Chapter 12
He's still holding my hand.
Through the corridor, past staff who flatten themselves against walls, down stairs I don't recognize. His grip isn't tight—just there. Constant. His thumb brushing across my knuckles in a rhythm I don't think he notices.
My skin is too aware of it. Every pass of his thumb. The dry heat of his palm. I stare straight ahead and pretend I don't feel any of it.
The kitchens are large and industrial, all stone counters and iron fixtures, the smell of bread and something savory I can't identify. Three people in Discord's colors look up when we enter.
"Out."
One word. They're gone in seconds, the door swinging shut behind them.
Silence.
He turns to me, those white eyes moving over my face, my throat, settling somewhere around my collarbone before snapping back up.
"Sit."
"I'm fine standing."
"You're favoring your left side. Your breathing is shallow. You've been upright for hours and your ribs haven't healed." He steps closer. "Sit."
"There aren't any chairs."
His hands close around my waist.
I'm on the counter before my brain catches up—just lifted, deposited, my ass hitting stone and my legs dangling. His hands stay on my hips for a second longer than necessary. His thumbs press into the soft space above my hipbones and my stomach flips.
Then he steps back and the cold air rushes in where his hands were.
Well. At least someone thinks I'm portable. Silver lining.
"Was that necessary?"
"Yes."
"I could have—"
"You couldn't." He's already moving, opening cabinets, pulling out bread and cheese and something in a jar. "You would have tried. Hurt yourself. Pretended you didn't."
"You don't know that."
He glances back at me. Just once. "I know exactly that."
I don't have a response. He's right—annoyingly, impossibly right—and I hate that he can read me when I've spent years making myself unreadable.
My stomach growls again.
Traitor organ.
No loyalty.
He moves around the counter to my left, close enough that I can watch his hands work without craning my neck.
Slicing cheese.
Tearing bread.
I shouldn't be watching his hands.
I'm watching his hands.
Long fingers. Precise movements. The thin silvery scars circling his wrists catch the light every time he reaches for something.
I wonder what made them.
I wonder what they feel like.
No. Not wondering that. Not going there.
He glances over—checking if I'm still upright, or still breathing, hard to say which concerns him more—and I'm caught. Those white eyes. No pupils. Just pale fire, holding mine for a beat too long.
I look at the ceiling. Very interesting ceiling. Lots of stone. Riveting stuff.
My face is warm. I blame the kitchen.
He sets a plate on the counter beside me. Bread torn into pieces, cheese cut thin, some kind of preserved fruit I don't recognize.
"Eat."
I reach for the bread.
His hand catches my wrist. Not hard, not painful—just there. Stopping me. His fingers wrap all the way around, and I can feel his pulse against my skin. Or maybe that's mine. Hard to tell when everything is suddenly too loud.
"I'll do it."
"I have hands."
"I know." He picks up a piece of bread and holds it toward my mouth. "Open."
His voice drops on that word.
Just slightly. Just enough.
My mouth goes dry.
This is insane.
This is absolutely insane.
A god is standing in a kitchen trying to hand-feed me and I should be running, should be fighting, should be doing literally anything other than opening my mouth—
I open my mouth.
The bread touches my tongue.
Soft. Fresh.
He watches me chew with an intensity that makes my face go hot. His eyes track the movement of my jaw. My throat when I swallow.
I've been looked at before.
Appraised.
Assessed.
This isn't that.
This is something else entirely.
"Good?"
I nod. Don't trust my voice.
He picks up another piece.
Sure. Why not. Mad god hand-feeding me on a kitchen counter—add it to the list of shit I never expected to survive.
"I can feed myself." The words come out muffled around bread. Very dignified. Really selling the competent adult angle here.
"I know you can."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to."
Oh.
That's—I don't know what to do with that.
I don't know what to do with any of this.The bread, the cheese, his hands, the way he's standing close enough that his hip brushes my knee every time he reaches for the plate.
I'm keeping count. I don't want to be keeping count.
Four times now. Each one a small shock of contact that sends shocks through my limbs.
He holds up a piece of cheese. I take it, and his fingers brush my lips.
My whole body goes warm. Not my face—everything. All at once.
"You're not eating." His voice is low. "Why did you stop?"
Because you're touching my mouth and my brain is short-circuiting. Because—no. I'm not finishing that thought. I'm not thinking about why this feels like something when it shouldn't feel like anything.
"Just chewing."
"You stopped chewing thirty seconds ago."
"I chew slowly."
"You don't."
I swallow. It takes effort. "How would you know how fast I chew?"
"I've been watching you."
Of course he has. Of course he's been learning my chewing speed along with everything else. Why wouldn't he. Totally normal god behavior.
He holds up another piece of bread with fruit on top this time—something dark and sweet-smelling.
"Open."
My mouth opens before I decide to let it. My body is running its own agenda now, and I'm just along for the ride.
The fruit is sweet and sharp. His thumb catches a drop of juice at the corner of my mouth and brings it to his own lips.
My pulse slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
"Good?" he asks again.
Nothing comes out. My throat has closed up. Fantastic. Love losing basic motor function over fruit juice.
He steps closer.
His hips are between my knees now. When did that happen? I don't remember spreading my legs, but here we are—his body fitting into the space I apparently made for him. I can feel the heat of him through his clothes. Through mine. The inside of my thighs pressed against the outside of his hips.
I should close them. Should push him back. Should do something other than sit here with my whole body wound tight and waiting for—
I don't finish that thought.
"Your pulse is fast." His voice is lower now. Rougher. "Why."
"Cardiovascular exercise. Sitting on counters is very strenuous."
"Iowyn."
Just my name. That's all. But he says it close—so close I can feel his breath on my face—and my body does something it has no business doing. My knees press against his hips. Not pulling him closer, not pushing him away. Just... loss of control.
My body is a moron.
"I can smell you."
My brain whites out.
He leans in. Not kissing—just breathing. His nose brushing my hair, my temple, the curve of my ear. Inhaling slow and deep.
The sound he makes—low and rough, pulled out of somewhere deep—goes straight between my legs. No detour through my brain. Just there.
My hands grab the counter edge. Holding on because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid. Something I can't take back. Something my body is already voting for even though my mind is screaming warning warning warning—
"You smell honest." His lips brush my ear. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just heat. "Do you know how rare that is? Everyone smells like lies. Rot. Performance." His hand slides up my thigh, stops at my hip, grips. "You don't. You smell like truth."
I should say something. Anything. A joke, a deflection, something to break this tension before it breaks me.
Nothing comes out. My throat won't work. My body won't cooperate. All I can do is sit here and feel him breathe against my neck, his hand hot on my hip, his chest almost touching mine—
He groans.
Low and rough, vibrating through his chest and into mine.
My hips jerk forward. Involuntary. Seeking something my brain hasn't approved.
And then he's gone.
Just gone. Two steps back, then three. The cold air hits my thighs where his body was, and I'm left sitting on a counter with my knees still spread and my pulse still racing and—
What the fuck.
"Renan." His voice is steady. How is his voice steady? "I need Renan."
"What—"
"Stay."
He's at the door before I can respond. Not looking at me. His hand on the frame, knuckles white.
"Koshin."
He stops. Doesn't turn.
"What just happened?"
Silence. His shoulders rise and fall once. Twice.
The door opens. Closes. He's gone.
I sit on the counter, legs still spread, pulse still hammering, the plate of food untouched beside me.
The door opens again. Renan—his eyes sweep the room once, find me on the counter, and his mouth does that thing.
"He left."
"I noticed."
"He told me to take you back. Not leave you alone." Renan crosses to the counter and leans against it. Close but not too close. "You look wrecked."
"Thank you. Very helpful."
"What did he do?"
I don't answer. Can't. My body is still buzzing, still hot, still confused about why it stopped. He smelled me. He groaned. He touched my hip and my thigh and my mouth and then he just—left.
"Nothing," I manage. "He did nothing."
"Huh." Renan's watching me. Too knowing. "That's a lot of nothing."
"Shut up."
"Just observing."
I slide off the counter. My legs are unsteady and my ribs protest—everything protests—but I ignore it all and start walking toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the chambers. Isn't that what he said? Take me back, don't leave me alone." I don't look at him. "So take me back."
Renan falls into step beside me. Silent for once. A small mercy.
My body won't calm down. My pulse won't slow. Every step reminds me of his hands on my hips, his breath on my neck, the sound he made when he pulled away.
I don't know why his hands on my body feel different than every other hand that's ever been there. I don't know why I'm frustrated that he left instead of relieved.
I don't know why I wanted him to stay.
This is bad. This is very bad. Twenty-four years of keeping my head down and my legs closed, and this is what breaks me. Bread. Bread and his hands.
Fantastic. Horny for the god who owns me. Really outdoing myself here.