My aura was not a passive thing. It braided with my thoughts until it felt like a single creature: mind-aura-body, each informing the other. If I let the black rise, it consumed rational thought first. It made hands quick and merciless, mouths hungry, vision tunneled. I had seen it before in other fights, Arkhevari who’d let the void take them and turned into something brutal and remorseless. I had never wanted to become that, especially not forher.
Standing there, with the steam curling around my shoulders, I realized how fragile the barrier between control and ruin really was—knowing that fragility made my fingers clench until nails bit into skin. I had never once doubted myself in my existence: decisions, commands, executions—all had been known quantities. Now there was doubt, and it was poisonous. I hated her for it, but in the same breath, I wanted to embrace her.
And I hated myself more for wanting.
If I took her now—if I gave in to the animal in me without restraint—would the black splice into my fury and make me anything but careful? Would I harm the thing I swore to keep? The idea of waking to her pale face at my feet, or worse, the thought of blood on her skin because I had misjudged my own hunger, unmoored me. I had seen what losing the line between mind and aura did to others. The possibility of inflicting that on her made my gut twist with something like nausea.
Muttering to myself, I imagined the Council seeing her, and the anger at that image spat fire through me. Part of me wanted to clench and claim, to herd her away from them and into my vault where none could touch her. Another part—the part I could not yet name—whispered to be cautious, to school my desires into a kind of protection.
“Drekken,” I told the empty chamber, and the sound came out ragged. Fear, I discovered, was not just an abstract concept. It was a needle under the skin, a red line that made even my jaw muscles ache. I had felt immortal boredom, unending war-weariness, numbness—but not this fragile, terrible fear. I was suddenly painfully aware of how much she mattered, and that awareness unraveled everything I thought I stood on.
I considered leaving her untouched until I learned how to be less dangerous. The thought was practical and cowardly at once. I could lock the door, post sentries, and refuse the pull until I had tempered the black. But there was a darker truth: the things that made me want tohold her also made me want to break the world to keep her. It was not simply hunger. It was ownership. It was a need braided with tenderness and fury. That mix was volatile.
For the first time in eons, I did not know with certainty what I should do. The not-knowing flared the black like bellows. I loathed the admission. I loathed that she had made me doubt my discipline, my iron. I hated how much wanting her had already loosened me.
And yet, beneath the loathing and the fear, there was a stubborn, raw vow forming, not a vow to possess, but to protect. If the black threatened to take me, then I would bind myself first. I would set rules. I would teach myself to breathe her scent without being undone. If that failed, I would rather exile myself from her side than risk being the cause of her ruin.
I sank to the edge of the pool, palms pressed to the warm stone, and tried to make the black small with nothing but breath and will. It did not disappear. It only waited, patient and hungry. The choice—keep her safe by keeping her close, or keep her safe by keeping my distance—thrummed inside me like the pause before creation decided whether to become light or darkness. I did not want to choose, and damned if knew which would make me less monstrous. The only thing I was certain of was that either choice would hurt.
. The terrible thing was that either choice would hurt.
The last time I’d felt like this, it had ended with me blacklisted from the celestial gate for a century. Not that Ella was as fragile as those idiots who had earned mywrath, but I doubted she could hold her own if I really lost control. She’d be lucky if she could walk the next morning.
A laugh escaped me—bitter, biting. She’d like that, I thought. She’d smile in that sharp, challenging way, and then she’d try to one-up me. Maybe she’d even succeed.
Gods-damn her for making me want it.
I pressed my forehead to the wall, sweat and steam slicking my skin, and tried to recall the lectures from my father: control is strength, discipline is survival—yeah, and see where it had gotten him. Without an Aelyth and dying. Still, I’d lived by those words for so long that they were more natural than breathing until now. Until one slip of a girl with too much spirit and not enough sense had made me crave something so raw it threatened to tear me apart.
Yet, the memory of her taste clawed at me. Sweet and bright, but also smoky beneath, like something wild and untamed. I could have stayed there all night, feasting on her, drinking down every noise she made until she collapsed in my arms.
I slammed my fist against the stone, just hard enough to hurt, to jar myself back into my body. It worked, for a heartbeat. Then the image of her, panting and open and close to tears, reeled me in again.
If anyone else saw me like this, they’d laugh me off the field. The Praetor of Nox Eternum, reduced to a lovesick idiot, fighting himself in a bathhouse like some untried youngling. They’d never believe it.
I barely believedit myself.
But that was the truth of it. I wasn’t sure I could keep pretending, or keep resisting, and the thought of letting go—letting her see me, all the ugly and desperate parts—I didn’t know if it was a threat or a promise.
Maybe both.
Either way, I needed to get my head straight before I saw her again. If I didn’t, I was going to ruin everything whether I wanted to or not.
But even as I told myself that, I knew I’d already lost the fight.
By the great Abyss, I was drunk on her already.
And I hadn’t even claimed her yet.
Nervously,I awaited his return. First, I had tried different poses, laughing at my attempts at looking sexy for him, then I had pulled the sheet up to my chin and called myself a moron. Then I pounded the pillow, wondering how long it took a man to take a goddam bath.
Finally, I think I fell asleep.
When I woke, I assumed it was morning. The side of the bed next to me was untouched. Instantly, everything came back to me. Zaph. The battle, the kiss… the orgasm. Oh shit, that orgasm.
His promise.
Where the hell was… my head spun around until I saw him, sprawled out in what had to be the most uncomfortable position in history on a large, cushioned chair. His feet were crossed and stretched, his chin rested in his fist, and his eyes were closed. He was fast asleep. So much for his promises!
