The air around me thickens, heavy, pressing in, sinking over me, crowding out my thoughts as his hands continue to rise. Inside my shirt—tracing the line of my stomach in an aching, deliberate glide.
His skin against mine, no barrier now. I can feel everything—every rough line of his palm, the ridges of his knuckles, the subtle scrape of callus brushing over the dip of my waist, dragging along the curve of my ribs, muscles tightening on reflex beneath him.
Veirmont, Veirmont, he’s a fucking Veirmont.
A citadel officer. I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tight. His touch shouldn’t affect me like this, I despise him, I should recoil. Spit. Fight.
But still, each tiny movement sends sparks racing hot across my skin, nerves lighting up like a static charge just before the break of a storm.
Behind me, he stays silent. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps moving, gliding higher inch by inch, till he reaches the space just beneath my breasts.
A sudden pulse hits low, curling tight as my threads stir, drawn upward, pulled toward him, towards the heat of his touch.
I grit my teeth.
Get it together, Lyra.
God, he might not want to kill you—but you know what he is, what he stands for. Don’t forget he snapped a cadet’s neck last week like it was nothing, no flicker of guilt, just cold, perfect execution. Ignore his Nightrose tricks. Just keep control—of your magic, your body, yourself. Just get through this. Whatever the hell this is.
Still, the hairs on my arms rise. My chest tightens, my knees almost give as the roughness of his thumb grazes the soft hollow beneath my chest. But I lock my muscles, refuse to flinch, even as everything inside me pulls, desperate to shift. To lean—toward him.
He pauses there, hovering like he’s on the edge of something, like he’s waiting for a signal. A reason, an excuse.
He’s drawing it out...
Part of his sick performance, for Strannt, for Lucien, for whoever the hell is watching from behind that door. Letting them get their little thrill from watching a girl held still and handled.
Pressure blooms fierce as I bite down on the inside of my cheek.Focus. Control. I will not react. I will not give him,them, anythi?—
His hands move.
Higher.Slightly.
Just enough for his fingertips to brush the swell of my breast. Just enough for the pounding in my chest to seize, for the tension to snap tight. For my thoughts to twist—hot, dark, wrong.
Just enough for that sick part of me—buried deep, born from my nightmares—to start wanting more. To touch more. Feel more. For him to reach up that little bit further...
There should be anger, there should be fear, but they’re not here. What comes instead is heat, deep and unwelcome, flaring in my stomach, wrong in all the ways that matter.
And before I can even stop it, my spine responds, arching into him.
Something sparks, my knees buckle and behind me, his body goes stiff. Grip tightens, just a fraction. And for one sick second, I think,hope, he might push back.
But then?—
His hands drop, fast.
And in one clean, ruthless motion, he pulls away. Cold and final.
Two loud bangs against the door, followed by a click of the lock.
“We’re done here,” he calls, flat, louder than it needs. “She’s clear.”
The door creaks open behind me, but I don't turn.Not yet.Because my face is too flushed, my chest rising too fast, and my whole body aches with betrayal. It settles in the back of my throat, thick and sour. Not just shame, loathing. At him. At me.Mostly me.But I don’t want my back to whoever just walked in. So I force a breath, steady myself, and turn.
“Fuck Goldie,” Lucien breathes out, looking at Talen, the stone on his rope necklace catching the light as he steps into the room. “I've been shitting myself wondering if you’d made it back.”
Talen’s already across the room—arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes pinned to the far wall like the sight of me turns his stomach. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” he replies, voice clipped.
