“Foolish, foolish girl - he’ll only use you, corrupt you, make you into another of his monsters,” Baghra spits.

“Maybe,” Alina says, and studies Aleksander, her head cocked in an unconscious echo, the light in her blood thrumming, pulsing, longing to spill over onto his skin. “Or maybe I’ll make him mine,” she breathes, the words just for him; when she takes his hand in hers, neither of them blink.