Could I, though? Tomorrow we’d start final solstice preparations. In twelve days, we’d face the master directly. And somewhere in the medical center, Raven was still unconscious, still corrupted, still broken by what he’d done to her.
How was I supposed to rest when…
Come here, Elio said softly.
I crossed to the couch, settling between him and Keane. Cyrus followed, taking the chair closest to us to be part of the circle, solid and certain.
Cyrus spoke, his voice rough but clear. I don’t want to go into this with anything unsaid between us.
My chest tightened. What do you mean?
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. The firelight caught the line of his jaw, the tension there like he’d been holding his breath for days.
I mean… His gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. I’m in. Completely.
The words landed low in my ribs, heavy in the best way. A choice, made out loud.
My throat went tight anyway because I’d been bracing for solstice like it was already happening. Because I’d been running on strategy and sheer will, pretending that if I kept moving, nothing could touch me.
And I didn’t want to go into the storm like that.
Keane set his tablet down with careful precision, like he understood what this was without needing it explained. We go slowly, he said. We stop if you need. This isn’t about pushing through anything.
Elio’s hand found my shoulder, warm and anchoring. You don’t have to carry it tonight, darling.
Something in me softened. My shoulders dropped before I could stop them. My breath shook on the way out.
I wanted them close. Wanted to feel real again instead of like a weapon someone aimed at the future.
Yes, I said, the word quiet and absolute. I need you.
We moved to the bedroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Cyrus reached for me first. His hands were gentle despite their size, his palms warm on my waist as he drew me in. When he kissed me, it was slow and controlled—careful in a way that felt like safety.
I’ve got you, he murmured against my mouth.
Keane’s hand found my back, grounding, a steady presence that said, I’m here, you’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.
Elio’s fingers threaded through my hair, attentive to every small response. He read me the way he always did, giving me space to just feel instead of managing how everyone else felt.
We undressed slowly, hands helping hands. No performance, no choreography, just the vulnerability of being seen completely.
Cyrus’s broad frame came into view first, his shoulders bracketed in muscle and his copper skin traced with old battle scars and fresh wounds alike. His arm was bandaged from the burn, and he didn’t hide the damage. He never did. Yet somehow, that made him more beautiful, like he knew he’d survive anything but didn’t mind if I saw the cost.
Keane was next, leaner but just as sure. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he pulled off his shirt, and his portal anchor shimmered briefly at his throat, silver threads spinning slowly and deliberately. His eyes never left mine. He was focused, studying, not with judgment but reverence.
Elio moved like a dance I already knew by heart—graceful and easy, his pale hair catching the low light. Magic sparked faintly at his fingertips, illusion trailing behind like smoke before vanishing into the air. The control was still there, but it didn’t feel like a mask. It felt like a promise. Tonight, he wasn’t performing. He was here.
And then their hands were on me, reverent and methodical. Cyrus’s callused palms rested warmly on my waist. Keane’s fingers brushed reverently over my shoulders. Elio’s knuckles ghosted along my spine like poetry. Every inch revealed felt less like exposure and more like belonging.
When we settled onto the bed, I ended up in the middle—the place where all three of their magics touched mine, humming at the edges like chords finding harmony. It didn’t feel crowded. It felt right. Anchored. Chosen.
Tell us what you need, Keane said quietly. His voice had gone low and steady, the way it always did when everything else got loud.
I don’t know. I was being honest. Just… don’t let go.
Not planning on it, Cyrus said, his thumb stroking over my ribs like he was already holding that promise.
