Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Winter
Isat on the floor of my apartment, cradling Frank's fishbowl in my lap while the Bureau's medical team worked on Rook.
They'd set up an impromptu treatment area in the living room, transforming the coffee table into an examination surface.
Rook lay shirtless across it, his muscled torso exposed under the harsh blue light of healing magic.
The burn from the cultist's attack had spread, angry red tendrils snaking across his skin like some malevolent vine. Each time the medic, a severe-looking woman with violet eyes and hands that glowed with healing energy, touched the wound, Rook's jaw would clench, though he never made a sound.
"The magical residue is deep," the medic explained, her fingers tracing the edges of the burn. "It's designed to resist healing. Nasty stuff."
I tightened my grip on Frank's bowl, the events at the market replaying in my mind. The cultists appearing from nowhere. The attack striking Rook. The surge of power that had consumed me, transformed me into something both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Frank," I whispered to my fish, who swam concerned circles in his bowl, "I almost tore reality apart today."
Frank bubbled at me, his little fish face somehow managing to look concerned.
"I know, right?" I continued my one-sided conversation, my voice barely audible. "The worst part is, for a second, I liked it. The power. The way everything bent around me. The way they just disappeared."
I'd killed people today. Disintegrated them with a thought. The realization hit me again, making my stomach clench. Yet beneath the horror was something darker, more frightening, a whisper of satisfaction, of rightness.
"What kind of person does that make me?" I looked at Frank, who had no answers.
From the coffee table, Rook grunted as the medic applied some sort of glowing poultice to his wound. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, but I knew he was awake.
Probably heard every word of my fish confession.
"Hold still," the medic instructed him. "The neutralizing agent needs to penetrate the curse channels."
Rook's response was a low growl that made the medic roll her eyes.
"Werewolves," she muttered. "Always the worst patients."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling faintly at her exasperation. She worked methodically, her hands moving in intricate patterns over Rook's torso while she chanted in a language I didn't recognize. Slowly, the angry red of the burn began to fade, retreating back toward its point of origin.
"There," she wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "The curse is neutralized. Your natural healing should take care of the rest, but no shifting for at least twenty-four hours. Understood?"
Rook opened his eyes, fixing her with a look that would have wilted lesser beings. "Fine."
The medic packed up her supplies, nodded to me, and headed for the door. "He needs rest. And food. His healing will burn through calories quickly."
After she left, silence descended on the apartment. I stayed on the floor with Frank, unsure what to say. Rook remained on the coffee table, his chest rising and falling steadily, the remnants of the burn now just an angry red mark on his side.
"You should put Frank back in his spot," Rook's voice was rough, tired. "He's getting dizzy from all that rocking."
I looked down and realized I'd been unconsciously swirling Frank's bowl as my anxiety mounted and I had been stimming.
Damn.
I hadn't done that in a long time.
"Sorry, buddy," I carefully placed his bowl back on the counter. The blue marks on my arm had faded to a dull glow, but I could still feel the power thrum beneath my skin, waiting.
When I turned back, Rook had pushed himself up to a sitting position, his bare chest now fully visible.
Despite everything, I couldn't help noticing the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
A network of scars, some silvery with age, others newer, mapped across his skin like constellations.
"You're staring," he observed dryly..
Heat rushed to my face.
"Just checking your wound," I lied, even though we both knew better.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. Instead, he swung his legs over the edge of the coffee table and patted the space beside him. "Sit."
I hesitated, then moved to join him, keeping a careful distance between us. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit with a death curse from a bargain basement cultist," he deadpanned. Then, seeing my expression, he added, "I've had worse. Much worse."
"I'm sorry," I blurted out. "This was my fault. I insisted on going out, and…"
"Stop," he cut me off. "The cultists would have found you eventually. Better in a public place with me than alone in a dark alley."
"But you got hurt because of me."
"I got hurt because it's my job to take hits for you," he gestured to me. "And I'd do it again."
I studied my hands, unable to meet his eyes. "I killed people today, Rook. Just erased them. And for a moment, it felt..." I trailed off, ashamed.
"Good," he finished for me. "It felt good."
I looked up, startled by his understanding.
"Power always does," he touched my hand briefly. "Especially when you're using it to protect yourself or someone else." His amber eyes were steady on mine. "It doesn't make you a monster, Winter. It makes you human."
"Most humans can't disintegrate people with their minds."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Fair point. But most humans would if they could, given the right circumstances." He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his healing wound. "You think one little spatial rupture would scare me off? I've dated worse."
I blinked, stunned into momentary silence. "Did you just, uh, make a joke?"
"Don't look so shocked," his grumble was low. "I'm not a complete emotional desert."
A laugh bubbled up unexpectedly from my chest. "Rook the Comedian. Who knew?"
His expression softened, the perpetual furrow between his brows easing somewhat. "There's a lot about me you don't know, Firecracker."
The nickname sent a warm shiver through me, reminding me of how he'd pulled me back from the edge. How his hand had felt in mine, strong and steady.
Almost without thinking, I reached for his hand now, my fingers sliding between his. He stiffened momentarily, surprise flashing across his features, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers curled around mine, warm and solid.
"Winter," he was uncertain.
"You almost died today, Rook," I whispered, my eyes drawn to the lingering mark on his side.
"But I didn't. You were there."
Something in his tone made me look up. His eyes had darkened, the amber giving way to something deeper. His free hand moved to my face, his thumb brushed across my cheek with unexpected gentleness. The rough pad of his finger left a trail of heat on my skin.
I found myself leaning into his touch, drawn by a gravity I couldn't explain. He was so close now that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His gaze dropped to my lips, and I felt my breath catch.
Just a few inches now. I could smell him, pine and earthy. My eyes began to close as I swayed toward him.
The apartment door swung open with a bang, shattering the moment.
"Honey, we're home!" Zane's voice rang out, followed by Fenric's more measured tones.
"Bureau protocol indicates that mission debriefs should commence within…" Fenric stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene before him: Rook shirtless, me practically in his lap, our faces inches apart.
I jerked back so quickly I nearly fell off the coffee table. Rook's hand shot out to steady me, his expression closed off like shutters slamming down.
"Well, well," Zane leaned against the doorframe, his mismatched eyes twinkled with amusement. "Looks like we interrupted something."
"You didn't," Rook and I spoke in unison, a little too quickly.
I blushed.
Fenric cleared his throat, his eye twitching rapidly. "Agent Rook, Bureau medical protocol 17-B clearly states that after sustaining a Class 3 magical injury, all physical exertion should be avoided for a minimum of…"
"We know, Fenric," I cut him off, my cheeks burning even more. "The medic already gave him the speech."
"Yeah, looks like she left out a few key details," Zane's grin widened as he sauntered into the apartment and dropped a file folder onto the counter. "Like 'no making out with the prophet you're supposed to be protecting.'"
"We weren't…" I began to protest, but was interrupted by a mechanical grinding sound from the kitchen. "What the hell?"
The vending machine that had replaced my old one was shuddering, its display flickering with strange symbols. Blue light, the same shade as the markings on my arm, seeped from its seams.
"Not again."
"Uh, that can't be good," Zane took a cautious step back.
Fenric was already typing furiously on his tablet. "Possible prophetic activation in process. Standby."
The vending machine gave a final, violent shake before its dispensing slot ejected a single item. Not food, but a small scroll that shot across the room like it had been fired from a cannon.
Instinctively, I reached up and caught it. The moment my fingers closed around the parchment, the blue markings on my arm pulsed in recognition.
"Another trial scroll," my eye twitched as I carefully unrolled it. The writing was in glowing blue script, the same as the markings on my skin.
"What does it say?" Fenric demanded, trying to peer over my shoulder.
I cleared my throat and read aloud: "'Bring the monster home. (No, not Rook.)'"
Silence fell over the apartment as we all took in the message. Then Zane snorted, a laugh escaping him despite his attempt to smother it.
"Oh, that's good," he chuckled. "Even the prophecy knows you're a beast, Rook."
Rook growled low in his throat, but there was no real heat behind it. He was too busy pulling his shirt back on, his eyes avoiding mine.
"What monster?" Fenric brow furrowed in confusion. "And what home? This makes no sense without proper context."
"Does anything about this prophecy make sense?" I sighed, rolling the scroll back up. "First a cosmic goose, now some monster we need to take home."
"At least it specified not to bring Rook," Zane pointed out helpfully. "That narrows it down to every other monster in existence."
I groaned, moving to sit on the couch. The scroll felt warm in my hand, its message burning like a brand in my mind.
Bring the monster home.
But what monster? And more importantly, what home?
As the others began debating possibilities, my gaze drifted back to Rook. He'd finished pulling on his shirt and now stood by the window, his profile outlined against the fading afternoon light. The moment between us, whatever it had been, was gone, broken by Zane and Fenric's untimely arrival.
Yet something had changed. I could feel it in the air between us, in the way his eyes briefly met mine before looking away. In the lingering warmth where his thumb had brushed my cheek.
We were different now, Rook and I.
Like Zane and I were.
This was getting complicated and I didn't mean the prophecy.
The vending machine hummed contentedly in the background, as if pleased with the chaos it had caused.
Little fucker.