Chapter 21 #2
But she's still struggling, still spitting fury. "She ruined everything! Felix is broken, half the guild's dead, and she's serving eggs like—"
Ruvan appears in the doorway.
Not walks. Appears. One second empty doorway, next second him, blanket gone, clothes rumpled, hair a disaster, death in his eyes. His shadows explode outward, filling the room with arctic darkness.
He takes in the scene—me bleeding, her pinned, everyone frozen—in one sweep.
Then he moves.
No words. No threats. Just motion so fast I barely track it. One moment she's against the wall, the next she's in his grip, his hand around her throat, her feet off the ground.
"You touched her." His voice comes out wrong. All shadow and threat. "You made her bleed."
The woman's eyes go wide. She claws at his hand, but his shadows are already moving. Not the slow, threatening tendrils I'm used to. These are sharp, purposeful, final.
"Wait—" someone starts.
The shadows go through her throat. Not around. Through. The sound is wet and specific and terrible. Blood sprays across the nice wallpaper we just cleaned yesterday. Her body drops when he releases it, hitting the floor with finality.
Complete silence except for my blood dripping on the floor. Plop. Plop. Plop.
Ruvan turns to me, and his eyes are still that terrible darkness but there's something else there too. His shadows reach for me, gentle now, warm, wrapping around my injured arm.
"You're hurt." He's in front of me suddenly, hands careful on my arm. There's blood on his fingers—hers, not mine—and his hair's sticking up on one side from sleeping on his desk.
"It's not deep." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "Probably needs stitches though. Several. Do we have a needle? We should buy needles."
He's staring at me. Everyone's staring at me. I can feel the weight of forty-something eyes while blood seeps through my fingers.
"You killed her," someone whispers. Former Copper Hands, from the accent.
"Yes." Ruvan doesn't look away from my arm. "Anyone else want to discuss it?"
Silence.
"Good. Ridge, handle the body. Gray Streak, get medical supplies. Everyone else—" He finally looks up, and his expression makes several people step back. "Finish breakfast. Now."
They eat. Mechanically, desperately, but they eat. Forks scraping plates while a body cools on the floor and my blood drips and Ruvan's hands stay gentle on my arm.
"You need stitches," he says quietly.
"I said that already."
"You did."
We're looking at each other, really looking, and something hot and complicated passes between us. His shadows are still warm around my arm, and I can feel his pulse through his fingertips, quick and angry and protective.
"You didn't have to kill her."
"Yes, I did."
"She was just upset about her friends."
"She hurt you." He says it simply. Like the equation is that basic. "No one hurts you."
The feeling in my chest isn't just warm now. It's burning. He killed someone for making me bleed, and I should be horrified but instead I'm noticing how his shirt pulls across his shoulders, how his hands are steady despite the exhaustion, how his eyes go soft when he looks at my wound.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely at my arm. "Bandages."
"Medical supplies are in the second-floor bathroom." He helps me stand, hand on my elbow. "Can you walk?"
"It's my arm, not my legs."
But he stays close anyway, shadows hovering, ready to catch me if I stumble. The dining room empties behind us—people fleeing to process what just happened. Someone's definitely going to have to clean that blood. The wallpaper's ruined. We just put that up yesterday.
In the bathroom—one of seven glorious bathrooms—he's efficient with the supplies. Cleaning, stitching, bandaging. His hands are perfectly steady despite not sleeping properly in days.
"You need rest," I tell him while he ties off the bandage.
"Later."
"You said that yesterday."
"Yesterday I didn't have twenty-eight hostile additions to manage."
"Twenty-seven now."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Twenty-seven."
We're standing very close. Close enough that I can smell him—shadow and copper and that soap he uses. Close enough to see the exhaustion he's hiding, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
"I should make you coffee," I say, because the air's getting thick and complicated. "Real coffee. Not that terrible stuff from the warehouse."
"Coffee." He's still looking at my mouth.
"Yes. Coffee. The drink. With caffeine." I'm babbling now. "You probably need caffeine. And food. You're running on fumes and violence again, aren't you? That's not sustainable—"
"Olivia."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"For what? Bleeding on your nice floors? Getting the wallpaper ruined?" I'm definitely babbling. "That's going to be impossible to clean. Blood's so hard to get out of wallpaper. We should have painted instead. Paint's easier to clean."
He's still looking at me with that expression, the one that makes my stomach do complicated things.
"I should get that coffee," I say.
"You should."
Neither of us moves.
"Right. Coffee. Going now." I step back, immediately miss his warmth. "Your study?"
"My study."
I flee to the kitchen, arm throbbing, chest doing that burning thing, trying not to think about how he looked at me. Like I was worth killing for. Like I was worth protecting. Like I was his.
The kitchen's been abandoned, breakfast dishes still on the table. Someone cleaned up the body though. Efficient. The blood's still there, but the body's gone. Probably Ridge. He's good at body management.
I make coffee with shaking hands. The good stuff I found in a tin marked "EMERGENCY ONLY." Well, this feels like an emergency. My body won't stop remembering his hands on my arm, gentle despite the blood on them. The way his shadows went warm for me after being weapons for her.
"Get it together," I tell myself. "It's just protective murder. Very normal. Very manageable."
When I get to his study, coffee careful in my good hand, he's at his desk in just his briefs, the bloody shirt in a heap on the floor.
I freeze in the doorway.
He's... there's so much of him. All muscle and scars and lean strength that his clothes usually hide. Shadow marks run up his arms like dark veins. Regular scars too—knife wounds, burns, things I don't want to know the origins of. His back is a map of violence survived.
"Coffee," I squeak.
He turns, completely unbothered by his state of undress. "Good. I need it."
I can't look away. My eyes have forgotten how to work properly.
They keep tracing the lines of him—shoulders to chest to the trail of dark hair that disappears into his briefs.
Which are black. Of course they're black.
Everything he owns is black except now I know his skin isn't, it's pale with those scars and I should stop staring but I can't.
"Olivia?"
"Hmm?"
"The coffee?"
"Right. Yes. Coffee." I walk forward on autopilot, set it on his desk, try not to notice how his stomach muscles move when he reaches for it. "You're very... undressed."
"The shirt had blood on it."
"That's reasonable. Blood is hard to wash out. You need cold water. Hot water sets the stain." I'm babbling again. "Though sometimes salt helps. Or hydrogen peroxide. But that can bleach colors, so you have to be careful."
He's smiling now. Actually smiling. "Are you giving me laundry advice?"
"Someone has to. You can't just throw away shirts every time they get bloody. That's not sustainable." I'm still staring at his chest. When did that become something I wanted to touch? "You should put on a shirt."
"Should I?"
"Yes. Definitely. For... warmth. You'll catch cold."
"It's summer."
"Drafts. This old house has drafts."
He stands, moves around the desk toward me, and I back up until I hit the wall. The same wall where just two days ago he kissed me before Finn interrupted with news about Tide Runners.
"You're nervous," he observes.
"You're mostly naked."
"Is that a problem?"
Yes. No. Maybe. My brain can't decide because he's so close now and my shadows—his shadows, our shadows—are warming between us.
"You killed someone for me," I say, because apparently my mouth works without my brain.
"I did."
"That's very..." I search for a word. Violent? Extreme? Protective?
"Arousing," I blurt.
His eyebrows lift, a slow smile curving his mouth. "Arousing?"
"I mean—that's not—I shouldn't find protective murder attractive, but apparently I do, and that's probably concerning, but you looked very focused and capable and—"
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Claiming.
He pins me to the wall, and I go soft against him immediately, lips parting on instinct. His tongue sweeps in, tasting, taking, and I make a noise I've never made before—needy and shameless.
His hands frame my face, then slide into my hair, angling me exactly where he wants me. His shadows ripple across my skin—cool at first, then warm, then hot. They curl around my waist, my thighs, sliding beneath my skirt.
"Your arm," he murmurs against my mouth.
"What arm?" I gasp, trying to pull him closer.
He laughs—a deep, ragged sound. "Bed. Now."
Somehow we're moving, though I don't remember my feet cooperating. One moment I'm pressed against the wall, the next I'm on his bed. His shadows pulse around me, flickering with heat, curling against my skin with intent.
He stalks toward the bed. His briefs are gone—when did that happen?—and I forget how to breathe. Every inch of him is controlled violence barely leashed.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice hoarse with restraint. "Tell me if you want soft."
I sit up, grab his wrist, and pull him down. "I don't want soft. I want you."
The sound he makes is almost a growl.
His shadows surge up, wrapping my wrists—not tight, but firm. My breath hitches.
"Is this okay?" he rasps.
"Yes. More."
His mouth finds my neck, trailing burning kisses, teeth scraping lightly as shadows lift my dress over my head, slow and reverent.