“Already?” he murmurs, teeth grazing my jaw. “You going to cum for me like this?”
“Yes,” I sob, the word torn raw from my throat. “Please...don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit with brutal precision, circling just enough to send white-hot pleasure screaming through my veins. I break around him, body seizing, back arching off the bed as I come apart with his name on my lips.
He groans loud and deep, thrusting through it, riding out every pulse as my body clenches around him. “Fuck...Harper, just like that.”
He follows seconds later, rhythm faltering as he buries himself as deep as he can go, his body going rigid over mine. His breath punches out of him in a broken sound as he spills inside me, forehead dropping to my shoulder, his weight grounding and real and overwhelming.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
We’re tangled together, slick with sweat and heat, the room heavy with the aftermath of what we’ve just done. My heart is racing, my body still trembling in his arms, every nerve humming.
He finally lifts his head, brushing his thumb gently along my cheek, the touch soft in stark contrast to everything else.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod, breathless, spent, utterly undone. “Yeah.”
Then his lips brush against my temple, soft and reverent, a stark contrast to the way he just split me apart and filled me like he needed to.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers.
The words land heavier than they should, lodging deep in my chest, behind my ribs, somewhere near my heart where I’ve tried to keep everything untouched and unreachable. I don’t move, don’t speak, just let myself feel it, his voice rough with honesty, his mouth still warm against my skin.
Then it hits me, subtle at first, hardly more than a sparkpulsing low in my chest. A flicker of heat, sharp enough to steal a breath, blooming and vanishing in the same heartbeat. It leaves behind a strange, hollow tightness beneath my ribs. Not fear. Not anger.
Something far more treacherous.
Something dangerously close topenitence.
24
HARPER
The hidden passage deposits us at the edge of Anvaris in a hush of wind and shifting stone, and for a moment the four of us simply stand there, letting the village breathe around us. Autumn has taken hold of the market, thick garlands of burnt orange leaves hang from the stalls, braziers perfume the air with cinnamon and clove, and every vendor seems wrapped in some shade of warm gold. Students weave between the townsfolk, laughter threading through the distant hum of music.
But beneath all of it, beneath the color and chatter, something feels… wrong.
Off-balance.
Like the earth is holding its breath.
Liam walks ahead, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, posture tight enough that I can see the strain in his shoulders. Theo keeps close to his side, his wand angled downward, head tilted just slightly, as if the entire market is a map he’s reading by sound alone. And behind me, close but not too close, Sebastian lingers. His steps match mine without him meaning them to.
The unease crawling along my spine only sharpens as we reach the center of the market square, where vendors pitch their voices above one another, promising charms, sweets, herbs, fortune readings. It should be comforting. Instead each smile feels rehearsed, and each passing glance lingers as if waiting for me to slip.
Liam murmurs that we should split up, find whatwhispers we can. Theo nods and drifts toward a line of storytellers whose tales always end in rumors. Sebastian gives a curt nod, scanning the rooftops and upper stalls before stepping away.
I move alone into the heart of the market.
The warmth from the cooking pots is almost enough to soften my nerves. Almost. A woman selling enchanted teas gestures me closer, her voice low, her eyes darting between customers. She looks like every other vendor here, but her hand trembles when she slides a jar back onto her table.
“You’re Vireldan, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice pitched low, careful. “There’s been talk. Strange talk.”
I pause, letting the din of the square swallow the tension between us. “What kind of talk?” The question comes quietly, measured, even as my pulse stutters.
