Chapter 18
Magick denied its truth will not fade—it will twist. What is repressed beneath the surface will always seek a way to rise.
—Theory of Elemental Magick, Vol. I
I’ve taken to sparring with Noa on Sundays in the Training Room. I never want to be caught off guard by Stella, or anyone else, for that matter, again.
What started as an offer has now become ritual. My water bottle goes on the same bench it always does. I retie my braid twice because I learned—early—that loose hair is just another handle for someone to take.
Noa is always there ahead of time. Sometimes he spars with Finn or Ryan before training me. This morning he’s alone in the gym, wrapping his knuckles with white tape, neat and methodical, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. When he looks up, his mouth quirks.
“You’re late,” he says.
I glance at the clock. “I’m three minutes early.”
He nods once, completely serious. “Then I’m late.”
I laugh, stepping onto the mat, bare feet finding the familiar grit of chalk and rubber. “So what’s the plan today? Humiliation before breakfast?”
“Merely correction,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, I’ve been told trauma builds character.”
His gaze flicks over my stance—my feet, my shoulders, my hands—and softens by a fraction. “Not today.”
That’s the thing about Noa: he’s patient. Thorough. Helpful without being overly critical.
At least with me.
He circles once, slow and controlled, eyes tracking every small tell. “Your weight’s too far back,” he says. “You’re bracing for impact.”
“Maybe I like bracing.”
“But that’s not what I asked you to do.”
I scowl, but shift my body. Knees loose. Center forward. Ready to move instead of endure.
We go through the warm-up circuit—punch combinations until my shoulders burn, kicks until my hips loosen and my thighs tremble, footwork drills that feel like choreography until Noa steps in and turns it into a lesson in survival.
He taps my guard, corrects my angle, makes me repeat it until my body stops negotiating and starts obeying.
He doesn’t use his full speed—not unless I get sloppy. He lets me fail where it’s safe, and stops me where it isn’t. I’m just starting to find the rhythm: breathe, pivot, commit—
He catches my wrist when I feint and twists—not painful, just controlled—and suddenly I’m on my back on the mat before my brain catches up.
The ceiling is glaringly white at this angle. His silhouette above me—calm, precise, infuriating. But I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
I swallow and decide, as always, to make it worse.
“Well… now that we’re here…” I murmur seductively.
His eyes flick toward my mouth.
The gym doors bang open and sunlight slices across the mats.
Rozsen strolls in like she owns the place. She glances at the scene she just walked into before yelling, “Gods, get a room, you two.”
Finn walks in behind her, rubbing his shoulder, adding, “They’re in a room.”
“I’m just teasing. Noa here doesn’t even know what flirting is,” Rozsen says, eyeing the two of us before giving me a wink. “He’d likely file it under ‘unauthorized behavior.’”
I’m still on my back on the mat, but I lift my chin toward Noa. “She thinks you’re too much of a rule follower.”
Rozsen gasps in mock offense. “Celeste, you weren’t supposed to tell him that.”
Noa’s gaze cuts to them. “If you two are done with the side comments, spar or leave.”
Then his expression shutters into professionalism so perfect it makes me want to throw something.
He offers me a hand up.
Killjoy.
I take it anyway, because his grip is warm and steady and it pulls me upright like I weigh nothing. For a heartbeat his thumb brushes my palm—too brief to call intentional.
But it is.
I notice the keycard Rozsen is twirling between two fingers. Finn follows behind her with the expression of a man who has suffered deeply.
I glance at them. “How many is that now?”
Finn holds up a hand like he’s tallying his own misery. “Five to one.”
Rozsen beams like she’s won an Olympic medal.
Noa’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. He nods toward the far mat. “You two spar. Keep it clean.”
Finn snorts. “Clean? With her?”
Rozsen tosses him the stolen card like she’s being generous. He fumbles it, muttering, and follows her toward the mat.
The bickering starts immediately—sarcasm snapping back and forth, familiar as breathing.
Despite how those two started off the school year, they’ve never again spent the night together and instead developed an inseparable friendship based on sarcasm, wit, and how many times they can successfully steal each other’s keycards without the other noticing.
It’s infuriatingly adorable.
I bring my attention back to Noa—only to find him already watching me. Not my stance. My face.
I hear Finn yelp a second later as Rozsen flips him, his back to the mat, quick and clean.
I bite back a grin. Noa doesn’t.
“Focus,” he says.
“I am,” I lie.
For the next fifteen minutes, the room fills with the sounds of training: feet slapping mats, controlled impacts, Finn’s complaints, Rozsen’s laughter. Noa keeps me moving, correcting, pushing, keeping me from drifting into my head the way I always do when stress builds.
And it does build.
Essays. Exams. The constant pressure of Whittaker humming under my skin like a second heartbeat.
My mind keeps trying to split itself in two—half on what’s in front of me, half on an upcoming Potions exam and bullet points for my political negotiations essay.
I spent years trailing behind my father on diplomatic missions; I know the games, but that doesn’t mean I can regurgitate them in academic format.
On the fourth round, his palm hits my shoulder harder than before, and I stumble.
“That’s the third opening in a row,” he says, irritation cutting through his usual calm. “You’re not committing to your advances.”
“I’m distracted,” I admit, breathless. “Midterms.”
Rozsen pauses from across the room, raising a brow. “Your… advances?”
Finn snorts. “That explains the tension.”
I shoot them both a withering look.
Rozsen’s grin says she absolutely knows what she’s doing.
Finn arches a brow dramatically. “We can leave, if you want. For… educational reasons.”
“You guys aren’t helping,” Noa says instantly. “Just go.”
Rozsen laughs. “Is that an order, Officer Gallegher?”
Noa mumbles something under his breath. I catch the word children, followed by a series of quiet curses.
Finn grabs his bag from the floor. “Let’s go, Red. It’s five to one—but that will be the last time you steal my keycard.”
Rozsen flashes him a smile that promises nothing but trouble.
They head for the doors, still bickering, still laughing—Finn grumbling about breakfast, Rozsen needling him about his footwork.
The door closes behind them with a soft, final click, and the Training Room empties out until it feels cavernous.
The air is thick with humidity and the faint scent of sweat and scorched rubber.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
I exhale and loosen my shoulders. “Look, I’m sorry, Noa. I’m here. I am trying.”
He turns away toward the weight rack, and I think he’ll leave it there—but then he pauses, looking back over his shoulder.
His eyes gleam, a dangerous shade of turquoise.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, voice low.
“You get me on my back just once, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Right here.”
My heart skips like a stone thrown across still water.
“Anything?” I ask, my tone deliberately slow and sultry.
“Anything, Celeste,” he says, stepping back onto the mat with a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
“Deal.”
I lunge low, going for a leg sweep. He sidesteps easily, damn near laughing as he pivots with the grace of a dancer. We start to circle each other, the tension crackling between us—part combat, part challenge, part something much darker and more delicious.
I feint for his throat; a move he taught me himself. He moves like wildfire—fast and unpredictable. I swear I see smoke ghost through the air in his wake.
“Alright,” I mutter. “If we’re playing dirty…” I throw both hands forward and send a pair of water tendrils skittering across the mat, pooling slick beneath us.
I rush him, slamming my shoulder into his chest before he catches me mid-motion and spins me like I’m weightless. He holds me steady, his expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
“You’re using your magick on me?”
“Isn’t that the point?” I smirk.
Without giving him a chance to respond, I lash two ribbons of water up from the mat, coiling them around his wrists.
He doesn’t even flinch—just lets me press in close, lips brushing his as I whisper, “Yield.”
He grins wickedly, heat surging between us. Steam bursts from his skin in a hiss where the water touches him, and with one fluid twist, he breaks free—water sizzling into mist as he looks down at me. “Try harder.”
Cocky bastard.
I narrow my eyes and pivot my approach. A fresh wave of water coils underfoot, but this time, I direct another current behind him.
He doesn’t see it coming—the push from behind colliding with the slickness below, and the combined momentum sends him flying toward me so fast that he loses his balance, crashing through my wave in a sputter of insulted fire and steam.
He hits the mat hard, winded, swearing under his breath.
I walk over slowly, straddling him before he can move.
His hands stay planted on the mat, eyes locked on mine like he doesn’t trust himself to touch me. Water sloshes around us, soaking into our clothes, glistening on our skin.
I lean in, close enough to kiss but just out of reach. “Still anything?” I murmur, my lips at the shell of his ear.
He stills, barely breathing.
Then, wordless, I peel off my soaked shirt and toss it aside. My thin white bra clings to my skin, nearly transparent now. His eyes darken, jaw tense, hands still not moving—but I can feel the restraint vibrating through him.
I don’t say another word. I don’t have to.
I look toward the gym doors and flick my wrist.
Water answers like it knows me.