CHAPTER 53
The veil lifts for no one. But in the darkest moments, some slip beneath.
—Magick Conflicts and Rebellions: Teachings of the Silver Veil
Iclose my bedroom door and lean against it with a heavy sigh. The weight of the last few hours, weeks—months—settles into my bones like lead.
I head to the shower to scrub off the touch of Thorne’s wind against my skin. The anger, the pain, the helplessness—still there, just below the surface.
A soft knock on my bathroom door.
He doesn’t wait for a reply before stepping inside.
Noa.
His expression is caught somewhere between uncertainty and something deeper—concern, love. He reaches for me, his fingers brushing along my cheek. I turn into his palm, his thumb catching the tear that slips free.
Wordlessly, he leads me to the bench beside the shower.With a tenderness that undoes me, he undresses me like I’m something breakable.
Shoes. Socks. Shirt. Leggings. Everything I’m wearing is soaked in blood, dirt, tears, and grief—the dark aftertaste of rage and revenge.
I hear the water start to run, the sound soft, like the patter of rain on a still summer lake. The steam ghosts through the air as the warm water condenses against the cool glass.
He undresses, too, and I let him lead me into the shower. The water is a balm against my fractured soul.
He washes me—my hair, my skin, careful with the cuts on my arm, mostly healed now thanks to Madame Ching’s tending. The foamy lather of lavender soap mingles with the scent that is so unmistakably him—cedar, mint, clove. Safety and love wrapped into one.
He treats me like I’m made of spun glass, delicate and fragile. Places a soft kiss on a bruise on my shoulder as he continues washing me.
I turn around, facing him. The warm water splashes between us as he pauses, holding a washcloth in his hands. He has a small cut on his cheek and the purple undertones of a bruise starting to form on his chest.
I reach for him. He looks at me, his eyes flickering with a question. Desire brims beneath the surface of duty, of love, of wanting to make sure I’m alright.
I answer him with my lips on his.
I back him against the tile wall of the shower, cold against the enveloping warmth. He stumbles, hesitates for just a moment—before crashing into me with a kiss of his own. Hard. Desperate. Pulling me to him with a force like gravity before wrapping his arms around me as he deepens the kiss. His tongue lashes against mine, claiming, devouring.
I don’t want slow. I don’t want careful.
I want to feel.
To burn.
To be reminded that I’m still alive. And I know he feels it too.
He pushes me against the corner of the shower so he can angle me just slightly above him on the tile lip as he wraps my leg around him while he enters me—fast and deep.
The mix of soap and water makes us slide against each other, friction turned fire. Every movement, every sound, is a crescendo both delicious and dangerous as we move with each thrust.
It’s intense, guttural, consuming. Exactly what I want. What I need.
His lips find my throat—soft, reverent—and for a heartbeat, I feel the sharp edge of Thorne’s invisible blade, cold against my skin. My body seizes, memory flooding in. Until I force my eyes open and see him—Noa. Concern is etched across his face. He kisses me again, slower this time, coaxing me back. To him. To this moment. And I let go. Melting into the heat of us.
His hand finds me, thumb circling with steady pressure, strumming me into a rhythm that sends sparks racing behind my eyes. The charged air hums around us with the makings of a storm.
Fire and water. Chaos lashing itself together with memory and truth.
We combust as one.
