Chapter 9 #3
“Not strong enough,” he says, then stands so quickly the chair scrapes behind him. He paces toward the window as if the glass might answer him. “This is getting worse. The more we fight, the more magic I use, the faster it spreads through everything.”
I follow him blindly. “Then we stop it. We collect the pieces, seal the rifts, and save both worlds. That’s still the plan.”
“The plan assumes I stay functional long enough to finish it.” His gaze stays locked on the industrial skyline of Brooklyn, all steel and shadow and distant lights. “What if I can’t?”
“Then I will be there.” My voice comes steady, even when something inside me tightens. “You’re not doing this alone.”
He turns at that. Really turns. Like the words pulled him out of whatever spiral he was falling into. There’s something in his face now, something unguarded, almost raw.
“When did you stop hating me?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not sure I ever really hated you.” I step closer before I lose the nerve. “I hated the situation. I hated feeling powerless inside it. But you…”
I shake my head once, as if it is obvious. “You’re infuriating and arrogant and far too comfortable ordering people around. But you’re also trying to save billions of people who will never know your name. That’s not hateable.”
A faint, almost disbelieving breath leaves him. “You called me a pretentious drama queen.”
“You are a pretentious drama queen.” A small smile breaks through despite everything. “That doesn’t mean I hate you.”
His hand rises slowly, as if he’s giving himself time to change his mind, then cups my face. His touch is careful in a way that doesn’t match anything else about him, as if I might disappear if he’s not gentle enough.
“You terrify me,” he says.
“Good,” I whisper. “The feeling is mutual.”
For one breath, neither of us moves.
Maybe because we both know this will complicate everything.
Maybe because we are done pretending it hasn’t already.
The space between us is gone as his lips lower onto mine.
The kiss is not like the first one, not sharp, or desperate, or reckless. This one is quieter. Searching. Like neither of us trusts what this is yet, but neither of us can step away to find answers anywhere else.
His hands slide into my hair. I move closer without thinking, as if gravity has decided for us. The binding between us hums low and steady, almost satisfied.
“I need to shower,” I murmur against his mouth, breath uneven now. “I am covered in blood and worse.”
“So am I.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, grounding me. “There is only one bathroom.”
“Guess we’ll have to share.”
There’s a pause where either of us could pretend this is practical.
Neither of us does.
The water is almost too hot, biting against skin as it hits. Steam fills the small bathroom until everything blurs at the edges, turning the world soft and unreal.
I step under the spray, still fully dressed at first, too tired to care about anything as simple as clothing. Water soaks through fabric immediately. Whatever is left of the night runs off me in dark streaks, disappearing down the drain like it never belonged to me in the first place.
The door opens behind me.
Azrael steps in, still clothed, his presence filling the small space instantly. His shirt is ruined, torn in places I don’t want to think about, soaked through with blood and rain and whatever else the night left on him.
“I nearly lost you tonight,” he says. His voice is rough in a way I have not heard before. “Do not do that again.”
I turn fully toward him. Water runs between us, breaking into streams over his shoulders, over mine. “Then teach me to be stronger.”
He crosses the space between us in two steps. His hands find my waist through wet fabric, steadying me as if I am the one who might fall.
“You are already more powerful than you know.”
“Not enough.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I reach for him anyway, fingers catching on the edge of his ruined shirt. “I want to be dangerous. I want to fight beside you without you worrying I’ll break.”
“I will always worry.” His shirt falls away, forgotten. His chest is scarred—pale lines across pale skin, mapping decades of violence. “That is not weakness. That’s?—”
“Caring?”
“Yes.”
The word hangs between us like a confession.
His mouth finds mine. What starts as comfort shifts. Deepens. His hands map wet skin through fabric until he finds bare flesh underneath.
I arch into him. The binding flares. Our magic tangles in the steam.
His lips trail down my throat. Lower. His hands are everywhere—learning the geography of my body as if he’s memorizing coordinates.
I reach for him. Feel the hard length of him through soaked pants. He groans against my collarbone.
“Morgana—”
“Don’t stop.” My fingers work his belt. His zipper. “P-Please don’t stop.”
We’re beyond pretending this is just binding. Just necessity.
This is want.
This is need.
This is something else.
The world outside the steam fades completely. There’s only heat, breath and the steady pulse of something between us that feels too large to name properly.
And when everything else disappears into that moment, there’s no need for anything beyond it.