiant at the ball, surrounded by admirers. He'd been so captivated that his heart seemed to stop, his breath caught in his chest. After a frozen moment, he finally filled his lungs with air and approached her as if in a dream.

  She didn't notice him at first. She was smiling warmly at some pompous boy, listening to whatever he was saying. Through what sounded like cotton in his ears, Sevrin heard a slow, beautiful melody playing. He pushed the boy aside — tossing a brief silencing charm at him as he did — and invited her to dance.

  She looked at Sevrin, smiled, and placed her palm in his.

  In that instant, he knew he would never want to let her go.

  Except the ring on her finger interfered slightly with the complete warmth of her soft, velvet skin against his. His gaze slid to her hand and understanding crashed over him.

  She's married. The floor was falling away beneath him. How can she be married? She's mine.

  "Are you all right?" Her gentle voice reached him.

  "I need air," he rasped.

  "Let me help you outside."

  As if in a dream, he walked out, never ceasing to feel the warmth of her hand as she lightly supported his elbow. He headed toward a secluded gazebo thick with ivy. She watched him with concern the entire way.

  Sitting on the bench, he rocked back and forth in despair, his face twisted with unbearable pain.

  "What's wrong with you? Are you ill?" she asked.

  "Yes. I'm sick. I just found the woman I love, but she belongs to someone else."

  She sat beside him on the bench and touched his shoulder sympathetically.

  "It will be all right. Perhaps she isn't meant for you?"

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  He stared at her, drinking in every line of her face.

  "She's only for me," he said. Then he pulled her close and kissed her.

  She froze at first. Then she responded with heat, pressing into him. They kissed for a long time, passionately, but his body wanted more. His hands worked expertly at the fastenings. The flowing silk dress slipped to the floor, and he gasped in wonder.

  Of course she was meant for him. His. For him. It couldn't be any other way.

  Some time later, they still lay tangled together, unable to let go. Then a man's voice called out nearby:

  "Eliza! Eliza, where are you?"

  She pulled away sharply and, with graceful efficiency, managed to get her dress back on.

  "Demons, that's my husband! He'll kill me!"

  "I won't give you to him. Never! You're mine now!"

  She looked at him with regret.

  "Listen. You made me feel alive and desired. But that's all this can be. We can't see each other again."

  She ran from the gazebo toward the voice. And he remained alone, not knowing how to continue living.

  It was madness. A clouding of reason. Some kind of sorcery. All his thoughts were only of her. Her pull was so strong that each new day brought impossible ideas about kidnapping her.

  After a month, he formulated a plan.

  He simply needed to kill Eliza's husband.

  If they'd lived anywhere but the kingdom, it would have been much simpler to take her away and convince her to divorce. But in Grolas, divorce was forbidden. The only way he could have her was as a widow.

  He watched them for a long time until he finally learned which day Eliza would visit her mother while her husband stayed home alone. He just needed to induce cardiac failure. Given Sevrin's skill with blood magic and the level of his gift, it would be quick. The fat man's death would raise no suspicion. It was well known that excess weight damaged the heart.

  He watched the house until Eliza climbed into a carriage with her luggage and left. He returned to his hotel, slept a little, then left in the deep of night and broke into their house. Easily bypassing the primitive protective charms, he climbed to the bedroom. Without lighting a lamp, he approached the bed.

  In the darkness, he could barely make out one figure on the bed — substantial in size, as he'd expected. He was slightly surprised that such a heavy man slept almost soundlessly, but he didn't dwell on it.

  Sevrin directed his hands toward the body, formed a wave of magic, and exhaled, pushing it forward with focused intent.

  In a few moments, it was done. He felt Eliza's husband's heart stop. At the edge of his consciousness, he noted that the organ seemed too healthy for someone overweight, but he didn't stay to figure out why. He turned and moved silently toward the exit.

  At the gate, he ran into Eliza's husband.

  The man froze at the sight of Sevrin and blinked his very-much-alive bulging eyes in surprise.

  Without waiting for the fat man's reaction, Sevrin bolted back. Heart freezing with terror, he practically flew up the stairs, ran into the bedroom, and lit the lamp.

  She lay there, comically wrapped in the blanket like a cocoon. Copper hair spread across the pillow. Beloved eyes closed. And by his efforts, they would never open again.

  His head filled with rushing sound. Consciousness shut down, sending him into merciful oblivion.

  He woke in a cell. The thug lay on the neighboring cot. Outside the small barred window, dawn was breaking. He didn't remember what he'd told the investigator.

  The lawyer his brother hastily hired first established that Eliza had returned home early due to feeling unwell. Then he proved that she'd felt much worse, had called Sevrin as a healer, and that he'd simply tried to save her but failed. Given his brother's and mother's positions, he was released soon after.

  He swore to himself he would never use his gift again.

  A few days later, Sevrin acquired a gift-blocking artifact, packed his belongings, and left the kingdom. When he reached Vraveil, he decided this was where he would start over. He changed his field completely, enrolled in the Economics program, and studied peacefully through his penultimate year.

  Then, on the first day of the new academic year, he saw her again…

  Her name was Lizzie. She stood in the courtyard, laughing with a group of students. Copper hair catching the sunlight. That same warm smile. The same way of tilting her head when she listened.

  His heart stopped. Just like it had at the ball in Grolas.

  For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The gift-blocking artifact felt suddenly heavy against his chest.

  No, he told himself. She's not Eliza. This is different. You're different now.

  But even as he thought it, even as he forced himself to turn away and keep walking, he knew.

  He knew he would approach her eventually. Would befriend her. Would find ways to be close to her.

  Because some hungers don't fade. Some obsessions don't release their grip.

  And some mistakes are destined to repeat themselves.