Chapter 18 #2
“Staves are more practical than swords for someone your size. Longer reach, better defensive options.” He activates his own staff with a quick twist at the base, and the indicator lights pulse once – blue, then steady.
“The impact dampeners are set to training mode. They’ll still hurt, but they won’t break bones. ”
He demonstrates a basic stance, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the staff held diagonal across his body with one hand near the center and the other at the base. “Your weight should be distributed evenly. You need to be able to move in any direction.”
Then he walks behind me to adjust my grip.
“Like this.” His hands cover mine, warm and rough, and my heart stops. He shifts my fingers along the wood, repositioning my hold. “The staff is an extension of your body, not a separate tool.”
I force myself to concentrate. We run through some basic forms – strikes, blocks, defensive spins. The movements are made as simple as possible, but my body rebels with every motion. My arms shake. Sweat stings my eyes.
“Again,” Zevran says, circling me. “Faster this time.”
I try. The staff blurs in my hands, but my footwork is clumsy, my reactions too slow.
“You’re overthinking it.” Zevran says critically.
“I’m trying.” I huff.
He comes at me, his own staff moving in a controlled arc. I raise mine to block, but the impact jars through my weakened arms and I stumble backward.
“Too slow.” He says. Not cruel – just true.
I grit my teeth and reset my stance. We go again, and this time I manage to deflect his first strike. But the second comes too fast, and I barely avoid it. By the third exchange, my vision is swimming and my breath comes in ragged gasps.
The staff slips from my grip, clattering on stone. I sway.
He tosses his own staff aside. “Enough.”
“I can still—”
“You can barely stand, Cyra.”
“So what? You’ve fought half-dead before.”
He scowls. “That’s different.”
“How?” I take a step toward him, fury giving me strength I don’t have.
“Because when you break, I can’t fix you.”
I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already closing the space between us.
“You don’t listen,” he says, low. His face is inches away from mine now, frustration in his eyes. I clench my hands into fists, my own frustration boiling over as I tilt my chin up, unafraid now to meet his gaze directly.
“Neither do you.” I counter.
Then – before I can register what’s really happening – his mouth crashes against mine. Rough. Unguarded. It’s not a kiss meant to seduce – it’s one meant to silence, to surrender.
I grab his shirt and pull him closer. His body hits mine hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs. Heat. The grind of cloth between us.
His hands slide down my back and anchor on my hips. I can feel every inch of him – hard and desperate. My body arches in response before my mind can catch up.
“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 fingers find 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.