Chapter 22 #2
Small, breathless sounds that pulled me from sleep with the efficiency of an alarm.
My eyes snapped open, immediately searching for the threat.
The room was darker now—the bedside clock reading 6:27 in harsh green digits.
Morning, but barely. Pale gray light was just beginning to filter through the windows, dawn still an hour away.
Violet was awake beside me, her face twisted with discomfort, her hands hovering over her chest like she wanted to touch but was afraid to.
“Violet?” I pushed up on one elbow, concern sharpening my voice. “What is wrong?”
“My nipples are on fire,” she said through gritted teeth, her breathing shallow and quick.
My blood turned to ice, cold and immediate. Side effects. The drug is still in her system. “Is it the succubus blood? Are you experiencing symptoms again?”
“The what? No.” She looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “It’s not the drug, you paranoid asshole. I just got them pierced two weeks ago. You’re not supposed to play with them for like six months after.”
The guilt that slammed into me was immediate and crushing. “Fuck. Violet, I did not know. I am so sorry, I should have known better, I should have been more gentle, I should have—"
“Rowan,” she cut me off, a smile tugging at her lips despite the pain tightening her features. “How the hell would you know the first thing about proper pierced nipple aftercare?”
She was right, but it didn’t stop the tide of guilt swelling within me. “I should have asked you.” The words came out stiff, formal, weighed down with self-recrimination.
“I asked you to touch me,” she said, her tone gentler now. “I needed you to touch me. You think I was worried about piercing aftercare when all I could think about was fucking you?”
Her words dug deep into the darkness I was struggling to keep at bay. “That does not absolve me of—"
“Oh my god, stop.” She laughed, the sound pained but genuine. “You’re really gonna beat yourself up over this? I practically begged you to play with my nipples, and now you’re acting like you committed a crime.”
Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch towards a smile. “I hurt you.”
“Yeah, well, it was worth it.” She shifted, wincing. “Though I’m definitely paying for it now. I need a cold compress and saline wash, or these things are gonna be angry for days.”
I was already moving, sliding out of bed with purpose. “I will get these things.”
“Saline solution, if you have it. If not, I can make some with salt and water. And something cold—ice pack, frozen vegetables, whatever you’ve got.”
I headed to the bathroom, my mind cataloging supplies. I kept a first aid kit under the sink—a remnant of survival instincts that refused to die even in this comfortable life—and I knew it contained saline solution. The freezer had ice packs I used for training injuries.
Two minutes later, I returned with my arms full: spare shirt, saline spray bottle, clean soft washcloths, two gel ice packs wrapped in thin towels so they wouldn’t be too cold against her hurting nipples.
Violet had sat up against the headboard, still nude, the sheet pooled around her waist. Morning’s pale light painted her in shades of pearl and rose, highlighting the swell of her breasts and the angry redness around both piercings.
The barbells looked embedded in dried bloody tissue, the skin puffed and tender.
I did that.
“Alright,” I said, settling beside her on the bed with my supplies arranged on the nightstand like surgical instruments. “Walk me through this.”
“I’ve got it,” she said with a laugh.
“Nyet. Please let me fix what is my fault.”
She looked at me for a moment, contemplating something before she shrugged. “Fine. If it'll stop you from hovering like a guilty mother hen. . .”
“Thank you. It will.”
“It’s not complicated.” She gestured to the saline bottle. “Just spray it on, let it sit for a minute, then gently pat dry. The cold compress will help with the swelling after.”
I picked up the saline bottle, reading the label with the same focus I’d once used to identify which plants in the Wastelands were edible and which would kill you in minutes. Sterile saline solution. 0.9% sodium chloride. Wound irrigation and cleaning.
This is just wound care. Clinical. Simple.
“Ready?” I asked.
She nodded, and I saw the way her breath quickened slightly. Anticipation or nervousness, I couldn’t tell.
I angled the bottle and sprayed her right nipple first, the mist settling on inflamed skin.
She drew in a sharp breath, her body tensing, but she didn’t pull away.
I watched the solution bead on her skin, watched it run down the curve of her breast in tiny rivulets that caught the light. I willed my cock to not respond.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, my voice rough.
“Stings a little. But it’s helping, I think.” She glanced down at herself, then back up at me. “You can do the other one.”
I repeated the process on her left nipple, hyper-aware of my hands' proximity to her skin, of the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
Her breasts were fucking perfect—I could admit that even as I tried to maintain a clinical detachment.
Full and round, sitting high despite their size, the kind of curves that artists spent lifetimes trying to capture.
Her skin was soft, supple, warm beneath my careful touch when I steadied her with one hand while spraying with the other.
But I compartmentalized those observations, shoved them into a box labeled not now. She was in pain. Pain I’d caused. That was what mattered.
“Let it sit for a minute,” she instructed, her voice steadier now.
I waited, counting seconds in my head, watching the saline work. After sixty seconds, I picked up one of the clean washcloths—soft white cotton that smelled of lavender—and gently patted her right nipple dry. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but she still drew in a quick breath.
“I am sorry.”
“You’re fine.” She watched me with an expression I couldn’t read. “I told you I can do it myself.”
“Nyet,” I repeated. “I am the one who hurt you.”
“So dutiful,” she said, a smile playing at her lips. “Anyone ever tell you that you take responsibility way too seriously?”
“Frequently.” I moved to her left nipple, repeating the gentle patting motion. “I ignore them.”
She snorted, then winced at the movement. “Of course you do. God forbid Rowan ever half-ass anything.”
“There is no point in doing something if you are not going to do it properly.” I set aside the damp cloth and reached for the ice packs.
“Is that your life motto? Because it explains so much about you.” Her tone was teasing now, the pain clearly easing enough for her smart-ass mouth to return.
“It has served me well thus far.” I unwrapped the first ice pack from its protective towel and held it up. “This will be cold.”
“Yeah, that’s generally how ice works.” But there was affection beneath the sarcasm, warmth that tightened my chest.
I pressed the ice pack gently against her right breast, careful to center it over the inflamed piercing. She sucked in a breath, her body tensing, then slowly relaxing as the cold did its work.
“Is that better?” I asked.
“Yeah. Much.” She looked down at my hand holding the compress, then back up at my face. “You know you don’t have to keep apologizing, right? I’m not mad at you.”
“You should be.” I applied the second ice pack to her left breast, mirroring the placement. “I should have asked about your piercings. Should have been more careful.”
“Rowan.” She reached up and caught my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. “I asked you to touch me. Begged you, actually.”
“That is not the point—"
“That’s exactly the point.” She released my chin but held my gaze. “You helped me. You could’ve fucked me. God knows I would’ve let you. . . but you didn’t. You kept boundaries and respected my body—my consent when most people wouldn’t have. So stop beating yourself up over my sore nipples.”
The casual way she said it—you could’ve fucked me—sent heat rushing through my body despite my best efforts at control. My cock, which had finally started to soften during the clinical piercing care, immediately responded.
Treacherous bastard.
“How are you feeling otherwise?” I asked, desperate to change the subject before she noticed my body’s reaction. “The effects of the drug, I mean. Do you feel any lingering symptoms?”
She considered, her brow furrowing slightly. “No. Actually, I feel fine. Better than fine, honestly. Like it just. . . worked its way out of my system.”
“Good.” Relief washed through me, genuine and profound. “That is good.”
“Yeah.” She shifted the ice packs slightly, adjusting their position. “Which means I should be totally fine for my shift tonight at Oubliette.”
And just like that, the moment of peace was shattered.
My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. Every muscle in my body went taut, coiling with renewed tension. My voice was firm when I said the word, “No.”
She tilted her head to one side and stared at me with a confused look. It was as if she didn’t comprehend why I objected to her returning to the place she’d been slipped something less than eight hours ago.
“No.” I threw my hands up, exasperation bleeding through every movement.
Disappointment stooped her shoulders, pulling them down like gravity had doubled its weight on her frame. But her voice held firm, unyielding as winter stone. “I’m sorry, Rowan. I have to go back.”
The finality of those words, leaving no room for negotiation or argument, reminded me viscerally of Faelin in her last moments—that same grim determination, that refusal to bend even when bending might have saved her life.
The memory cut sharp and cold, a blade between ribs I thought had scarred over.
An awful pit opened in my stomach, yawning and dark.