"You were mine first."
I lose consciousness before I could flip him off, but I vow I'll do it when I wake up. Flip off my Duskwalker mate to the pits of hell.
CHAPTER 14
Cocoon Of Petals
~GWENIEVERE~
I'm far too hot.
The thought surfaces through layers of consciousness that don't want to release their hold on me, dragging me upward from depths of sleep so profound they border on unconsciousness. Heat wraps around my body from every direction—not the uncomfortable heat of fever or the aggressive heat of flame, but something softer. Encompassing. The particular warmth of being surrounded by living things that radiate comfort rather than threat.
And sore.
Gods, I'm sore.
The secondary realization arrives with the particular ache of muscles pushed past their limits, of flesh that has been thoroughly, comprehensivelyused. My thighs protest when I shift even slightly. My hips carry the ghost of fingers that gripped hard enough to bruise. My throat?—
Don't think about the throat.
Or the things that happened to it.
Or the sounds you made while they were happening.
A grumble escapes me, the sound muffled by whatever surface my face is pressed against. The noise carriesembarrassment and satisfaction in equal measure, because yes, I'm sore in ways that speak to activities I probably shouldn't have indulged in given everything else happening, but also...
Worth it.
Completely, thoroughly, devastatingly worth it.
Cassius had made good on his promise of punishment. Multiple times. In multiple positions. With the particular intensity of a Duskwalker whose jealousy had been ignited by watching another man's lips touch what he considered his property. The memory alone makes heat bloom across my cheeks—or would, if I weren't already wrapped in warmth that seems to emanate from the very air around me.
I try to stir.
The motion requires more effort than it should, my body protesting the demand for movement when it clearly prefers to remain exactly where it is. Something tightens around me in response—not restrictive, not threatening, just... present. Acknowledging my attempt to wake while simultaneously suggesting that perhaps consciousness isn't strictly necessary right now.
Flowers.
The scent finally registers with clarity that cuts through the fog of exhaustion.
I feel like I'm wrapped in a cocoon of soothing flowers—petals and leaves and the particular aromatherapy of blooms designed for healing rather than decoration. The fragrance carries complexity that speaks to magical cultivation: base notes of something like lavender but deeper, heart notes that remind me of roses but sweeter, top notes of citrus that seem to sparkle against my awareness rather than simply smell pleasant.
Why flowers?
Why am I surrounded by?—
I want to comprehend what's happening.
Want to force my sluggish mind to analyze the situation, to identify threats, to categorize this unexpected circumstance according to the survival protocols that have kept me alive through three years of Academy trials.
But the warmth makes it so hard.
The aromatherapy that surrounds me works against every instinct demanding alertness, soothing nerve endings that want to fire with concern, convincing muscles that want to tense that relaxation is the better option. The fragrance seems almost sentient in its purpose—recognizing my attempts to wake and gently, insistently encouraging me to surrender back into sleep's embrace.
So calming.
So impossibly, dangerously calming.
