Chapter 10
Strength, speed, and technique matter. But so too do intent, composure, and what you are willing—or unwilling—to risk.
—Combat Theory I: Foundations of Defense
Iwake in the dark, heart pounding. For a breath, I don’t know why—fragments of the dream cling to me, the same one I always have, images slipping away like water through my fingers.
Stars rippling across a surface, fractured in black water.
My reflection staring back at me from the depths—scared, wide-eyed.
A voice, low and coaxing saying: Come here, Celeste.
And then a pull. The cold grasp of water dragging me under, the stars breaking apart above.
I shift beneath the covers and feel it.
My bedding is drenched. The sheets cling to my skin, hair damp at the nape of my neck. My shirt is soaked through.
Shit. No. No, no, no.
This hasn’t happened in years. But the nightmare is always the same—a black pool of stars, a voice, the cold water pulling me under. And then waking up like this.
Wet. Drenched. Soaked.
I lie still for a moment, breath shallow, as I slowly flex each finger. Each toe. Ankles. Hands. All here. All intact.
I’m still me. Just wet.
Water. Everywhere.
I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Rozsen, whose soft snores break the silence like a tether. She’s curled toward the wall, oblivious. I grip the edge of the mattress like it might ground me.
Blankets off. Sheets stripped. My laundry basket thuds against my leg.
5:03 a.m.
It’s still dark. Still too early. Plenty of time to wash the evidence and pretend this morning never happened.
But the chill has already sunk in.
Not just the cold. The knowing.
Like something inside me roused while I slept—and slipped loose without permission.
I’m back in my dorm, my bed dry and freshly made, before the rest of my roommates even stir.
* * *
It’s Wednesday, and we have our first combat class in the Training Room—the same massive gymnasium where orientation and registration were held, now stripped of all banners and ceremony.
Learning to defend and fight is not optional at Whittaker; in a world where power is commonly conscripted, ignorance is often the fastest way to die.
Gym uniforms on, we all stand along the edge of one of the many black mats scattered across the floor. A subway tile mosaic of promised pain. Some students are already sparring on the nearby mats, trading jabs, punches, and kicks in what look like rehearsed dances—fluid and deliberate.
Our instructor for the class isn’t actually a professor at all, but a fellow student built like a tank, with arms and legs the size of small tree trunks. He introduces himself as Jazz, a fourth-year in Green Squad and an earth-wielder.
He guides us through some combat basics, correcting stances, adjusting form, and letting us practice on the wooden dummies lined up along the wall.
It’s obvious that Peter and Sawyer are the best fighters in our squad.
They move as one, more like brothers than cousins, all instinct and rivalry.
Rozsen and Elliot are similar. They’ve been training together since childhood.
Rozsen is quick, hands moving so fast they’re almost impossible to track.
Elliot fights like the air she commands, effortless and wild, making it difficult to predict her next move.
My stance is uneven; my punches don’t land clean. I’m still rattled from this morning’s quiet disaster and unwanted show of power. But I keep my focus on the wooden figure in front of me.
In the last twenty minutes of class, Jazz announces that we’ll be sparring—pairing with older students if any are free.
One by one, my classmates partner off with second- and third-years.
The older students guide them through the motions, stepping slowly, offering tips when someone misses an opening or leaves themselves vulnerable.
When it’s my turn on the mat, I see a girl approach Jazz and whisper something in his ear. He eyes her suspiciously but nods nevertheless. She smiles at me, but there is nothing kind in it. All teeth and intention.
She’s tall, with long, silvery-blonde hair and blue eyes so dark they’re nearly violet. I recognize her from orientation day. She and her friend were the ones by the Garden Grove wall. She’s quite stunning, if I’m being honest. And for some reason, I’m immediately on edge.
As soon as I set foot onto the mat, she sweeps my legs out from under me, and I hit the mat with a sharp, flat crack that empties the breath from my lungs.
Okay… so it’s going to be like that.
I grit my teeth as I get to my feet and she advances on me without holding back.
I take a kick to my shin as she whips around and lands a jab into my kidney, my breath catching in a burning hitch.
I attempt to block her, but she’s fast, ruthless, and seems to have a vendetta against me even though I’m certain I’ve never met her before in my life.
I try to send a punch to her right side, but she fakes left and spins behind me, and a kick to my back sends me flying.
Jazz is there in an instant, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back. “You’ve made your point, Stella. Are you trying to kill the girl?”
She flips her hair, breath barely affected.
“Just trying to help,” she purrs, then saunters off, laughing with her friends like she didn’t just treat me like a training dummy.
They speak in low whispers to each other, looking over their shoulders at me.
She grabs her jacket off the floor—third-year, with a water patch stitched on the shoulder.
“You okay?” Rozsen asks, reaching a hand out to help me up, her eyes burning holes into the backs of the girls as they walk away from us.
“Yeah,” I say, wincing as I rub my side and shin—both of which will likely be black and blue by morning. “But what the hell was that about?”
* * *
Later that night, I’m curled on the sofa at the Spanish Steps, trying to finish my essay on the first one hundred years of magick for Professor Straits.
My legs are draped across Noa’s lap as he reads from a textbook, lazily marking pages with a highlighter while he sips tea from a mug on the console table.
The domesticity of it all makes me smile to myself.
He absently rubs my calf until he presses into a sore spot, drawing a groan from me. He glances up, a brow arched in silent question.
“Ugh, don’t ask… Some third-year girl had it out for me during sparring today.”
Across the room, Finn and Ryan exchange a look. Finn suddenly finds a speck on the ceiling very interesting, while Ryan retreats into his room with a not-so-subtle mutter.
Noa sets his book aside, brow furrowed. “Let me guess—blonde, blue eyes, angsty?”
“Yes.” I squint at him. “Wait… how did you—?”
Finn groans and starts shoving his schoolwork into his bag. “This is your mess, Gallegher. I’m out.”
I sit up and narrow my eyes at Noa as a faint flush colors his cheeks. He’s looking down at his hands like they’ve personally betrayed him.
I smack him with my essay. “Noa… what exactly is Finn referring to?”
He winces, sheepish. “I think you just met Stella.”
“Stella?”
“My ex.”
Ah, I think, sinking back into the cushions.
Well. That explains a lot about this morning.
“We were never serious,” he says quickly. “On and off for the past two years. But I ended it for good last year. We were completely over before I even met you last summer.”
He tries to grab my wrist to pull me closer, but I move away, just out of reach.
“Is she going to be a problem for me?” I ask, eyebrows drawn as I fix a sharp glare in his direction.
He drags a hand through his hair—that nervous tell I’ve already memorized. “No,” he says. Too fast. “I’ll talk to her. She won’t be a problem.”
He successfully snags me by my waist this time and pulls me close. And I let him.
“Cross my heart,” he says in earnest as he brushes a kiss against the tip of my nose. “I’m sorry she gave you trouble,” he adds, voice dipping lower as his hand starts a slow path up my thigh. “But I can think of a few ways to make it up to you…”
I know this game. I love this game. And I’m more than ready after his week of utter torture and grounding lessons.
But we are sitting in the living room. I start to rise, intending to take things somewhere more private, but he catches my hand and tugs me back down. He shifts, pressing his body over mine, making sure I feel every deliberate inch of contact as he settles against me.
I glance toward Finn and Ryan’s rooms, both doors firmly closed.
“Relax,” he says against my jaw, lips grazing skin. “They’re not coming out again tonight.”
He leans down to kiss me, taking his time to make sure he tastes every bit of me as he nips softly at the corner of my mouth.
My blood starts to heat, and it has nothing to do with the fire burning beside us in the hearth—or the magick I can sense dancing just under Noa’s fingertips. His golden touch is never far, just in case I lose control.
“Have you been practicing your grounding?” he whispers into the hollow of my throat, pausing to kiss me there as he starts to trail lower.
I nod, biting my bottom lip. Inside, I clamp down on my magick like it’s a wild animal straining at the leash—secretly threatening it if it so much as tries to move a tendril of water against me.
“I’ll stop if it starts to be too much,” he says, eyes darkening as his gaze meets mine again.
His hands slide along my waist, circling my stomach, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt. He finds my breast through the fabric of my bra and cups it, thumb brushing over the curve with a possessive tenderness that makes me shiver.
Then he uses his teeth to tug the neckline of my shirt lower, easing down the lace on my bra and exposing me to the cool air and his warm mouth. His tongue flicks my nipple, slow and teasing, while his other hand slips my bra strap from my shoulder, giving him full access.
The push and pull of his mouth, the contrast of heat and pressure—it’s intoxicating. I arch into him, breathless, the warmth pooling as I feel a dampness start to gather between my legs.
His hands now move down to my waist and slip under the waistband of the boxer shorts I’ve taken to borrowing. When his fingers reach the wet heat between my thighs, he lets out a low, satisfied growl that sends a shiver straight through me.
I’ve had enough of barriers.
I wriggle free of the shorts and my panties, kicking them aside without ceremony.
He sheds his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it to the floor, before climbing back over me with a hunger that makes my breath hitch.
His hand finds me again, working slow, deliberate circles against my center that make my spine arch against the cushions.
He watches me—watches every shift in my face, every gasp—and when he feels me trembling beneath him, he pauses as if waiting.
He glances subtly toward the bar sink, then looks at the mug on the console table behind us.
Nothing. Not even a twitch of water magick.
The grin that curves his mouth nearly undoes me.
“I told you,” I pant, lips trembling against his jaw. “I’ve been practicing.”
I reach for him, freeing him from his pants, wrapping my hand around the hard length of him. The sheer weight, impossible to ignore. His breath hisses between his teeth as I stroke, slow and steady, marveling at how soft his skin is against my palm.
His thumb presses into that delicate center—just right, just enough—while his fingers slide into me, again and again, the intensity building until I’m trembling on the edge. I don’t want to fall alone. I want to drag him with me.
I reach for him again to guide him toward me. Into me.
But he stops. His hand covers mine, pressing it back to my side. His voice a strangled whisper. “Not yet.”
He grinds me deeper into the cushions as the candlelight orbs flicker a glow, casting us in an amber light. His hand finds me again, fingers moving rhythmically against my core.
The pressure fractures into something I can no longer hold back, like glass under heat. I cry out, my whole body drawn tight as release barrels through me.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he just turns us gently, cradling my back against his chest as we lie there facing the quiet room. He presses a kiss on the curve of my spine just between my shoulder blades.
Without moving me, he grabs a blanket and draws it over us like a shield, the fire in the hearth collapsing into embers. I turn my face up to him, his calloused fingers grasping my chin as he kisses me—slow, reverent.
My peripheral vision catches movement: liquid streaming out in erratic zigzags over the wood surface from the now tipped coffee mug. For a heartbeat, the spill gathers, shimmering, almost star-shaped, before it sinks into the grain.
Well, fuck.
I couldn’t hold it. Not completely. And I know that Noa saw it too. That’s why he stopped us.
Disappointment clings to me, sharper than the afterglow of the pleasure he just wrought from me.
Guess I still need more practice.
Noa presses another kiss to my shoulder, but I feel the truth sink in like cold water: control isn’t mine yet. And until it is, apparently neither is he.