Chapter 15 – Elara
The attic is warm. Wood groans quietly above us, as gentle rain taps at the shingles overhead. The lantern glows softly, throwing long shadows against the dusty walls. It feels like we’ve stepped into a pause in time—just me and Nico, hidden away from everything that's chased us here.
I sit curled up on the mattress in the corner, watching the flame dance gently inside the lantern. Nico sits close by, his back against the wooden beams, his gaze steady and thoughtful. I feel his eyes brush over me, cautious but unguarded, testing something new between us.
It’s strange—not awkward, just quiet in a way we haven’t experienced before. We’ve fought, bled, and survived together, but this closeness is different, vulnerable. I decide I don't want to shy away from it tonight.
Without breaking the quiet, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a long red silk scarf, rolling the fabric between my fingers. I watch him as I toss it gently toward him, and Nico catches it without hesitation, eyes flicking curiously to mine.
"Play with me," I say, my voice low but certain. "Just for now."
He raises an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued. "What kind of game?"
I smile faintly, edging forward on my knees until I'm sitting closer, facing him fully. My heartbeat quickens slightly, nerves stirring beneath my skin—but not fear. Something warmer.
"I'm the princess," I say quietly, leaning in until my breath brushes lightly against his cheek. "You're the knight. Try not to mess it up."
He tilts his head slightly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Noted."
The way he says it, calm and playful, makes something inside me loosen. This isn't survival tonight. This is softer. This is something we're both choosing.
I lift my chin slowly, meeting his eyes, letting him see the trust I'm placing in him. His gaze softens as he understands exactly what I'm asking for—not rescue, but safety. Control without cages. Touch without fear.
He leans forward gently, his fingers deftly looping the scarf around my wrists, tying it carefully. The silk is cool against my skin, his touch warm. He moves slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving mine. When he's done, he holds my wrists gently in his hand, testing the bond—not restraint, but connection.
His voice drops lower, rough with quiet intensity. "Good?"
I nod, pulse jumping beneath my skin. "Perfect."
I lean forward, gently brushing my lips against his neck. His breath hitches faintly, his body tensing briefly beneath my touch. I smile softly, pressing another slow kiss just below his ear. His scent fills my senses—warm skin, salt, something undeniably Nico.
His fingers settle lightly at my waist, drawing me closer until I'm practically in his lap. The mattress creaks softly beneath us, the sound blending into the pattering rain overhead. The intimacy of this small, quiet space wraps around us like a cocoon.
"Save me," I whisper playfully, lips skimming his jawline.
His hand tightens briefly, possessive yet gentle, pulling me closer still. "Already did," he murmurs back, voice gravelly, sincere. "Still doing it."
Warmth curls through me at his words. Not just because of what he's saying, but how he's saying it—with quiet sincerity, open and unguarded. I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. There's something raw in his expression, a vulnerability he's allowing me to see clearly for the first time.
I shift slightly, straddling his hips, and his hands slide slowly along my thighs, steadying me. My breath catches as I feel the heat of his palms pressing gently through the fabric of my jeans.
"This okay?" he asks softly, eyes searching mine.
"More than okay," I whisper back, voice shaking slightly with anticipation.
Slowly, deliberately, I lean down and capture his lips with mine. The kiss starts softly, careful and exploratory, our mouths gently testing boundaries we’ve silently agreed upon. My bound hands rest against his chest, heart racing beneath my fingertips. His lips part slightly under mine, deepening the kiss. Heat pools quickly low in my belly, sending sparks along every nerve ending.
The room feels smaller, the rain louder, my breath heavier. Nico’s fingers trail upward, thumbs brushing softly against the curve of my waist, tracing slowly upward along my ribs. I shiver beneath the careful pressure, deepening the kiss instinctively.
He hesitates for only a moment, drawing back just enough to look at me—questioning, careful, making sure this is exactly what I want. I nod, breathless, pulse racing.
He doesn't hesitate again.
His palms slide upward beneath my shirt, skin meeting skin. My back arches involuntarily at his touch, body pressing closer against him. Nico’s breath stutters as he slowly drags his thumb over my breast, teasing carefully until I bite gently against his lower lip.
"Don’t tease," I murmur, voice strained, need clear.
He smiles faintly, voice rough with a hint of playful challenge. "You started the game."
"And I intend to win," I whisper back.
His eyes flash with amusement and heat, and his touch turns firmer, more intentional. He cups my breast fully, his thumb rolling over my nipple slowly, deliberately. The sensation shoots through me sharply, dragging a low, breathless moan from my throat.
His mouth returns to mine fiercely, deeper now, possessive and open. I lean into it eagerly, savoring his strength, his certainty, the warmth building between us.
He moves slowly, lips traveling along my jaw, down my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone. The friction between our bodies builds rapidly. His fingers slip from my breasts, drifting lower, teasing along the edge of my waistband. My hips move restlessly against him, wordlessly asking for more.
His lips pause against my neck, breath warm and steady. "Say it," he whispers.
I breathe out, the words shaking softly, honest and unguarded. "Please."
His fingers unbutton my jeans, making every small movement matter. My breath hitches again when his fingertips slide lower, beneath the fabric, brushing against sensitive skin.
Heat blooms sharply, dizzyingly fast. I press into him, hips shifting instinctively against his hand. He pauses briefly, teasing, until my nails dig lightly into his chest.
"Nico," I whisper impatiently.
He laughs softly, a low rumble against my throat, and his fingers slip deeper, finally sliding along my folds. My breath catches, body tensing and arching instinctively against his touch.
"Good?" he murmurs again, voice heated.
"So good," I breathe, hips moving softly, chasing more friction, more sensation.
His touch grows firmer, thumb circling slowly, confidently. Pleasure builds quickly, racing along every nerve, making my breath quicken and shudder in my chest. Nico watches me intently, savoring every reaction, every small gasp or tremble.
He leans in again, voice rough and quiet beside my ear. "Trust me?"
"Always," I reply instantly, surprising myself with the honesty, the openness of it.
He kisses me fiercely, deeply, a reassurance sealed in heat and shared breath. His fingers never stop their slow, deliberate rhythm. The heat between us intensifies, driving both of us higher, tighter.
"Stay with me," he whispers softly, lips moving against mine. "Right here."
I nod wordlessly, pleasure overtaking coherent thought, building steadily toward something bright and inevitable.
We’re not pretending anymore. The game we chose has melted into something real, something raw.
Something safe.
As pleasure overtakes me, pulsing through my veins and pulling me closer to him, I whisper his name against his lips—surrender and strength combined.
"Nico."
He holds me tighter, grounding me against the wave of sensation, eyes locked on mine, quiet satisfaction and fierce care clear in his gaze.
"I'm right here," he says softly, a promise stronger than any game.
And for the first time in a long while, I believe it.
We hold each other quietly, breathing slowly returning to normal. My heart still pounds, a warm rhythm against Nico’s chest, our bodies still tangled. This kind of quiet doesn't come easy to people like us, and it's not something I take lightly.
He strokes my back lightly, fingers drifting softly along my spine, soothing the last of the tension from my muscles. It feels like being wrapped in safety—a feeling I’ve forgotten until this exact moment.
"Nico," I whisper softly, lips brushing against his shoulder, savoring the way his name feels without fear or urgency. Just us, safe for this moment.
"Hmm?" His voice is soft, low, a rumble that vibrates gently against my cheek.
"How long do you think we get?" My voice carries none of the usual cynicism, just genuine curiosity.
He’s quiet a moment, considering carefully. "Long enough."
I close my eyes, breathing him in again. I let the rain above lull me deeper into this peace. I’m just beginning to trust it when a board creaks sharply outside the attic door.
We both go still instantly, muscles tensing, bodies alert. Nico’s hand tightens gently on my shoulder, holding me steady, wordlessly signaling caution. Another creak, unmistakably heavier footsteps—someone’s close.
I move slowly, silently, pulling away just enough for him to shift upright. Our eyes meet, understanding exchanged in a heartbeat. He nods once, eyes flicking quickly toward the door. My pulse quickens again, but not from fear. We both know what happens next.
The door bursts open, hinges screaming as splinters scatter. A large man stumbles inside, gun already raised, his eyes wild. He’s young, cocky, and immediately recognizable as one of Marco’s men—another reminder that nowhere is completely safe.
"You traitors think you're safe here?" he shouts, waving the gun wildly in our direction.
Adrenaline spikes through me. Instinct kicks in. I dive off the mattress, silk scarf fluttering to the floor. I roll quickly, the worn mattress creaking beneath me as I hit the ground, catching myself in a crouch. Nico moves simultaneously, fluidly, faster than the thug anticipates. His blade flashes once in the dim lantern light—a swift, precise arc.
Nico's blade cuts deeply across his belly, a clean, ruthless strike. Blood sprays instantly, splattering the wood in hot arcs. The attacker makes a strangled noise, eyes wide with shock, knees buckling as his gun clatters uselessly to the floor. Entrails spill heavily, the smell sharp and coppery, blending with the mustiness of the attic.
Steam rises faintly from the pooling blood. The man drops heavily, collapsing awkwardly onto the floorboards, his breathing ending with a wet gurgle. Silence returns to the attic, broken only by our ragged breathing, the gentle patter of rain overhead a stark contrast to the violence that's just ended.
I slowly rise to my feet, breathing deep, eyes never leaving the sprawled body. Nico calmly wipes his blade clean on the man's shirt, his movements meticulous, deliberate. I can’t tear my eyes away from the body—not out of fear, but recognition. Another reminder that moments like the one we shared minutes ago are precious and fleeting.
"You okay?" Nico asks, his voice calm, steady, as if we hadn’t just been interrupted by death.
I nod slowly, meeting his gaze. My voice steadier than I expect. "Yeah. You?"
He shrugs slightly, a faint hint of his usual dry humor in his tone. "Still breathing."
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, stepping carefully over the pooling blood, retrieving the red silk scarf from where it had fallen. I turn it gently between my fingers, feeling the cool silk brush my skin. My pulse steadies, clarity returning swiftly. This isn’t new—not anymore. This is our world now, shared and accepted.
I glance up at Nico. His eyes track me carefully, checking for any sign of hesitation or regret. He finds none, because there’s nothing to find. I tie the scarf carefully around my wrist again, reclaiming the symbolism from earlier—not a bond of restriction, but something stronger.
"We should move," I finally say, softly. My voice is steady, even as my mind spins. "Someone else might’ve heard."
Nico nods in agreement, slipping his blade back into the sheath on his hip, the practiced ease of the motion both reassuring and grim. "Marco won’t stop sending men. He’s getting desperate."
I smirk, stepping around the corpse toward him. "Then we’ll have to show him desperation isn’t strength."
He meets my gaze, something fierce and approving in his eyes. "You really are trouble."
"You keep saying that," I reply lightly, the tension slowly easing back into something manageable. "But you don’t seem to mind."
His lips curl into a faint smile, genuine and rare. "Never said I minded."
I pause, gaze softening slightly. "What happens next?"
He hesitates, his eyes flickering briefly to the body. "We keep moving. Keep hitting Marco back harder until he realizes he’s chasing ghosts."
I nod slowly, heart tightening slightly, but not in fear. Determination settles comfortably into my chest. "Good."
Nico steps closer, carefully skirting the spreading blood. He brushes his knuckles softly against my cheek, eyes dark and intense. "You sure you’re good?"
"Yes," I say quietly, honestly.
He nods once, accepting it without question. "Then we fight."
We linger there a moment, standing close enough to touch, surrounded by blood and death, but anchored in something stronger. Slowly, Nico's fingers trace down my arm, catching my hand and threading our fingers together tightly.
My heartbeat steadies. Not peace, exactly, but certainty—certainty that I’m exactly where I need to be. With him.
"Knight," I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips.
He chuckles softly, the sound warm and rare, squeezing my hand gently in response. "Princess."
The quiet settles again, more comfortable now despite the violence. The dead man on the floor no longer matters. What matters is the shared space between us, earned through blood and loyalty.
"You trust me?" Nico finally asks, quietly but seriously, eyes carefully studying mine for the truth.
I hold his gaze steadily, giving him the honesty he deserves. "I wouldn't still be here if I didn't."
He nods, relaxing slightly as if my words lifted something heavy off his shoulders. "Then let’s finish this."
I glance down again at the body, feeling no remorse. This is survival. This is ours.
"We will," I say softly, certain.
He squeezes my hand once more before releasing it, turning toward the attic door. "Stay close."
"Always," I promise quietly, following him toward the stairs, ready for whatever comes next.
The attic grows quiet again behind us, shadows swallowing the body like it never existed. It feels symbolic, somehow—the violence behind, possibility ahead. Blood still clings to our skin, but I don’t wash it away—not yet. It’s armor, just like the silk scarf around my wrist. Just like the man walking carefully in front of me.
Maybe we don't get peace. But we get moments. We take what we can, and we don’t let go.
That matters.
He matters.
We matter.
And suddenly, that's enough.