Chapter 13
Elio
WE’D COME BACK FROM THE wellspring cleanse two hours ago, and Marigold’s shoulders still hadn’t dropped.
I set down the file I’d been pretending to read.
The wellspring in Lyon had been straightforward—corruption embedded but not deep, the kind we’d learned to clear in under an hour—but straightforward didn’t mean easy.
It meant controlled exhaustion instead of desperate exhaustion. Her body hadn’t gotten that memo.
Scout dozed on her shoulder, twitching occasionally. Keane was absorbed in his charts across from us, ink-stained fingers tracing portal vectors with that focused intensity he got when the work was the only thing keeping him upright.
Cyrus had gone straight from Lyon to the council representatives. His absence created a hole in the room’s energy but also space. Room to breathe without the constant heat of his presence.
The three of us had migrated to my sanctuary to decompress. Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling overhead, casting soft hexagonal shadows across the Persian rug. Clouds drifted past lazily—beautiful, peaceful, utterly at odds with the exhaustion settling into our bones.
My chest felt tight watching Marigold hunch over those maps. Every line of her body screamed exhaustion she was ignoring.
I knew that posture and had perfected it myself, the art of appearing functional while slowly fracturing underneath.
We need a break, I announced, setting down my file with deliberate finality.
She looked up, her dark brown eyes exhausted. We should keep going, she said, her voice carrying the particular stubbornness of someone who knew she was flagging but didn’t want to admit it. We only got Lyon done. There are three more sites we could hit today.
We can take thirty minutes. I moved behind her before she could argue, settling my hands on her shoulders.
The knots I found there were brutal. Her body was cataloging every fear and filing it between her shoulder blades for later processing.
Except later never came. She just kept adding more weight.
Echo shifted to concerned yellow on the desk, reflecting what I was feeling before I’d named it.
He’s right. The next site isn’t going anywhere in the next hour, Keane said, looking up from his charts. And we’re no good to anyone if we portal in half-depleted.
I pressed my thumbs into the worst knot, and Marigold exhaled sharply—surprised, relieved, and vulnerable.
My hands stilled for just a moment.
Was I doing this because I genuinely wanted to help her? Or because touch was my language, and I was falling back on what I knew how to perform?
The question should have been simple, but it wasn’t.
Fine, Marigold said, her voice carrying that particular blend of frustration and surrender I’d learned to recognize. Thirty minutes. Then we get back to work.
Thirty minutes, I agreed.
My thumbs found the knot again, working it with more pressure. Real pressure, not the calculated touch I’d used on targets before. This was for her relief, not my advantage.
The distinction mattered.
Keane set aside his charts, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Wisp materialized near the window, settling in to keep watch while giving us privacy. Scout abandoned Marigold’s shoulder to join Echo on the desk, the familiars curling up together companionably.
Even they understood we needed this.
Lie down, I said, gesturing to the open space beside me. Flat. You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep hunching like that.
Bossy, she muttered, but she shifted papers aside and stretched out on her stomach.
The rug was thick beneath her, and the afternoon light caught in her dark blonde hair, turning it almost bronze at the edges. Beautiful. She was always beautiful, but like this—unguarded, trusting me to touch her without agenda—she was devastating.
I knelt beside her and went back to work on her shoulders, this time with leverage. Real leverage, not the careful pressure I’d use if I was trying to seduce.
The line between helping and wanting was getting dangerously blurred, though. My thumbs dug into a new knot, and she groaned without meaning to.
Gods, that hurts.
You’ve been carrying this whole thing in your back, I murmured. Every plan. Every contingency. Every maybe.
Someone has to, she mumbled into the rug.
No, Keane said quietly. I glanced up to find him watching us—not suspicious, just… observing. Reading the dynamic.
He moved to sit beside her head, his fingers sliding into her hair with practiced ease. We all hold it. You don’t have to do it alone.
It was almost too much—my hands on her spine, Keane’s fingers in her hair. The three of us connected in this quiet, careful way.
My hands slid lower, finding tension in her mid-back, her lower back. Each knot I worked through felt like permission granted and accepted. Trust given and honored.
I wasn’t performing this. I was just… doing it.
The realization made my chest tighter.
We are going to find her, I said, my voice rougher than I’d intended. My hands had reached her lower back now, kneading gently. We’re going to do it right this time—with planning not just impulse.
If we have time, she murmured.
Keane’s hand stilled in her hair before resuming its motion. We do. Not much. But enough.
Let go, I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. Just for now. Let us hold it for a bit.
My hands continued their slow, thorough work—down the line of her spine, over muscles I didn’t know could hold this much stress. Keane’s fingers traced light patterns across her scalp.
Piece by piece, I felt her start to unlock.
Time blurred. The only sounds were her breathing, the soft rustle of fabric, the distant hum of campus beyond my sanctuary’s wards.
Better? I asked eventually, my hands settling warm and still on her lower back.
Yeah, she admitted, rolling over to look up at both of us. Much better.
From this angle, I could see her clearly. Flushed. Relaxed. Her dark brown eyes holding mine with something that made my pulse spike.
Keane’s deep blue eyes were steady and intent.
Something in my chest loosened and then tightened again, differently.
Heat. Want. Real want, not performed want. The distinction was getting harder to maintain.
Thank you, Marigold said, her voice lower than before.
Keane’s hand slid up, cupping her jaw. His thumb brushed her cheek with deliberate slowness. Don’t thank us. We want to be here. We want you.
My breath caught before I could control it. Echo’s scales shifted to deep violet on the desk. Overwhelmed. She only showed that color when I was genuinely feeling something, not performing it.
Marigold wouldn’t know what that meant, but I did.
We have time, I said quietly, letting my voice roughen. Not calculated this time. Just… true. Before the world comes crashing back in.
She looked between us. The way Keane’s touch had gone still, waiting. The way I was watching her like I was letting her decide what happened next.
Except I wasn’t sure whether I was letting her decide or if I was just performing the illusion of her control while actually orchestrating…
No.
Stop.
I was doing it again—analyzing, calculating, turning genuine desire into strategic deployment.
What kind of time? she asked.
My mouth curved before I could think about whether it should. The kind we don’t rush.
No expectations, Keane added, his thumb brushing her lower lip. Just… us.
She reached for Keane first, pulling him down to her. Their mouths met in a kiss that was unhurried and certain—familiar in the way that mattered.
I watched. Couldn’t help watching.
Keane’s hand slid into her hair, steadying her. She softened into him, trusting him to hold her.
I’d felt those hands before—in sparring, in trust exercises, once when I’d nearly fallen through a poorly calculated portal and he’d caught me without question.
And now they were on her, and I was watching. Something about that made my chest tight with want that had nothing to do with strategy.
She broke away from Keane, already turning toward me. Her hand caught my collar, pulling me down to kiss her.
Softer at first. Then deeper.
Her mouth tasted like want and trust and permission, and I was kissing her back before I could think about whether I should calculate the angle, the pressure, the rhythm…
Just kissing her.
Just wanting her.
When I pulled back to breathe, Keane had moved behind her, his hands steady at her hips.
The three of us. Connected. Real.
I reached for the hem of her shirt, meeting her eyes. Can I?
She nodded.
I pulled the fabric over her head slowly. Not performing seduction. Just… undressing her because I wanted to see her.
Keane lifted her hair, kissing along her neck as he unhooked her bra. His movements were deliberate, reverent.
I removed my shirt—aware of both their eyes on me. Aware of my body in a way I usually weaponized. Lean muscle, careful posture, the aesthetic I’d cultivated since puberty.
But this wasn’t performance. This was just… me.
Marigold’s hand reached for my chest, tracing the lines of muscle with curious fingers. Her touch sent heat straight through me—genuine, unscripted heat that pooled low in my stomach.
I kissed down her sternum as Keane’s hands slid around her from behind. He cupped her breasts, his fingers finding her nipples with practiced certainty.
She made a sound—breathy and wanting—that went straight to my cock.
Oh, Mari, I breathed against her skin, my head falling back as her mouth found my chest.
Her hand slid down between my legs, finding me already hard through my pants, and she grinned up at me. Strip. I want you in my mouth.
The command in her voice—certain, greedy, real—made me groan.
I stood, removing the rest of my clothes with hands that trembled slightly—not from nerves but from wanting her so badly I’d forgotten to control the performance of calm.
She watched me, taking in every bit of me.
I’d been looked at before. Assessed. Desired for strategic reasons.
This felt different. This felt like being seen.