Chapter 23
The arena beyond the glass is quiet, like the world is holding its breath before the next storm. I wake slowly, awareness returning in pieces – the soft touch of blankets, the faint tingling in my chest from last night’s healing, and...
Warmth against my back.
Zevran’s arm is draped over my waist, his chest pressed to my spine, our fingers still intertwined from when we fell asleep. His breathing is deep and even.
I lie perfectly still, afraid to move and break whatever spell has allowed this moment to exist. His hand is rough with calluses, larger than mine, but the way our fingers fit together feels deliberate. Like maybe we were supposed to find each other despite everything between us.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than the attack last night, more dangerous than the trial ahead … because this feels real.
His breathing changes. I feel him wake, his body tensing slightly as he realizes our position. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his thumb brushes over my knuckles, just once, before he carefully extracts his hand and shifts away.
The loss of warmth feels like punishment.
“Did you get much sleep?” I ask, not turning to face him yet.
“Enough.” His voice is gruff. When I finally look over my shoulder, his eyes are already open, expression unreadable in the pale light. He glances at the bruises that have formed across my wrists. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I sit up slowly. “You look better.”
“I feel better,” he admits. Then his gaze meets mine, and for a heartbeat neither of us looks away. He shifts closer, instinctive, his hand brushing the blanket near my thigh.
It would take nothing for that space to disappear.
But he stops himself. A muscle tightens in his jaw, and he pulls back with a breath that sounds like pain.
“Cyra,” he says quietly, “last night was … chaos. You were attacked. You’re bruised. The second trial is only days away.” His hand curls loosely at his side. “You don’t need me confusing things.”
“I’m not confused,” I say. The words come out smaller than I mean them to.
He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You should be.”
But I’m not. I’m terrified and reckless and my body still trembles from withdrawal that never fully stops, but I’m not confused about wanting him. About needing him in ways that have nothing to do with magic.
He stands, moving to gather a fresh outfit from the wardrobe, the black leather and red accents of Mars formal wear. “Get some water. Eat something. We’ll leave soon.”
I watch him cross the room, morning light catching on the scars across his shoulders, the lean muscle of his back. When the door to the washroom shuts behind him, I hear the soft hiss of the shower starting – the steady rhythm of falling water filling the silence he’s left behind.
For a moment I just sit there, staring at my hands. The same hands that healed him last night, that held his while we slept, that are shaking now from more than just withdrawal. The restraint he showed should make me grateful.
It only makes me ache.
He knows who I am. He knows what my father did to his family. Yet he still held me last night.
The sound of the water doesn’t stop.
I push the blankets aside and stand. My hands tremble as I cross the room – from both need, and what I’m about to do. This will change everything. There will be no going back from this.
Steam curls from beneath the door, carrying the scent of sandalwood soap.
I push it open.
Zevran’s back is to me, framed by mist. Water runs over his shoulders, tracing the scars like silver wires down his spine. His head is bowed under the stream, dark blond hair slicked against his neck. The water cascades down the planes of muscle, pooling at his feet.
He doesn’t hear me at first. I stand there, heart hammering, watching the way the water catches light against his olive skin. The way his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. My pulse feels like it’s trying to climb out of me.
I could turn around. I could walk away. I could preserve whatever fragile thing we built last night by not pushing for more.
But I won’t.
He turns slightly when he senses movement, surprise flashing across his face before it breaks into something sharper. Something hungry.
“Cyra?” he asks, voice roughened by steam and disbelief.
I step forward, bare feet against wet tile. The water hits the fabric of my thin nightclothes instantly, plastering it to my skin.
“I need you,” I say, quiet but certain. My voice shakes, not from fear. “All of you. Please.”
The water roars between us. For a moment he just looks at me – hair dripping, chest rising too fast, eyes gone dark – then he moves toward me, closing the space quicker than thought.
His lips crash against mine in a kiss that devours. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his damp skin as I kiss him back with equal hunger. The steam swirls around us, amplifying every sensation, every touch, every ragged breath.
This is real. This is happening. There’s no magic to hide behind, no excuse of healing or necessity. Just this – wanting him, being wanted in return.
His hands move to my nightclothes, stripping them away, baring me to his gaze.
The fabric falls to the floor in a damp heap, forgotten, as his fingers map every inch of my skin.
He traces the curves of my body with a hunger that leaves me breathless – the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips, the sensitive skin just below my ribs.
His touch is firm yet reverent, his calloused fingertips sending shivers down my spine as he explores me with a possessiveness that makes me ache.
My hands slide down his chest, fingers exploring the ridges of muscle, the old scars from battles I’ll never know about, before curling around the thick, hard length of him.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating against my lips as I grip him tightly, my thumb brushing over the damp tip where moisture glistens.
I tease him, stroking slowly, deliberately, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hands tighten on my hips.
Then I get on my knees to taste him – my tongue swirling in a slow motion that makes him hiss through his teeth.
His control snaps. He guides me back up and leans me against the wall, his body pressing me into the cool tile as his hands roam, frantic and needy. The contrast of temperatures – cold stone at my back, hot water from above, his burning skin against mine – makes my head spin.
His fingers delicately caress between my thighs, his touch soft but demanding, finding me already slick for him. His thumb finds my clit and rubs in circles, first gently, then picking up speed and pressure as I moan, my head falling back.
“Fuck, Cyra,” he growls, his voice hoarse, his breath hot against my ear.
I whimper, my body arching into his touch, my legs trembling as he teases me to the brink. His fingers are curling inside me now, stretching me, preparing me, and the sensation borders on too much.
“Please,” I pant, the word a desperate plea.
He doesn’t make me wait. With a growl, he lifts me, both hands gripping my thighs as he presses me against the tile.
I hook one leg over his hip, the other braced against the wall for leverage as he positions himself at my entrance.
His forearm supports most of my weight, muscles straining, while his other hand guides himself.
I gasp as he enters me slowly, filling me completely, the stretch exquisite as he seats himself deep. The water pounds around us, the steam swirling in a haze that heightens every sensation, every sound, every touch.
This. This is what I needed. Not just the physical release, but this – being seen, being wanted, being held like I’m precious despite everything I am.
Our kisses turn frantic, desperate, our mouths devouring each other as he moves inside me, his thrusts relentless.
“Talk to me,” he demands, his voice low, his hands gripping my hips tightly enough to bruise. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescents in his skin. “All of you.”
He obliges, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more primal, his body driving into mine with a force that leaves me breathless. The angle hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. “That’s it,” he growls, voice rumbling. “Take it. Take all of me.”
My head spins, my body teetering on the edge of climax as he fills me, throbbing deep inside.
“I want to feel it,” he commands, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. “I want to feel you come apart around me.”
“Zevran—”
I obey without conscious thought, my hands clutching at his shoulders as every sensation, every touch, every thrust amplifies beyond bearing. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
His control shatters. His thrusts become frantic, his body moving with a desperation that matches my own as we teeter on the edge together.
“Cyra,” he groans, his voice breaking as he buries his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “I’m—”
His words are cut off by my cry, my body tightening around him as I climax, my orgasm ripping through me like a storm. The pleasure crashes over me in waves, each one stronger than the last, until I’m shaking in his arms.
He follows moments later, his release explosive, pulsing deep inside me as he empties himself with a guttural moan that echoes off the tile.
The world spins, the steam swirling around us in a dizzying haze as we cling to each other, hearts pounding, breaths ragged. His lips press against my temple, his body still trembling as he holds me tightly, his voice a soft whisper. “Fuck, Cyra. That was—”
“I know,” I murmur, my fingers tangling in his damp hair. “I know.”
The withdrawal is still there – quieter now after last night’s healing, but never truly gone. It’ll come back louder soon, demanding more. But right now, I can feel something else beneath the craving. Stirrings of emotions that feel … genuine.
The water continues to pound against the tile, a relentless rhythm that echoes the aftermath of our collision, our bodies still humming with residual energy.
Zevran reaches past me and shuts it off.
For a long moment neither of us speaks; only the echo of dripping water remains, our foreheads pressed together.
I place my palms on the cool tile, trying to steady my breathing.
My legs shake as my feet find the wet tile.
He steps away to grab us towels.
I watch him for a moment, the way his shoulders rise and fall as he exhales, the way tension eases from the corners of his eyes.
He looks younger like this. Unburdened. Stripped of rank and duty and centuries of Mars expectation.
When he’s commanding troops or facing the Houses, his control is absolute, a wall no one cracks.
But just now, he’d come undone.
Not weak. Never weak. Just free.
His voice, usually clipped and precise, had roughened. His body, always held like armour, had moved without restraint. For those moments in the steam, he wasn’t Lord Zevran of Mars or a future contender for Solar Sovereign. He was a man allowed to feel something.
He catches me watching him as he returns with a towel.
For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
A knock from the chamber door jolts through the quiet, Ren’s curt voice on the other side. “Lord Zevran? Lady Cyra? The Cardinals have sent word that all leaders must report to the Hall of Houses.”
Zevran exhales, a sound that’s half-sigh, half-curse.
Duty waits on the other side of the door. Alliance and expectation and scrutiny. The Houses. The Conclave. The entire system...
“Cyra.” His voice is quiet, soft “Whatever happens out there … whatever they ask of me…” A pause, as if he has to carve space for the truth.
My heart skips, pulse pounding in my ears. He steps closer, and gently cups my face with a hand, his thumb brushing my cheek reverently.
“I will protect you,” he says, steadier now. “No matter the cost.”