28. Artemis
ARTEMIS
I came back to myself in a rush of smells that made sense before the room did.
Paper. Ink. Old leather. Tea that had gone a little stale.
When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by books, diagrams, and artifacts labeled in Arthur’s precise hand, entire histories laid out like he’d been living inside them.
I knew instantly we were in Arthur’s home. I sucked in a sharp breath and sat up so fast my head spun.
“Arthur.”
“I’m here.” He was already scrambling upright beside me, hair a mess, shirt half twisted, looking just as stunned. “We were just… we were—”
“Atlantis,” I said.
“And then—”
The air shimmered.
The room went strangely still, like it had decided to listen.
The being appeared between us in a soft collapse of light, no longer monstrous or chained or terrifying. It was smaller now. Not human, not quite anything I had a name for, layered and luminous, like it was made of overlapping moments.
Its voice came from everywhere at once, gentle and tired.
You have done what none before you could. The flow has been restored. The cost unbound. My influence on your world has ended.
Arthur’s hand found mine, and I gripped it tightly.
“Why are we here?” I asked quietly.
A kindness. You fought for more than yourselves. You deserved to wake somewhere safe.
“Thank you,” Arthur said, his voice thick.
The being inclined its head. Be well, little sparks.
It faded softly, like a soft breeze blowing out a candle. The air in the room returned to normal.
Arthur and I stared at the empty space for a long second, then at each other.
We both started laughing.
It was the sort of laughter that came when your body finally realized it hadn’t died and needed to release every emotion it had been hoarding.
We collapsed into each other, arms wrapped tight around each other, foreheads pressed together.
“We did it,” I said, on a laugh and cry. “We actually did it.”
“We did,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief. “You did.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. “We.”
His eyes softened in a way that made my chest ache. “We.”
Then he kissed me. He kissed me like he’d already lost me once and wasn’t about to waste another second. Everything in me tilted toward him—heart, body, brain—all of it finally in agreement for once. I kissed him back hard, fisting my hands in his shirt to tell myself he was still real.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured against my mouth. “When I thought we might not make it. I meant every word.”
He made a sound low in his chest and lifted me off the floor without effort. I laughed in startled delight and wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging to him.
His hand moved slowly along my back, absent-minded and grounding, like he was reassuring himself that I was still there.
“Arthur,” I breathed, and he kissed me again.
His mouth was warm and insistent, slow at first and then not slow at all, like he had finally stopped holding back. My hands slid into his hair, wet and tangled, and I pulled him closer, needing him in a way that made my whole body feel too small for what it was feeling.
His hands moved over me with sudden purpose, pulling me closer each time I shifted. Even the smallest amount of space between us had become unbearable. My fingers tightened in his hair in response, urging him deeper into the kiss before either of us could reconsider.
He made a rough sound under his breath when I did that, as if he’d been holding something back for a long time and was finally letting it slip free.
The reaction went straight to my core.
I tightened my grip instinctively, not wanting him farther away than this.
He walked me backward without breaking the kiss, his hands gripping my ass, until the edge of a desk bumped into my hip.
His hands tightened instinctively at my waist when the desk stopped us, fingers digging into my skin. For a second, neither of us moved.
We were breathing the same air now.
I could feel the heat of him through the thin, damp fabric between us, the rise and fall of his chest brushing mine every time he inhaled. My body reacted immediately, leaning into the warmth before my brain could catch up.
Arthur noticed. His jaw tightened slightly, like he was choosing very carefully what to do next.
Then he adjusted me and swept a stack of papers off the surface with one careless arm and set me down, standing between my knees, hands braced on either side of me like I was the only thing in the room worth keeping.
We were still drenched, still breathing too hard.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then my throat, then back to my eyes, dark and intent and almost unbearably tender all at once. His hands slid to my waist, thumbs pressing into the damp fabric there, grounding and possessive in a way that made my pulse spike.
I tugged him closer by the front of his shirt.
“Arthur,” I moaned.
He kissed me like he’d been waiting to do it properly all along, like he was memorizing me with his mouth. My fingers traced the strong lines of his shoulders, the curve of his back, everywhere I could reach. Every touch felt charged, like something ancient and bright was humming under my skin.
Arthur groaned softly against my mouth, and the sound had heat coiling low in my belly.
My legs tightened around his hips, drawing him closer until there was almost no space left between us at all.
We were filthy and covered in the residue of terror and triumph and magic and each other.
“I’d really like to clean up,” I said breathlessly, not entirely sure I meant the words in the practical sense. But I definitely didn’t want to do this covered in muck.
His lips curved against mine.
“So would I,” he murmured.
He picked me up again and carried me through a carved archway into a bathroom that looked like a dragon had decided to be very into marble and waterfalls. Stone, tall ceilings, gleaming metal—everything luxurious and strange in the best way.
He gently set me down on my feet, suddenly careful, like he didn’t want to startle me out of whatever fragile, glowing thing we were standing inside.
“I’ll give you privacy,” he said, already turning away.
“Arthur.”
He stopped.
“Will you stay with me?” The words came out softer than I meant them to, almost shy, which felt ridiculous given everything we had just survived. Still, I didn’t take them back.
I reached for the hem of my soaked shirt and slowly pulled it over my head. The fabric clung to my skin before giving way, then I let it drop to the floor between us. I unhooked my bra and let it fall next.
I didn’t look away from him, not even when the vulnerable part of my brain tried to whisper that I should.
His attention was completely on me now. His eyes followed every movement, filled with desire and intent.
Like he was really seeing me. The way my skin was flushed from heat and adrenaline.
The way my hair clung to my shoulders. The way I was standing there, still damp and shaking a little, and not hiding.
Like I wasn’t just taking off clothing, but letting him see me.
His eyes moved slowly, taking in every inch of me. It felt like being read, being understood without having to explain myself.
I slid my hands to the next layer of wet fabric and eased it down, letting it fall away. The room was quiet except for our breathing, and suddenly every sound felt loud. My heart. The water still dripping from us. The faint buzz of the world outside this moment.
He swallowed, his throat moving, his gaze moving back up to my face like he wanted to make sure I knew he was still with me. Still choosing me.
“You are perfect,” he said.
Something in my chest gave way.
No one had ever said that to me before
I didn’t feel like Fartie Artie the screw-up or the weird girl who never quite fit anymore. With him, I felt wanted. Chosen. Perfect exactly as I was.
Arthur closed the small space between us, hands coming up to frame my face. His thumbs brushed my cheeks like he was grounding himself as much as me, then he kissed me again, slow at first and then deeper, as if he was finally letting himself believe this was real.
My hands slid to his shoulders, then to the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the damp fabric. I tugged, and he understood immediately, pulling back just long enough to shrug it off over his head and let it fall to the floor between us.
When the last of his clothes were gone, he pulled me back into his arms, warm and solid and unmistakably there.
We stepped into the shower together, hot water washing away salt and dust and fear, and it felt like a benediction. Arthur stood close, the heat of him washing over me. I put my hands on his chest. He put his on my waist. We stayed like that for a moment, just holding on.
We touched, slow and curious, hands sliding over skin, learning each other all over again in a gentler world. Arthur kissed my shoulder, then pressed his forehead to mine.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
The distance between us disappeared almost without either of us deciding to move. His chest brushed mine, and my hands slid instinctively up his arms to keep him there.
Arthur exhaled slowly, his breath trembling over my lips. I leaned into him. His lips brushed my shoulder as he slid his hands over my back in reverent strokes. Everything in me felt wonderfully loose.
“You make me feel safe,” I said.
His hands stilled for a second, then he kissed the top of my head. “You don't even know what that does to me.”
He took the soap and worked it between his palms before sliding them over my shoulders, down my arms. He took his time, like this was something important, not something to rush.
I did the same for him, smoothing my hands over his chest and across his back, feeling the strength there, the solidness of him.
His fingers moved up my spine and into my hair. He worked out the tight places in my neck and shoulders. Sighing, I closed my eyes and leaned into it, into him, into the way he took care of me without being asked.