TWENTY-EIGHT #3
I’m still fumbling when Bishop turns just enough for me to glimpse the patterns laced across his back and woven down his spine. More power claimed by a man who protects me from everyone.
Especially himself.
“Wait.” That one word slips out, followed by a much more dangerous one. “Stay.”
He hesitates for the longest second of my life before his hands move to the knot of the towel. He loosens it with deliberate slowness, raising a brow as the terry cloth starts to slip free.
I turn away, cheeks flushing, and fix my eyes on the far wall, my heart pounding hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
It takes every scrap of restraint I possess not to look when I hear the muffled thud of his towel hitting the tile.
In fact, not looking is the single most disciplined thing I’ve done in my entire life—and I just spent six hours sword training in winter rain.
His foot slaps the tile on the first step, and I close my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe.
Because I want Bishop Marius.
I can’t deny it when he’s this close to me. I’ve wanted him longer than I should have. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.
And there was something in his eyes when he stood at the edge of the pool …
Something that makes me certain he wants me just as much.
Presumptuous? Perhaps.
But sometimes you can’t lie to yourself anymore.
Because now that he’s here, I can’t pretend that I don’t want his skin against mine or to know what that power inside him would feel like inside me.
I tried to ignore it, tried to fight this urge that’s pulled me toward him since the first day we met.
But that’s about as simple as resisting gravity.
The water shifts as he settles across from me, the surface rolling out in ripples that brush my skin. The contact is incidental. But the effect?
Fucking incendiary.
Like the water is trying to close the careful distance he’s still putting between us.
Steam rises around us, blurring the line of his shoulders, the pale geometry of his vestiges slipping in and out of view as he moves. He lounges, draping his arms on the edge, and groans. The sound bolts through me, lodging low in my belly before spreading into an insistent pulse.
I’m in so much trouble.
His head lolls back, his shoulders dropping an inch as if the water has taken off some of the weight he usually carries.
Meanwhile, I’m held together by tension alone, every part of me ready to fall apart.
“I’ve missed this … for years.”
The admission catches me off guard. I turn my head slightly to look for cracks in that control he wears like armor and notice how his gaze stays fixed very intently on the stars overhead.
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re patron. You could close them whenever you want.”
He grunts. “That would be an abuse of power.”
I arch a brow. “But you did it for me.”
“Because you needed it.” His voice is rough, coated with something that snags on my fraying nerves and threatens to unravel me further.
Heat climbs up my neck as my embarrassment tangles with tension. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I was just … self-conscious. You didn’t have to go out of your way for me.”
Bishop shifts forward, the damp tips of his silver-blond hair slowly dripping down his shoulders as he pins his gaze on me. “Stop.”
The command in that single word sends my pulse thudding hard enough that I’m certain he hears it. I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t even see anything past him.
“It’s my job to protect you.” The storm returns to his eyes. “But I want you to feel safe, too.”
I hold myself still by sheer force of will, because I’m suddenly aware of exactly how close we are, of how little stands between us, of how badly I want to lean into him and let that safety he’s given swallow me whole.
Breathe.
But I’m not sure that I remember how.
“So,” I say, searching for a change of subject as I trace a pattern on the surface of the water, “if you’ve been avoiding coming here because of the vestiges …”
I shouldn’t go there. I can’t ask him this.
“I mean, if you were worried about people seeing them, I guess …” I stumble along, getting no closer to actually asking.
He studies me for a beat before a knowing smirk flickers across his face. “You’re asking whether I’ve let anyone see these.” He lifts a marked hand.
I swallow. “Have you?”
He pauses, and I half expect him to make me earn the answer. But we aren’t training now. We’re …
I’m not really sure what we’re doing. Part of it does feel like we’re training. Like we’re circling each other, trying to predict the other’s next move but really just hoping we’re ready for whatever blow they deliver.
“Only people I trust.” His words are a simple strike, but it’s one I didn’t see coming.
I wet my lower lip. “So … you trust me?”
His pause is brief but deliberate, as if he’s weighing the potential repercussions of any admission he makes.
“I suppose I do,” he says at last, his eyes lingering. Not on my eyes but my mouth.
The awareness of it prickles across my skin.
“And who else have you … trusted?” I try to sound casual, even as my pulse skips. But we both know what I’m really asking.
Bishop turns away, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jaw like he’s considering whether to answer or disengage. “Vessica,” he says finally.
“Oh.” It slips out so sharply that I swear it punctures the tension building between us.
But he continues, still staring at something in the distance. “Taliesin.”
I blink. “Oh?”
“Lenora. Hadrian,” he says, swiveling back to smirk at my confusion, then adds with feigned innocence, “A few other friends. That’s what you’re asking, right?”
I roll my eyes, but the lightness in his tone lifts some of the weight from my chest.
He looks right at me. “I haven’t been with anyone since I died.”
So, I guess he’s done dancing around it.
And there’s really only one reason he would tell me that … unless …
For a moment, the sole sound in the room is the soft lap of water against stone. I don’t realize I’m staring until he splashes me from across the pool. “Don’t give me that pitying look. I have hands.”
“I’m …” I shake my head, trying to think of anything but those hands.
I force myself to swallow, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.
“You could always leave your clothes on.” I shrug, going for casual and feeling anything but. “Keep it quick and dirty.”
“When I take a woman to bed,” he says, voice low and filled with promise, “I want it to mean something.” His mouth curves faintly. The way it does across the sparring ring when I’m still circling and waiting for him to make the first move.
He’s not going to close this distance. Not unless I ask for it.
Not unless I choose it. A sharp thrill races down my spine, and suddenly, the distance between us is unbearable, like holding a breath underwater for too long.
I move before I can second-guess myself, the pool rippling softly as I rise from it.
Water slides off my shoulders, trailing over the mark on my chest, before tickling lazily down my breasts. I don’t try to hide my body. Not from him.
I wait for the fear to hit. Of letting him see me. Of crossing this line.
But it doesn’t come.
There’s only a deep, safe certainty and something trembling under it, something that needs his hands on me.
Something that just needs … him.
His nostrils flare as I slowly close that final distance between us. He shifts upright, reaching a hand below the water as the other skims the surface, his fingers flexing slightly.
This close, the heat of his body is unmistakable even in the steaming water.
I lift a hand, drawn to the pale, intricate lines on his shoulder, but I stop myself an inch away, asking a question without words. My heart thunders as his breath catches.
But he doesn’t stop me.
The permission settles into me slowly, steadying rather than dizzying.
“It’s a crime,” I say quietly, “that you hide your power. It’s beautiful.”
I trace a finger along the vestige on his collarbone, following it to the one right over his heart. Something charged sparks where our skin touches, and a low moan slips from my lips.
“If you want me to stop, say it,” I whisper, praying he doesn’t as I step between his legs.
He draws a shuddering breath, his chest rising with the weight of that armor he’s wearing even now. His throat slides, long and slow.
“Arden.” His voice breaks on my name, a hand lashing out to grip my wrist. “I want this. I want you.”
He starts to rise, but I plant my free hand on his shoulder and push him back down. Pulling free of his grasp, I wrap my arms around his neck and lower myself slowly into his lap, my knees biting into the stone bench as I straddle him.
We’re face-to-face, but Bishop remains still, like he’s waiting for me. He opens his mouth and hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure?” he asks, the longing in his eyes so deep, I think I might drown in it. What a beautiful way to die. “Because this means something to me, so if you aren’t …”
And somehow, in the midst of all this chaos and pain and uncertainty, this is the one decision I can’t bring myself to question. Not even for a moment.
I brush my hand along the back of his neck, and he exhales slowly, his unguarded eyes proving he’s finally removed that last remaining piece of armor.
“Before,” he says, “I couldn’t. Not before you knew the truth. And then you were hurting …”
Understanding clicks sharply into place. He was protecting me. Not himself. Not the secrets he carries. Me. He was always protecting me.
I think he always will.
And maybe I’m ready to let him.
My heart aches with a deep, breathless pull that feels dangerously like hope. I can’t shut him out anymore. I’m not sure I ever truly have.
Slipping a hand into his hair, I grab hold of him. I might never let go. “Will you just shut up and kiss me already?”