Sparks of lightning flash as we crash back down, gasping, panting. Hearts racing like the water that’s still rushing over us.
It’s not just ecstasy—it’s defiance. Proof I can still choose this, choosehim, even with ghosts pressing against my skin.
His fingers brush my lips, that crooked smile blooming on his face. “I didn’t expectthatwhen I came to check on you.”
I smile, breathless. Sated. Whole in a way only he makes me feel.
“Thank you for checking on me.”
* **
We get dressedin fresh clothes, finding some of his sleepwear tucked away in my dresser—a quiet, familiar comfort that makes my chest ache.
I pack a small bag for the walk to the Spanish Steps, not wanting to waste what little time we have left before his graduation next week. As I gather my things, I notice Gavrail’s book still sitting on my desk. I slide it into my bag, planning to return it to him along the way.
The walk across campus feels suspended in amber—everything changing, everything ending, too soon. I tell Noa I’ll meet him at his dorm, but I need to stop at the Ivy House first. He kisses me, long and lingering, before releasing me at the gate—his warmth still haunting my lips as I climb the stairs.
I knock once before pushing Gavrail’s door open.
He’s shirtless, sitting before a mirror, shadows curling around him like the tired wings of some fallen angel. The light cuts across the room in uneven gold, catching on the blood drying at his temple, the bruised edge of his shoulder, an open gash on his back.
“Gavrail?”
He doesn’t answer right away, only glances up. His gaze meets mine in the mirror, eyes dulled with exhaustion but burning faintly beneath, like embers refusing to die.
I take in his wounds and something in me goes feral—violent—at the marks on his skin. That strange tether draws me closer once again.
“You should go to the infirmary. Madame Ching can help?—”
“I’ve got it,” he says through clenched teeth. He’s trying to clean the wound on his back, but he can’t quite reach.
Before I can think better of it, I cross the room and take the cloth from his hand. “Here,” I murmur. “Let me.”
The moment my fingers brush his skin, the air shifts. His breath catches, almost imperceptibly.
I clean the gash along his back, dragging the cloth gently along the length of the wound, clearing away the blood and debris in careful strokes. His warmth hums under my palms; the muscles at his spine twitch, reacting to my touch. My fingers trace the line of the injury, mapping it, as if knowing its shape might somehow help me mend it faster. When the blood finally stops welling, I reach for the bandage, securing it to his skin with strips of tape. My palms flatten briefly against his back when I finish—feeling the rise and fall of his breath, matching my own.
When I move in front of him, our knees brush. I reach up, dabbing at the cut by his temple, and he just watches—body still, face unreadable, eyes brighter than before.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says finally, voice quiet enough that it barely crosses the space between us. His hand catches mine as I lower it, fingers closing over my wrist, anchoring me.
“I’m already here,” I whisper. “And I came to return your book.”
He exhales, a sound that’s half defeat, half something else entirely. The tension in his shoulders fractures. For a heartbeat, he just breathes me in—as if my presence might keep him upright a little longer.
The silence stretches, thick with everything we won’t name.
His thumb moves absently over the inside of my wrist, tracing the pulse there. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m just glad it’s all over.”
His mouth tilts—but not into a smile. “I almost cost you everything,” he says, the words rough, splintering in his throat. “If I hadn’t hesitated—if Noa hadn’t…” He doesn’t finish. His control slips, and his forehead drops against my shoulder. The movement is small, but it shatters me.
For a breath, I forget the world. Thorne. The Service. Thelake. There’s only this—his weight against me, his hair damp against my skin, his breath trembling through my collarbone.
The world doesn’t end—but something in me does.
I rest my cheek against his head, fingers tracing the hard line of his spine, careful where the skin breaks. His scent—dark amber, smoke, leather—wraps around me, threaded with the clean warmth of his shampoo. Shadows coil close, hesitant, possessive, as if guarding what they can’t quite claim.
