I made my way toward the left wing of the space, passing through the curved arch that marked the path to the bathrooms.
I cautiously walked into the men’s room, scanning the immediate area.
Relief filled me when I didn’t find anyone inside.
I considered locking the door, but that would be rude. It wasn’t a one-person, private bathroom.
My boots thumped on the dark slate floor and for a moment I was drawn to the embedded quartz that zigzagged through the tiles like magical veins.
There was a tall gothic window framing the night sky outside, a blue flame crystal resting on the sill that emanated a calming air. It also functioned to neutralize any unappetizing scents, and fill the room with a fresh ocean smell instead. A couple more of them sat on sills inset in the honeyed stone walls between brass sconces that cast the place in warm light.
I walked to the black-granite basins with the gold faucets, a line of arched mirrors stretching the length of the sink area.
To my left were urinals cast in opulence, gleaming and shimmering with that honey hue of the walls. To my right were six stalls made of solid caramel-colored wood, three facing another set.
I turned on the faucet of the sink closest to the stalls and shrugged off my hoodie, resting it on the counter. Then I reached for the soap dispenser which was an ornate gold statuesque object.
I gathered an almost overflowing amount of it on my right palm, then tugged out my shirt with my left, identifying the three bloodstains marring the fabric.
I leaned forward, dipping it in the running water a bit, before adding the soap and scrubbing it as harshly as possible to hasten the process, not wanting anyone to walk in and see me cleansing my clothes of blood. That really wouldn’t be a safe visual.
It worked, the stains fading quickly.Hmm,this was some good soap.
I’d just finished up and turned the water off, intending to call my shadows to dry it, when a thud sounded behind me.
Before I could even look in the mirrors to see who was entering so incredibly aggressively, a bone-jarring weight slammed into my back.
As I stumbled, my arms were grabbed roughly, and then I was slammed up against the wall, a hand to my throat.
And there he was. Right there in my personal space.
Zayn Riene.
Chaotic Ifrit and exquisite complication to my life.
Going on years now.
A shock of fuchsia filled my vision, the blaze of punk defiance that was his tousled, wild hair. His espresso eyes pierced into mine, harsh and challenging all at once as he ground his sharp jaw. That familiar spicy scent of his infused me. His fitted white T-shirt clung to the sculpted lines of his toned, muscled and compact body. Black jeans hung low on his hips and his studded belt ground into me.
“Winter,” he rumbled dangerously, his inked hand tightening around my throat, his bicep bulging from the effort and his bunching muscles making it appear as though his tattoos with the skeletal motifs, flame patterns, and abstract symbols were moving and come to life.
I reached out and brushed my fingers over the left side of his neck, tracing the sharp, stylized thorned vine tattoo there.
He batted my hand away and slammed it down beside me with such force it had me grunting.
He was using his magic to imbue himself with additional physical strength, because when it came to pure power and muscle where our magic wasn’t a factor, he couldn’t normally overpower me.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” he hissed, his eyes blazing fuchsia, just like his hand still wrapped around my throat.
“You’re the one all over me.”
Fury and passion spilled from him and bled into me.
And it tasted absolutely glorious.
Because it was him unmasked.
A true rarity.
