Chapter 53
The veil lifts for no one. But in the darkest moments, some slip beneath.
—Magick Conflicts and Rebellions: Teachings of the Silver Veil
Iclose my bedroom door and lean against it with a heavy sigh. The weight of the last few hours, weeks—months—settles into my bones like lead.
I head to the shower to scrub off the touch of Thorne’s wind against my skin. The anger, the pain, the helplessness—still there, just below the surface.
A soft knock on my bathroom door.
He doesn’t wait for a reply before stepping inside.
Noa.
His expression is caught somewhere between uncertainty and something deeper—concern, love. He reaches for me, his fingers brushing along my cheek. I turn into his palm, his thumb catching the tear that slips free.
Wordlessly, he leads me to the bench beside the shower. With a tenderness that undoes me, he undresses me like I’m something breakable.
Shoes. Socks. Shirt. Leggings. Everything I’m wearing is soaked in blood, dirt, tears, and grief—the dark aftertaste of rage and revenge.
I hear the water start to run, the sound soft, like the patter of rain on a still summer lake. The steam ghosts through the air as the warm water condenses against the cool glass.
He undresses, too, and I let him lead me into the shower. The water is a balm against my fractured soul.
He washes me—my hair, my skin, careful with the cuts on my arm, mostly healed now thanks to Madame Ching’s tending. The foamy lather of lavender soap mingles with the scent that is so unmistakably him—cedar, mint, clove. Safety and love wrapped into one.
He treats me like I’m made of spun glass, delicate and fragile. Places a soft kiss on a bruise on my shoulder as he continues washing me.
I turn around, facing him. The warm water splashes between us as he pauses, holding a washcloth in his hands. He has a small cut on his cheek and the purple undertones of a bruise starting to form on his chest.
I reach for him. He looks at me, his eyes flickering with a question. Desire brims beneath the surface of duty, of love, of wanting to make sure I’m alright.
I answer him with my lips on his.
I back him against the tile wall of the shower, cold against the enveloping warmth.
He stumbles, hesitates for just a moment—before crashing into me with a kiss of his own.
Hard. Desperate. Pulling me to him with a force like gravity before wrapping his arms around me as he deepens the kiss.
His tongue lashes against mine, claiming, devouring.
I don’t want slow. I don’t want careful.
I want to feel.
To burn.
To be reminded that I’m still alive. And I know he feels it too.
He pushes me against the corner of the shower so he can angle me just slightly above him on the tile lip as he wraps my leg around him while he enters me—fast and deep.
The mix of soap and water makes us slide against each other, friction turned fire. Every movement, every sound, is a crescendo both delicious and dangerous as we move with each thrust.
It’s intense, guttural, consuming. Exactly what I want. What I need.
His lips find my throat—soft, reverent—and for a heartbeat, I feel the sharp edge of Thorne’s invisible blade, cold against my skin.
My body seizes, memory flooding in. Until I force my eyes open and see him—Noa.
Concern is etched across his face. He kisses me again, slower this time, coaxing me back.
To him. To this moment. And I let go. Melting into the heat of us.
His hand finds me, thumb circling with steady pressure, strumming me into a rhythm that sends sparks racing behind my eyes. The charged air hums around us with the makings of a storm.
Fire and water. Chaos lashing itself together with memory and truth.
We combust as one.
Sparks of lightning flash as we crash back down, gasping, panting. Hearts racing like the water that’s still rushing over us.
It’s not just ecstasy—it’s defiance. Proof I can still choose this, choose him, even with ghosts pressing against my skin.
His fingers brush my lips, that crooked smile blooming on his face. “I didn’t expect that when I came to check on you.”
I smile, breathless. Sated. Whole in a way only he makes me feel.
“Thank you for checking on me.”
* * *
We get dressed in fresh clothes, finding some of his sleepwear tucked away in my dresser—a quiet, familiar comfort that makes my chest ache.
I pack a small bag for the walk to the Spanish Steps, not wanting to waste what little time we have left before his graduation next week. As I gather my things, I notice Gavrail’s book still sitting on my desk. I slide it into my bag, planning to return it to him along the way.
The walk across campus feels suspended in amber—everything changing, everything ending, too soon.
I tell Noa I’ll meet him at his dorm, but I need to stop at the Ivy House first. He kisses me, long and lingering, before releasing me at the gate—his warmth still haunting my lips as I climb the stairs.
I knock once before pushing Gavrail’s door open.
He’s shirtless, sitting before a mirror, shadows curling around him like the tired wings of some fallen angel. The light cuts across the room in uneven gold, catching on the blood drying at his temple, the bruised edge of his shoulder, an open gash on his back.
“Gavrail?”
He doesn’t answer right away, only glances up. His gaze meets mine in the mirror, eyes dulled with exhaustion but burning faintly beneath, like embers refusing to die.
I take in his wounds and something in me goes feral—violent—at the marks on his skin. That strange tether draws me closer once again.
“You should go to the infirmary. Madame Ching can help—”
“I’ve got it,” he says through clenched teeth. He’s trying to clean the wound on his back, but he can’t quite reach.
Before I can think better of it, I cross the room and take the cloth from his hand. “Here,” I murmur. “Let me.”
The moment my fingers brush his skin, the air shifts. His breath catches, almost imperceptibly.
I clean the gash along his back, dragging the cloth gently along the length of the wound, clearing away the blood and debris in careful strokes.
His warmth hums under my palms; the muscles at his spine twitch, reacting to my touch.
My fingers trace the line of the injury, mapping it, as if knowing its shape might somehow help me mend it faster.
When the blood finally stops welling, I reach for the bandage, securing it to his skin with strips of tape.
My palms flatten briefly against his back when I finish—feeling the rise and fall of his breath, matching my own.
When I move in front of him, our knees brush. I reach up, dabbing at the cut by his temple, and he just watches—body still, face unreadable, eyes brighter than before.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says finally, voice quiet enough that it barely crosses the space between us. His hand catches mine as I lower it, fingers closing over my wrist, anchoring me.
“I’m already here,” I whisper. “And I came to return your book.”
He exhales, a sound that’s half defeat, half something else entirely. The tension in his shoulders fractures. For a heartbeat, he just breathes me in—as if my presence might keep him upright a little longer.
The silence stretches, thick with everything we won’t name.
His thumb moves absently over the inside of my wrist, tracing the pulse there. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m just glad it’s all over.”
His mouth tilts—but not into a smile. “I almost cost you everything,” he says, the words rough, splintering in his throat. “If I hadn’t hesitated—if Noa hadn’t…” He doesn’t finish. His control slips, and his forehead drops against my shoulder. The movement is small, but it shatters me.
For a breath, I forget the world. Thorne. The Service. The lake. There’s only this—his weight against me, his hair damp against my skin, his breath trembling through my collarbone.
The world doesn’t end—but something in me does.
I rest my cheek against his head, fingers tracing the hard line of his spine, careful where the skin breaks. His scent—dark amber, smoke, leather—wraps around me, threaded with the clean warmth of his shampoo. Shadows coil close, hesitant, possessive, as if guarding what they can’t quite claim.
Time stops.
Then, reluctantly, he draws away.
The loss is sharp. It leaves a hollow place that echoes as he stands. He drags air back into his lungs and offers me his hand. When he pulls me to my feet, the space between us feels like a wound we both keep reopening.
He looks at me then—not through me, not past me, but at me. And for a heartbeat, the world narrows again to the space between our breaths.
Something in his expression shifts—grief, hope, want—and I know if either of us moves, even an inch, a line will be crossed and something far more dangerous will break.
So I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Because if I breathe in too deeply, I’ll drown.
“Oh—right.” I break the spell as I fumble for the book in my bag. “I came to give this back.”
He takes it, but something catches my eye—a sliver of parchment tucked inside the spine. He catches my stare and his eyes narrow as I ease it free, heart stuttering as I unfold the fragile paper.
He watches, wary, as if the smallest thing could undo him again.
“It’s an address,” I breathe. “Paris.”
He takes it from me, fingers brushing mine. His eyes flick over the line, then still.
14 Rue des Fossés Saint-Jacques, 75005 Paris, France.
Beneath it, one sentence, written in looping script:
For when you and Celeste are ready for answers. —M.S.
A strange rune is drawn beneath it in silver ink. A vertical line with three tick marks crossing the top half, almost like a key.
My throat goes dry as I try to swallow.
M.S.
Minka Senkova.
Gavrail’s mother.