“Tell me to stop,” he says against my mouth. I pull away just enough to lock my eyes onto his, as I fist his shirt with both hands.
“Don’t you dare.” I whisper.
He lifts me. My legs lock around his waist. The wall is cold against my shoulders; everything else burns. His lips find the hollow of my throat, my collarbone, lower. His hand slides beneath my tunic, palm hot against my ribs, moving higher.
I pull at his shirt, needing skin, needing contact. When my fingersfind the bare plane of his stomach, he makes a sound that’s half groan, half curse.
“Cyra…” His breath comes uneven. He presses closer, grinding against me, and the friction pulls a gasp from my throat. I feel his hand slip higher, thumb grazing the underside of my breast. Then he stills.
“No … Cyra, I’m sorry. Not like this.” His voice is ragged as he pulls his face away. “Not when you’re shaking for something that isn’t me.”
The fog of desire clears enough for shame to creep in, followed by the heavy weight of gratitude. He’s right. The tremor in my limbs isn’t just want – it’s withdrawal, magic clawing at my insides, demanding release.
He lowers me slowly, as if he doesn’t trust himself to let go all at once. When my feet touch the ground, I have to lean against the wall to stay upright. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I can’t tell anymore what I want versus what I need.
“Heal me,” he says.
I look up at him, confused.
“That’s what you need.” He holds my gaze, his jaw tight. “I need it too. So do it.”
I stare at him, slowly understanding what he’s offering.
I hesitantly place my palm against his chest. The world narrows to the pulse beneath my skin, the faint glow of my sigil cooling my chest. Magic rushes up like ice water and light, and the relief is so intense I nearly collapse. His head drops forward, breath stuttering, and I know he feels it too. The lines blur until I can’t tell which one of us is saving the other.
The chill spreads through my palm, into his body. He makes a sound – relief and pleasure tangled together – and I realize my other hand is gripping his shirt, holding him close while I work.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard. The withdrawal has receded, leaving only the other craving in its wake.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, unable to do anything else.
He steps back, putting necessary distance between us. But he doesn’t look away.
“Get some rest.” His voice is still rough. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”
Then he’s gone.
I sink to the floor, trembling. His touch still ghosts along my skin. The phantom pressure of his body against mine. The sound he made when I healed him, when pleasure and relief became indistinguishable.
I press my palms against the cold stone, trying to ground myself. But all I can think about is the way he tasted, the way his hands felt sliding beneath my clothes, the way he looked at me before he pulled away.
A month ago, I would have been horrified by this. By wanting someone whose parents my father murdered. By letting myself get pressed against a wall in a training room, desperate and aching.
But I’m not horrified. I’m hungry for more.
I don’t know when I became someone who could cross lines like this. Someone who wants things I never thought I’d want. Somewhere between hiding and competing, between surviving and fighting back, I changed.
I don’t know if I can go back.
The arena’s social wing feels like an entirely different world.
The corridors are wide and warmly lit, their walls lined with amber glass. Arched doorways open onto lounges furnished with low couches: sapphire velvet on the left, emerald silk near the fountain, ruby brocade beneath the portrait of some long-dead Cardinal. Servants in neutral grey refill crystal glasses and clear empty plates. Pearlescent panels line the walls, reflecting conversations back at themselves, doubling every speaker into an audience of two.
Isolde guides me through it all, her hand light on my elbow. She’s wearing a flowing gown in Venus amber, the fabric gathered at her shoulders and falling in soft layers to the floor. Her long black hair falls in tight curls past her shoulders, pinned back on one side with a white comb inlaid with rose gold.
“This is where therealConclave happens, darling,” she says quietly, her accent crisp and refined. “The trials test your strength and cunning. But here?Herethey test whether you understand the game.”
