TWENTY-EIGHT #2
The doorway breathes toward me, steam billowing through and fading to wisps that beckon like ghostly fingers before vanishing.
But something stronger tries to tug my attention in the opposite direction.
Toward the light glowing in the infirmary.
I grab a fresh towel and strip out of my training clothes as quickly as my body allows, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to see if Bishop is looking.
He’s not.
Good. I don’t want his attention.
But I check one more time to be sure.
He’s still not looking, and I push away a stab of disappointment.
Exhaustion clings to my bones as if they’ve turned to lead under my skin, and my muscles twinge with even the slightest movement like they’re deeply disappointed in my choices.
I should already be stripped down and racing toward the promise of relief.
The trouble is that I’m not sure I want to go in there alone.
You can’t have it both ways.
I wrap the towel around myself as my feet carry me back to the infirmary, not the steam. I knock on the open door, already backing up a few steps as if distance can protect me from making a mistake.
I should just walk away, but Bishop turns to me, his attention on an open file in his hands. His eyes lift, freezing on my towel. I clutch it closed, trying to keep it high enough to shield the raven-mark on my chest as his gaze travels slowly over my collarbone, up my neck, to finally meet mine.
Run.
It’s safer.
But I don’t want to—not this time.
This time, I’m exactly where I want to be.
But my chest tightens, my ribs stretching to accommodate the ache slowly building beneath them.
This isn’t how I survive.
This is how beautiful, desperate mistakes are made. Ones that can’t be undone.
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe crossing the line isn’t a weakness. Because this is taking more strength than I have.
The question claws up my throat anyway. I blurt it out before it rips me apart. “Will you join me?”
His breath deepens with concentration, his chest rising and falling in heavy deliberation as if he’s willing his heart to slow. But then something shifts, the lines of his face hardening, his eyes fading somewhere distant as he locks whatever he’s feeling away.
But it was there. If only for a moment.
“When was the last time you used the baths?” I ask quickly, walking back my invitation before he thinks I’m throwing myself at him again.
That’s exactly what you were doing.
I shove the thought into the pit of embarrassment that’s growing by the moment. “I assume you don’t because of your vestiges …”
Now I’m just rambling.
Mercifully, he takes pity on me. “It’s been … a while,” he admits.
“Since you became immortal?” I guess.
A muscle works in his stubbled jaw. I can’t stand the idea of him here alone when he could relax—something he never does. He needs this as much as I do, but he shakes his head, closing the folder in his hands like the discussion is over. “I did this for you, so you could feel safe.”
Something twinges deep inside me and settles in a place the training has never touched. “We’re both adults,” I say softly, “and you’ve already seen … my mark.”
He glances at the desk, his eyes shutting for a split second before he waves off the invitation. “I’ll be in here if you need me. I’ll make certain you aren’t disturbed.”
Alone. Supervised. Trust Bishop to find a way to give me both. He’ll guard the door but never cross the threshold himself. Always drawing the same line.
And suddenly the distance between us hurts too much to bear.
I start to leave but can’t stop myself from whispering, “I always feel safe with you.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before I wish I could drag them back.
I’m not sure if he even heard me, and I’m too big of a coward to check.
Heat floods my face, the confession chasing me toward the baths—where I must now resist the urge to drown myself, so I never have to look him in the eyes again.
Why in all seven hells did I say that to him?
I should have let the moment pass. Or laughed it off like it was a joke. Anything that might have kept the careful balance between us intact. That might have reminded both of us that we’re only training partners and reluctant allies, nothing more.
I swear I hear the stillness stretching behind me. He doesn’t speak or follow me.
I can’t decide if that’s a mercy or a cruelty.
Inside, steam rises in languid sheets that blur the hard lines of stone tiles, fogging the glass ceiling overhead just enough that the starry night winks in and out like it’s peering through clouds.
There are six pools sunken in the floor, each framed with tiled mosaics of the patron constellations.
For a moment, I stand there listening, half convinced I might hear Bishop’s footsteps after all, following me into the steam to prove I’m not imagining the fragile thread stretched between us.
But the bathhouse remains stubbornly silent. A trace of minerals hangs in the air, as if the room is holding its breath, too. I force myself to stop waiting and move toward the pool in the center, drawn to the way its dark stone steps seem to vanish from sight.
The air leaves my lungs in a long sigh as I take the first step down.
The water carries a pale, milky cast that swallows the light a few inches below its surface.
The stone inside the pool is slightly rough.
It’s a mercy, given that I don’t trust my overworked muscles to keep me from slipping otherwise.
I lower myself inch by inch to the built-in bench, until the water reaches all the way to my shoulders.
A moan escapes my mouth as the silky heat closes around me, the sound way too intimate for a space that’s usually shared—and suddenly I’m very glad Bishop wasn’t here to witness that.
I linger there, letting the heat cocoon me, my body easing more with each second that passes, warmth sliding into places I didn’t realize were tight. The minerals in the water linger on my skin like a caress.
Void him. He was right.
But there’s some tension even the water can’t help me shake.
It’s not like the invitation meant anything. Surely Bishop knows that. The baths are large and empty. Not asking would have been rude. I don’t care that he said no.
It’s good that I’m alone.
I close my eyes and relish it. Relish the quiet lapping of the water against tile, the slight hiss coming from the sauna, the airy bubbles that break over my skin where the water is piped in directly from the mountain hot spring.
I’m glad that I’m alone.
The speed of my pulse suggests otherwise.
I sink deeper into the pool until the water hits my chin, heat sliding over me in slow, insistent waves. Steam curls around my face as I lower my head back to rest on the pool’s edge and close my eyes.
This stolen moment is enough. It’s all that I need.
And he knew it. Arranged it. Kicked everyone out.
For me.
It shouldn’t fucking matter, but just thinking about it betrays me. The heat loosens something devastating, stripping away the sharp edges I’ve honed through discipline and routine, anger and grief, and leaves something delicate behind.
I am absolutely not waiting for him. Not hoping he’ll join me. Nope. I am relaxing. Aggressively.
But if he did come in here …
I hover in the space between thoughts, held by the water and balanced on the edge of something I refuse to name.
Because what would be the point?
Bishop is probably absorbed in whatever important paperwork he keeps in the infirmary.
Maybe I’ll punish him tomorrow. Insist we don’t train until he kicks everyone out again and takes full advantage of this glorious heat himself. Maybe in the light of day, I’ll be able to remember the lines between us better and see that this is enough. More than enough.
I’m halfway through convincing myself when the echo of footsteps on tile tells me I’m not alone.
This isn’t happening. He isn’t joining me.
Please, Stars, let this be fucking happening.
When I pry my eyes open, Bishop stands at the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. I sink lower, my own body covered by the opaline mineral water.
Steam beads on him, a thin sheen of sweat already clinging like a second skin.
A low rush of heat that has nothing to do with the water floods through me.
One of his arms is fully mapped with intricate silver lines in a pattern that winds over muscle and bone like beautiful scars.
The other arm is half marked, the design breaking off suddenly, unfinished and waiting.
More lines arc across his shoulders, continuing into the hard lines of his chest, disappearing under the towel before reappearing on his thighs and weaving across his calves.
His lethal past written on him in a language my body longs to learn.
This is the guilt he carries. The power he keeps sheathed beneath armor and discipline and that maddening restraint.
I want to strip it all away until I reach the man underneath.
Desire coils tight in my belly, sharp enough that my fingers curl around the edge of the bench, biting into stone, to keep myself from moving toward him. Weeks spent training my body to endure fear and pain and exhaustion—and just looking at him threatens to unravel me.
His gaze searches mine for a beat. Then another. Each moment is punctuated by a tick between my legs. Then another. The storm in his eyes builds with each second, the hunger there flashing like lightning trapped by clouds. “If your offer still stands …”
The rasp in his voice empties my brain completely, every word I know scattering. All I can do is stare.
He shifts, glancing around the room. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ll use one of the other pools.”
The apology feels like a blade laid carefully at my feet. It’s up to me what I do with it.
I open my mouth … and close it. One word and this finally begins. One word and it ends here.