Chapter 48 Aurelia
Aurelia
The tavern was alive.
Boots stomped in rhythm to a drum somewhere in the corner. Voices rose in song, off-key but joyful. Gabriel’s arm pressed into mine on one side; Malachi’s steady warmth was on the other.
Gabriel leaned in, voice lowered but sharp enough that a few heads turned. Almost a whisper-shout. “Where’s Eryndis? Did you see her?”
“I did,” I said carefully. “We spoke. She said she was tired—went to retire to her home.”
Something lit in his face. Excitement. Determination. Both, maybe. He nodded quickly, too quickly, and drained the rest of his wine in one swallow. “Right,” he muttered, already half-rising from the bench. “I’ll go find her. Make sure she’s all right.”
“You know he is going to make sure she is all right,” Santi said with a wink, his grin lazy but knowing.
Before I could answer, the barmaid returned, hefting a vat nearly as tall as my arm. She smirked as she set it down between us, the froth catching lantern light. “The night is young,” she said, filling each of our cups to the brim.
Santiago muttered something about youth being wasted if you didn’t drink it. Malachi only huffed, half a laugh, half disapproval, before draining half his own mug in one swallow.
I drank too. It was sharp and sweet all at once, fire and fruit rolling down my throat. The edges of the room softened. The ache in my chest did too.
The drum shifted. Voices quieted. A stringed instrument took up the rhythm.
My thoughts went, as they always did, to Aeryn. To the nights I sat at his bedside, wiping sweat from his brow, coaxing him to drink water when he was too far gone inside himself. To the way every choice I made bent around him, as if my whole life had been narrowed into the shape of a guardian.
What would it be like to set that down? To care only for myself for once? To want something only because it was mine to want? The thought was impossible. Dangerous. But it lingered all the same. I felt selfish for it.
I remembered Malachi’s almost kiss—the weight of his hands framing my face, the raw honesty in it. A different kind of danger. One that called to me now.
When I turned, he was already watching me. He leaned closer, his voice low, gaze steady. “Dance with me.”
The words weren’t a question. But they weren’t a command either. His hand extended, palm open, waiting.
I hesitated. My pulse pounded. Then, before I could think better of it, I placed my hand in his.
He led me into the open space. His hand settled at my waist, the other folding mine into his. We moved slowly, the music dictating a rhythm of fluid movement.
I felt every point of contact. His hand steady at the small of my back, large enough to span half of me.
His chest brushed mine when the steps drew us close—solid, unyielding, reminding me just how much taller he was.
He eclipsed me easily, and yet he bent to meet me, his body folding into the space I occupied as if it were the only place he was meant to be.
I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Gold eyes burned down at me, catching the low lantern light, watching every breath I took as if each belonged to him.
When he leaned nearer, his breath grazed my temple, warm and steady. The world around us blurred, reduced to drumbeats in the floorboards and the press of his palm against my spine.
He slowed us to a near-stop, his hand leaving mine only to rise and cup my face, fingers gentle against my jaw. The noise of the tavern dulled to nothing.
“I think I hated you when I met you,” he said, voice low, raw. Too lost in ale to lie.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I think I hated you too.”
His gaze deepened, searching mine.
“But you hated,” I whispered. “Past tense. So… do you still?”
Silence stretched. His thumb brushed once against my cheek, tender, hesitant. Then he spoke, softer than the music.
“Does the moon hate the sun?”
I frowned faintly, lips parting. “What?”
He exhaled, the sound heavy and steady all at once. “The moon does not hate the sun,” he said again. “It always comes back to the light.” His voice roughened, almost breaking. “They chase each other across the sky,” he murmured. “Always separate… but never free of the other.”
He spoke like we were written in the sky.
I had spent years pretending I didn’t want to be seen. But for a heartbeat… I wanted him to see me.
The music shifted, the rhythm quickening, drumbeats thrumming through the floorboards. Malachi’s hand tightened on mine before he spun me outward and back, a blur of skirts and lanternlight.
When I landed, my back was pressed flush against his chest. His breath feathered my temple, steady, as the new rhythm pulled us into its song. His body rolled with mine, guiding me into the beat.
One hand slid to the small of my back, coaxing me forward just enough that he could watch the sway of my hips against him. Then both hands were on me, broad palms circling and gripping.
I teased him for it. Rolled once, twice, letting the movement linger, then bent low and rose with purpose, pressing back into him as I did.
My breath caught, a rush of heat spilling through me at the feel of his body taut behind mine.
I turned, only to find his gaze molten. Heat flared low in me, sharp as flame.
He didn’t break my gaze as he tugged me from the floor, leading me toward our table at the shadowed edge of the tavern.
The music dwindled soon after. Laughter softened, tankards were drained, and the tavern thinned to only a few lingering voices.
Malachi and I shared one last drink at the table, his hand steady over mine as if he’d decided I wasn’t allowed to slip away.
The ale warmed me, heavier than I realized, and I wondered if I’d regret how much I’d had in the morning.
But in that moment, it made everything soft: the light, his voice, the way the world leaned in instead of away.
When we finally rose, the air outside was cool enough to sting my cheeks. Lanterns swayed in the branches, painting the walkways in drifting gold. We didn’t speak. At some point, his hand found mine—rough palm, long fingers, calluses that felt steadier than the bridges beneath our feet.
I should’ve thought of Aeryn. Of Synnex. Of the path still clawing ahead. But all I could think of was how easy it felt, letting someone else hold the weight for once. How impossible and selfish and necessary it was to just let myself be here.
By the time we reached his lodgings, my heart was beating too fast for the quiet. He opened the door, let me step inside first. The fire was low, casting the walls in amber. He closed it softly behind us.
The space breathed. For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he stepped closer. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, brushing a curl from my cheek.
He tilted my chin, gaze steady. His mouth found mine again—gentle, asking, patient. My fingers fisted in his shirt before I could stop them.
The kiss deepened. His body bent to mine, folding into the space I took up. I felt the question in him.
I broke the kiss and pulled his shirt over his head.
“Do you want this?” he whispered against my lips. His forehead rested against mine.
My throat tightened. “I want this. I want to choose.”
Something in him broke. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands framing my face like I was both fragile and unmovable. His lips moved along my jaw, the line of my throat, as though he meant to learn me one breath at a time. When I trembled, he steadied me. When I faltered, he waited.
I’d never done this before. He must have known. But he didn’t rush me, didn’t press. He watched me as though the answer to something he’d sought for centuries might live in the curve of my shoulder or the sound of my breath.
He sat me at the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees to unlace my boots. He slipped them off one at a time. His hands lingered a moment at my ankles before trailing upward, steady against my calves, pausing at my thighs.
When his fingers reached the waistband of my pants, he glanced up, gold eyes burning. I nodded, the smallest motion. Permission.
He didn’t rush. He unfastened them with deliberate care, sliding the leather down slowly, tracing the path of his touch as he drew them from me.
Then his hands rose again, slipping beneath the hem of my tunic.
He lifted it over my head, steady and unhurried.
The fabric fell away, leaving me bare to his gaze.
He leaned in between my legs, his hands braced at my hips as though anchoring me in place. His mouth traced a slow, deliberate path up my stomach, warm breath teasing my skin until he reached the scar that cut its way between the swell of my breasts. He kissed it softly.
Then his mouth moved higher, capturing one breast with careful hunger, his tongue circling before he drew it into his mouth. A shiver rolled through me, my hands instinctively grasping at the back of his neck. His teeth grazed lightly, sending sparks down my spine, and I gasped.
Malachi groaned low in his throat at the sound, his grip tightening on my waist. He worshipped me in pieces—each kiss, each flick of his tongue pulling me further from fear and toward something I had never allowed myself to want.
His hands settled at my hips, wordlessly telling me I didn’t need to do anything at all. Heat followed his touch along my ribs until he found the place under my heart; his palm rested there, anchoring me in the moment.
My body trembled—small, involuntary. Every wall I thought I still held cracked. His touch gentled, circling slow and devout over my skin.
My heartbeat pressed into his palm. He bent. A kiss to my brow where the scar began. Another to my cheek, where the scar curved cruelly. Then my mouth.
He kissed down the column of my throat and lower still, between the rise of my breasts, where the scar split me in two. He traced the scar with his mouth to the curve by my navel, and what had shamed me rose beautiful again in his hands.
He gripped my thighs, easing them open with a hush that made me feel beautiful and singular. His gaze lifted once, catching mine in question.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Then he lowered his head between my legs, easing them over his shoulders with a hunger that dragged me closer still.
His breath mapped kisses along the insides of my thighs, and when his mouth found the heat of me, the path behind me closed.
Each pass of his tongue was slow, coaxing—a steady unmaking.
My hands clenched in the furs, hips lifting in a wordless plea.
He held me steady, his hands braced at the backs of my thighs, keeping me open. I wanted more. Not just his mouth, not just his hands. The thought struck sharp and reckless.
The memory of his teeth ghosting my skin came rushing back, vivid as flame.
“Bite me,” I whispered, desperate.
His head lifted, golden eyes burning up at me. Hunger warred with restraint in the sharp set of his jaw—before he gave in. His fangs pierced the inside of my thigh, sinking deep. I gasped, the pain drowned instantly by heat as he growled low in his chest, the sound more pleasure than threat.
Then his mouth softened. His tongue swept over the punctures, sealing what he had undone, the sting fading to warmth before he lowered his mouth back between my thighs. The ache there sharpened, unbearable, as he took me into his mouth again.
When he finally rose, mouth slick and eyes burning, a low sound tore from him. One hand dragged over himself through the leather of his pants—a brief, rough stroke that sent heat flooding me anew—then he returned, fingers finding that aching center.
“More,” I gasped, the word leaving me like a prayer.
He gave it. Two fingers sank deep, curling with devastating precision until stars edged my vision. He leaned closer, hips pressing to mine, his body mirroring the rhythm his hand carved. His mouth found the hollow of my neck, breath ragged.
He could break me if he wanted. And I would let him. Instead, he drew back just enough to meet my eyes.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “I want to see your face when you fall apart.”
Something split open inside me, not just the tension, but the years of being feared, pitied, handled.
He was giving me back to myself. And I needed more of it.
“More, Malachi. I want all of you.” The need clawed through me. I had to feel him, all of him.
He rose, gold eyes never leaving mine. “If I give you all of me,” he murmured, stepping between my legs, “can I keep you?”
My fingers fumbled at his belt, looking up as leather slipped loose. “For as long as the moon chases the sun.”
He pulled back just enough to search my face.
“Please,” I breathed, no hesitation.
His trousers were gone in a rough, impatient motion, and then he was above me, braced on his forearms, careful despite the hunger in him. The heat of him pressed against me, heavy, demanding.
The first push stole my breath. A sharp stretch, then a fullness that made my nails dig into his shoulders. He stilled at once, his chest rising and falling against mine.
“Breathe,” he whispered, forehead resting against mine. “Let me in slow.”
I forced air into my lungs, and as I did, the ache turned to something else—something deeper, fuller.
My body adjusted, opened, and when I nodded, he began to move.
Slow at first, each thrust a deliberate claiming.
His mouth found mine again—hungrier, desperate, pulling me into the rhythm of his body.
The pain bled away, giving rise to fire that climbed higher with every movement. Each deep drag of him struck something inside me that made my back arch.
“Gods, Aurelia,” he rasped, voice fraying. For a heartbeat his rhythm faltered, as though he was holding back more than he could bear. “You… undo me.”
His hands locked at my hips, grounding me as he thrust once more, deep and devastating. The world shattered around us, and in that breaking, we unraveled—together.