Chapter 32 Taera
Taera
Afew hours later, I yawn and slump against the headboard. I’ve learned more than I’ve ever wanted to know about how magic is stored across different internal organs, how it travels through the nerves, and the meditation positions favorable to broadening my magical stores.
There aren’t any instructions on how to have less magic.
Beside me, still holding my hand, Nikolai studies his mysterious book. He looks over each page intently before carefully lifting the brittle parchment and flipping to the next.
My eyelids droop.
I remind myself that I’m not tired. After scanning every diagram in my own text, I finally reach the practice exercises and perk up.
Repeat meditations 1.17, 2.2, and 2.8 five times per day, at evenly spaced intervals, increasing to seven times per day at two weeks, to become sensitive to the movement of magic throughout your six main channeling points, which are identified in exercises 1.6 through 1.11.
I exhale slowly, digging for patience, and then look back in search of those meditations. A detailed array of poses and long-winded descriptions of breathwork await me. There has to be a better way than this, something less tedious. The page blurs. Slowly, my head nods forward.
I jerk it back up, snapping my eyes back open. Nikolai chuckles softly at my side.
“Ready to sleep?” he asks. “It is late.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling more antsy than I did when I was itching. It would be ridiculous to stay awake all night, but the idea of sleeping with Nikolai in his bed threatens to give me the desert-shakes.
“Fine,” I mutter, not feeling that way at all.
“I don’t suppose I’ll convince you to bathe with me again.” Nikolai smirks.
“No way.” The memory of the bath we took together—him warding off the cold—floods back to me. I shy away from his amused gaze and determine to start doing the textbook exercises tomorrow morning. I want full control of my magic from now on.
“Come on,” he says, and helps me out of bed.
We don’t exchange any words as we plod into the washroom and clean our teeth.
The room feels oddly small with the both of us in here.
In silent agreement, I touch his shoulder while he washes his face, then he does the same for me.
We exchange quick, uncomfortable turns in the bathroom, before clasping hands again and returning to bed.
“Would you like to sleep in something more comfortable?” he asks.
I look down at my dress—so comfortable I’d forgotten about it. “I should, yes,”
“I can close my eyes,” he offers.
“It’s okay.” I scoop up my blue robes and hurry back to his bathing chambers where I change as fast as my twitchy, itching fingers will allow. I’m back a minute later, fully robed. Grabbing his hand, I sigh as the itchiness subsides.
“You sleep in full robes?” he asks. Like we haven’t been sharing this room for a week and aren’t perfectly aware of each other’s sleepwear.
“Obviously,” I say.
“If it’s alright with you, I’ll take my shirt off,” he says.
My eyes fly wide. My stomach flips and flutters, nervous and tentative in this foreign situation.
He adds, quickly, “To make it easier for you to keep a hand or an arm touching me. Sometimes you toss around in your sleep.”
I wonder why.
He starts to pull his red blouse over his head and I avert my gaze. He pulls down the sheets, takes a seat, and slides his legs under. Then he shifts over.
Swallowing, I awkwardly clamber in beside him. I lie down. In his bed.
“How do we…?” It feels uncomfortably clinical to ask. “Do you prefer your side or back?”
“Either way.” He stretches out on his back with his free hand folded behind his head. His other arm rests at his side, where his fingers are still laced with mine.
Matching him, I lay stiffly on my back, staring at the ceiling, like it holds the solution to every problem I ever had.
“I… can’t modulate your magic while I’m asleep,” Nikolai says. “If we’re both calm, it shouldn’t be a problem. But I can wait for you to fall asleep, if you like.”
My heart rises into my throat.
I have to stay calm.
In Nikolai’s bed.
Next to him.
It’s impossible enough that I let out a short puff of laughter. Then I cringe. The magician next to me remains silent.
I shouldn’t be nervous, worried about humiliation. I should be thinking about real problems like whether he’ll hurt me. But right now I’m less afraid of him and more afraid of myself and how I feel, lying this close to him, how we’re breaking down walls I’m not going to be able to put back up.
“Goodnight, Taera,” he says. It’s another unwanted first—exchanging words before sleep—and makes me feel more at ease than I should.
“Night,” I say.
Closing my eyes, I lie very still.
Without my permission, my mind replays the unexpected stomach-flipping thrill of the moment his body pinned mine against the hard wall of the labyrinth and he hid us from the chasers.
How he channeled my magic, and it soared through me like I was flying.
When he said he would rather have kissed me—that he would enjoy it.
I’m grateful he can’t see me blush in the darkness.
Alone with my thoughts, I notice how his bed smells of sage, of mint, of the faintest lavender. How his silky sheets furl around me like an embrace. The illicit sensation of our fingers entwined. My skin tingles against his.
Nikolai squeezes my hand.
I swallow, my heart pounding. Knowing Nikolai is awake next to me—waiting for me to get my emotions under control—is the opposite of helpful. I don’t want him to know how much he affects me or be able to use it against me. He’s manipulated me before, with less.
I squeeze my eyes shut and stubbornly focus on breathing, like the book said. The text suggested letting the desert wind blow each stray thought away.
But my thoughts aren’t politely drifting away.
They’re stampeding.
And their current direction needs to be stomped down and buried under the sand.
Then incinerated.