Chapter 8
What is revealed in shadowed spaces often holds more power than what is shown in the light.
—“On the Nature of Power and Intimacy,” Thera Quinn, Professor of Elemental Ethics at Universitas Arcanum Andina
We walk quietly, both lost in thought. Noa weaves me through a grove of cypress trees, their slender shadows swallowing the moonlight and keeping its secrets… and ours.
We end up in a carefully tended rock garden—smooth obsidian and chalk-white stones forming a path that crunches softly beneath our boots.
At the edge of the path rises a one-story Spanish stucco manor, its terracotta roof tiles dulled by time and moonlight.
The building juts out from behind a massive, ancient willow tree, its silver-green tendrils swaying lazily in the night breeze.
Fairy lights glitter through its branches and trail down to a stone bench beside its base.
As we approach, the front stoop emerges—broad sandstone steps worn smooth by generations of use.
Iron lantern sconces flank either side of the arched wooden door.
The door itself is thick, old-world style, reinforced with black iron studs and a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head.
Beneath our feet, the tilework on the stoop forms a geometric mosaic—faded, but still intricate.
He glances back at me, a soft smile on his lips, then pushes the door open, revealing the warm light spilling out from inside.
Cool citrus and clove smoke with undertones of sandalwood stir in the air as we enter. A sunken living room greets us in what must be the common room of Noa’s dormitory—except this looks like no dormitory I’ve ever seen before.
Moroccan rugs in red ochre, dusty gold, and sapphire blue sit beneath soft, cream-colored sofas, their low backs perfect for storytelling, or other things… and my body warms at the thought.
Maroon and royal-blue throw pillows are scattered about in silk and woven textures.
A casual chaos of sorts. Soft lighting comes from a large wrought-iron chandelier at the center of a pentagon-shaped ceiling, its glass orbs flickering like candlelight.
At the heart of the room stands a striking circular hearth, sunken slightly into the terracotta-tiled floor like a gathering point.
A full bar made with gray smoked glass, easily the most dangerous feature in the house, stands behind an intricately carved cherrywood counter with dark-metal barstools, the legs twisted to look like flames, ready and waiting for patrons.
“Welcome to the Spanish Steps,” Noa says as he wraps his arms around me from behind. His hands gently caress up and down my arms, shivers breaking out in the trail that they leave.
He leads me down a hallway where glowing cream candles light up as we pass them.
Magick, no doubt. Likely from Noa himself.
We come to stand in front of a large arched double door carved with swirls and patterns that remind me of water.
He finds his room key and uses it to open the door on the right.
I look around Noa’s bedroom, trying to make sense of the space that somehow feels exactly like him—warm, practical, powerful, and just a little untouchable.
It’s a large room with vaulted ceilings and dark exposed beams stretching overhead like ribs in a cathedral.
The walls are a warm, creamy stucco—slightly textured, imperfect in the way old artisan work always is.
They glow faintly in the amber light from the wrought-iron sconces on either side of the room.
It gives the space the look and feel of some sun-warmed villa—far from the foggy shores of Whittaker.
On one side, a massive walnut desk anchors the room, cluttered with scattered textbooks, crumpled notes, and open journals with half-drawn sigils in the margins.
Pens and glass vials roll precariously near the edge, and a bronze task lamp throws pools of warm light over the chaos.
A tall polished oak bookcase stands next to it, holding various books and objects, some of which look like weapons as I catch the glint of sharp metal edges and wire-thin points.
In front of us, a wide bay window is cloaked in heavy blackout curtains, but I catch a glimpse of a different rock garden outside—a quieter, more meditative version of the one near the front.
The right of the room rises in a shallow stone platform where a king bed sits like a throne: its arched wood headboard carved with a series of sunbursts and fire sigils.
The bedding is layers of creamy linen and thick, cloud-like blankets.
It’s too neat—too perfect—and I can’t help but wonder if this space is always this carefully kept.
I suddenly get the uncomfortable feeling that I’m likely not the first girl to be invited here…
but damn if I won’t be the last, I think.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, casually tossing his things onto a bench by the door as he empties his pockets—badges and pens, a set of miniature brass weights, and keycards land with a dull tap.
He opens the tall wardrobe near the bed and pulls out a soft charcoal-gray T-shirt and loose drawstring pants. As he strips off his jeans, I catch a glimpse of the sharp lines of his body—all muscle and lean strength—and something tightens low in my stomach.
From the dresser near the head of the bed, he grabs a folded white T-shirt and tosses it to me. “No gray or black for you,” he says with a small smile. “I remember.”
The words land like a stone in my chest.
I slip into the shirt quickly, turning my back even though it reaches my knees. Even though, hours before, I was completely naked with this man. Still, I feel exposed—like wearing something of his makes everything between us too real, too close.
Noa finishes changing and sits at the edge of the bed, watching me. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes trace over me slowly, drinking me in with a quiet intensity that makes my breath catch.
He holds out a hand.
I walk hesitantly toward him, my steps uncertain, and let him pull me between his knees.
His hands settle on the backs of my thighs, thumbs moving in soft, soothing circles behind my legs.
He looks up at me—really looks—and everything stills.
His fingers twitch, like he’s caught between reverence and desire, restraint and hunger.
He could have me. We both know it.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
And that, somehow, makes me want him more.
“Cel…” His voice is low, steady—but heavy.
“We need to talk.” He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon—after I walked you back to the commons.
Not just what happened in the Cavern.” His tone softens, threaded with self-reproach.
He looks up again, finally meeting my eyes.
“You, here? At this school? It felt impossible. And then it wasn’t.
And I guess I just—” He pulls in a breath.
“I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t even give you a second to breathe before pulling you into that room. ”
He reaches for my hand and gently tugs me down beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve let you settle in.
Let you find your footing on your own terms.” He’s staring at the floor now, fingers curled tight around the edge of the bedframe.
“And then when you almost lost control… I was still trying to piece it all together.” He pauses, jaw tight. “But it’s real. You’re real.”
“Noa, I…”
There is so much I want to say.
And even more I know I can’t.
Because how do I explain that I don’t even know what I truly am? That magick isn’t just a secret—it’s a fracture line inside me. And every time I speak it aloud, the ground seems to shift beneath me.
Suddenly, he stands, the air sparking with tension. “You said yes to me earlier,” he says quietly. “But I know you didn’t tell me everything.”
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. It’s the restraint that cuts deeper.
“Why didn’t you tell me? That you’re Magick?
How long have you been hiding this—hiding you?
” He gestures broadly, hands rising in emphasis, as if trying to grasp the weight of what he’s just learned and how long he’s been kept in the dark.
His hands fall to his sides, then lift again in a helpless, frustrated motion.
“Did you not trust me? Did you truly not know? Was it because of your dad?” His voice softens as he looks at me, eyes flicking back and forth, trying to extract truth from emotion. “What exactly were you afraid of?”
I flinch.
“You said it started at your lake,” he goes on, a shadow crossing his face.
“But that’s not how magick works. There are always signs.
I mean—gods, we spent practically every waking moment together this summer.
I would have thought I’d be the first person you told.
Knowing who and what I am.” His voice rises, more incredulous than angry.
There’s no venom in it—just disappointment.
“I had my suspicions,” he admits, his eyes meeting mine again, searching.
“And now… now everything makes sense.” He stops in the middle of the room, again running a hand through his hair.
“The questions. How you lit up every time magick came up. How you always dodged swimming. That time at the waterfall—Alissa’s bracelet?
” He shakes his head. “That wasn’t you finding it, I realize that now. You called it. And then the shower…”
My cheeks flush instantly.
Gods, the shower.
I think about all the things we did in that shower. But there was a moment—when we were wrapped around each other—when the water suddenly spiraled around us in a rush of sputtering torrent. I blamed the plumbing.
But that was a lie.
Noa’s gaze is on me again—intense, wounded, and laced with something else. Something like… betrayal.