I shut the bathroom door behind me, leaning against the wood for a second to catch my breath. I peeled off my wet clothes, each movement stiff with leftover adrenaline and the damp.
The hot water hit my skin like a shock, washing away the chill but doing nothing for the tension knotted in my gut. I scrubbed harder than I needed to, trying to erase the memory of his fingers on my ribs, the heat of the car, the unexpected sweep of ink over skin that shouldn’t be vulnerable.
And then I realised what was missing.
The headache.
The silence had arrived in stages. It had started after The Pit, the grinding pressure receding as he pulled me back from the edge. It had continued through our training, the ache growing fainter every time his magic brushed against mine.
I only just realised it was gone. The constant weight that had guaranteed my life—the price of a power I hadn’t known I possessed—had already vanished.
And the scar. I reached up, grazing the raised skin on my left shoulder. It had woken up the night we found Talia’s body, a burning warning of danger. But with Riven, the sensation had shifted. I had mistaken it for the old pain, but standing here in the solitude, I recognised the truth.
It was a tether.
The skin cooled, the old burn settling into a steady hum. My body knew what my mind refused to admit: I was safe with him.
I turned the water off. The steam curled around me, thick and white, as I stepped out and wrapped myself in the biggest towel I owned. I took a breath, steeling myself for the cold, and opened the door?—
And stopped dead.
Riven stood in the kitchen, dominating the small space, his sheer height shrinking the room. He held a mug between both hands, completely unaware of my scrutiny.
I’d spent weeks cataloguing him as a threat—mapping the reach, the speed, the magic. I’d never let myself look at the rest. But standing there, with the steam drifting around a face that had softened in the isolation of the flat, I couldn’t look away.
He had forgone his usual severe tie; his longer hair hung loose, the damp, dark strands curling slightly against his forehead and brushing his jaw. The arch of his cheekbones was shaded by a day’s growth of stubble, a rough texture against his pale skin that made my fingers twitch at my sides.
The wet shirt clung to him, outlining the broad span of his chestand the corded muscle of his arms in translucent grey. Even his mouth, usually set in an unyielding line, looked different now—fuller, almost kind, as he blew gently on the tea.
He was a walking hazard. The sort of man who promised absolute devastation in a fight, and a vastly more complicated kind of ruin behind closed doors. I released a slow, measured breath, briefly closing my eyes.I just need sex, I reasoned with myself.That is all this is. It had been far too long since I had let anyone within arm’s reach, and my deprived biology was clearly projecting its frustration onto the nearest, most lethal target available.
I dragged my gaze up to his face, bracing for his icy stare to catch me looking. But his attention was entirely absorbed elsewhere. He was staring past me. At the counter. At the books.
My favourite children’s book,The Little Sun and the Little Moon,and my mother’s storiesThe Tides Beyond the Veilnext to it.
His head lifted. Our eyes locked.
For one breathless heartbeat, we were entirely still.
His gaze swept over me—damp shoulders, the towel tucked tight, bare legs—and heat twisted low in my stomach. My magic woke up, subtle and alive beneath my skin, responding to the sudden spike in his attention.
I fled to my bedroom before my body betrayed me entirely, shutting the door with a click. I dressed in record time—joggers, a long-sleeved top. Comfort. Armour.
When I stepped back into the living room, he was sitting at the small kitchen table. The books were still on the counter, but he watched them with an expectation of speech.
“My dad gave me those,” I said, voice a whisper. I picked up both books and carried them to the small kitchen table where he had set the tea. I remained standing, resting my fingertips on the worn covers.
His stare shifted to the children’s book, then to the wrapped, older volume. A flash of recognition tightened the corners of his eyes, mirroring pain.
I flipped open the children’s book to a faded page tobridge the quiet. The front cover was absent, leaving the binding exposed and the pages anonymous. “This one is special,” I said, tracing the illustration. “My mother used to read it to me, and my father kept the tradition. I liked the idea of balance.”
He nodded once. “I have encountered a similar story before,” he said, his voice low. “It was a version written for those who seek histories.” He lapsed into a measured calm, letting the admission settle before his attention drifted back to the cloth-wrapped volume.
“This one—“ I touched the cover ofThe Tides Beyond the Veilwhere the name Liora Rowan was embossed in faded gold. “My mum wrote it. She died when I was young.”
The words felt weighted as they left my mouth. I paused, wondering if I was offering too much too soon. Eamon had warned me about the dangers of this history, and here I was, laying it out in my kitchen for a man I was still learning to trust.
His stillness was profound, ringing in my ears.
