Chapter 5
Tess
I pushed through the door to my quarters and let it swing shut behind me with a tired shove. The quiet pressed in. After hours of roaring crowds, clashing steel, and the thunderous approval of dragons, the silence felt almost sacred.
But the Harbingers hadn't vanished. The Matrix still waited somewhere. And now I had enemies I'd never even known existed.
My suite greeted me with familiar warmth.
The fire burned low in the small hearth, throwing gold over my comfortable clutter—books stacked on every surface, my sleek coffee maker humming softly on the kitchen counter, Whiskey's chair nestled in the corner where he could supervise everything.
Home. Sanctuary built from modern convenience and lamplight.
I stripped off my jacket, dust puffing as I shook it out. My gloves came next, set on the desk with deliberate care. Adrenaline still buzzed through my veins, but my hands shook only slightly as I reached for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf—a gift from Raze that seemed perfect tonight.
Before I could pour, Whiskey leaped onto the desk with his usual graceless thump, immediately headbutting my arm with enough force to nearly knock the bottle over.
"Yeah, I know," I muttered, steadying the glass with one hand while scratching behind his ears with the other. "Your human survived another day of supernatural politics. Shocking development."
He purred and rubbed against my wrist. Talking to him felt safe—he was my excuse to say the things I couldn't admit to anyone else. That I was still shaking. That the cheers already felt distant and unreal. That the weight of what I'd done today hadn't fully settled yet.
"Dragon rider," I said to him, testing the words. Still felt unreal, like a title borrowed from someone else's story. "What do you think, Pumpkin? Think I can pull it off?"
Whiskey blinked slowly and settled onto a stack of papers, immediately making them his property.
Tonight was the bonding banquet—a formal affair I'd only learned about an hour ago. Expectation sat heavy in my chest. I had so much to process, so many questions about what came next, and now I had to navigate some ceremonial dinner on top of everything else.
Six months. That's how long the official Rider training lasted. That's how long I had to figure this out.
I poured the whiskey, letting the amber liquid catch the firelight. The first sip burned, but it was a good burn. An anchor to this moment before—
The lamplight flickered.
Cool air snaked through the room, raising goosebumps along my arms despite the fire's warmth. Charged. My pulse skipped.
I didn't need to look to know who it was. That instinctive awareness prickled across my skin—the same recognition that had saved my life more than once. My body knew him before my mind caught up. The way silence became expectant rather than peaceful.
Ciaran stepped from the corner, moving into the lamplight. Devastating, as always. All black clothing, pale eyes that held nothing back. Ozone and electricity and wildness.
"You disrupted more than protocol today," he said without preamble.
The words landed like a touch. Neither praise nor warning, but heavier. My skin warmed despite the chill he'd brought with him.
"Is that disapproval I'm hearing?" I asked, setting my glass down carefully. My voice came out steadier than I felt. Small victory.
"Observation." He moved closer, each step deliberate. "You've shaken the foundations of their world. Consequences will follow."
I didn't retreat, though every nerve told me to.
With Ciaran, running was pointless—he could follow me into shadows, into dreams, into places I didn't even know existed.
But more than that, I didn't want to run.
His presence was never entirely safe, and that was the point.
He was everything I wasn't supposed to want—danger, power, control that didn't ask permission.
But sometimes his overwhelming violence made me feel safer than any protection spell ever could. Because it wasn't aimed at me.
"Let them come," I said, lifting my chin. "I'm not backing down now."
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. "No.
You wouldn't." Those silver eyes swept over me.
"Tonight's banquet will mark your official entry into supernatural society as a Rider.
Every faction will be watching, measuring your worth, testing for weakness.
" His voice dropped lower. "You need to be prepared for their scrutiny. "
This wasn't just about surviving training anymore.
He reached out, fingers brushing dust from my shoulder. "But first, you need to be cleaned."
Before I could respond, his hands moved to the hem of my athletic shirt. Not asking. Not hesitating. Just lifting the fabric with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. I stood still, letting him work, feeling my pulse quicken as he pulled the shirt over my head.
"Ciaran—"
"You're covered in arena dust," he said quietly, his fingers already moving to the band of my sports bra. "Sweat. Blood that isn't yours." His gaze met mine. "You've been marked by battle. Now you'll be marked by me."
His hands moved to my face first, fingers sliding behind my ears to carefully remove my glasses. He set them on the nearby table, his gaze never leaving mine.
His movements were precise as he undressed me. Noting tremors I couldn't quite hide, reading my body like text only he could decipher. Athletic shirt. Sports bra. The rest of my outfit falling away under his attention.
I should have felt vulnerable. Instead, I settled. Recognized.
He guided me toward the bathroom, his hand firm at the small of my back. Steam was already curling from the shower—a glass-walled enclosure large enough for multiple people, with rainfall heads positioned at different heights.
He tested the water temperature, fingers trailing through the spray.
"This is unnecessary," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "I can wash myself."
"Can you?" His eyes found mine in the mirror above the sink, and I saw dark hunger there. "After what you've done today? After the risks you've taken?" He shook his head. "No, a rúnsearc. Tonight, you're mine to tend."
I stepped beneath the stream alone, hot water cascading over me, washing away the dust and tension of the day. Through the glass, I could see him moving—and then he was undressing himself.
Without my glasses, details blurred at the edges, but I could make out enough. Fabric falling away. My chest tightened, breath catching. All thoughts of the day's chaos—the danger, the fear—simply vanished.
The defined ridges of his abdomen. His chest broad, tapering to narrow hips where I could just make out a trail of light hair that disappeared lower.
And though my vision was soft-focused, there was no mistaking the heavy thickness of his cock.
The sight made my mouth go dry even through the distorted view.
Christ, he was gorgeous. Devastatingly, unfairly so.
He stepped into the shower behind me, water immediately slicking his white and black hair back from his face. Droplets clung to the sharp line of his jaw, traced paths down his chest, and I was mesmerized by water following every carved ridge of muscle.
He reached for my soap—liquid body wash that filled the air with warm notes of vanilla and cinnamon as he squeezed it into his palms.
His hands settled on my shoulders first, the pressure firm as he worked the knots from my muscles.
The heat of the water joined his touch, melting the tension I'd been carrying since the trial began.
I exhaled, a low sound swallowed by the spray, my spine loosening as he pressed harder into the tight spots.
He stepped closer to reach my hair, and that's when I felt it—the solid heat of his cock flush against the small of my back.
Not thrusting or grinding. Just there. Unavoidable.
Hard. The contrast between the careful slide of his shampoo-slicked fingers through my hair and that insistent pressure against me made heat coil low in my belly.
He rinsed the suds away, his hands dragging down my spine slowly. Reading every vertebra, every scar, every place I'd held tension without knowing it. I wanted to lean into him, to let him take my weight. Almost did—caught myself just before my head tipped back against his chest.
The tension wasn't just in my muscles anymore. It was in the awareness of my nakedness, his proximity, the silence between us thickening with want. Was I relaxing? Or unraveling?
His fingers found the mark then. Shadowed magic hummed beneath the surface, resonating with his touch, the design deepening under the water's flow.
"They saw you today," he murmured, his voice low and rough against my ear, barely audible over the spray. "But I saw you first."
His words shouldn't have steadied my breathing, but they did. That scared me more than the arena ever had. I didn't reply, just swallowed hard, my pulse hammering against the skin where his thumb traced the edge of the mark.
His large hands, slicked with soap, glided along my collarbones from behind, then down, over my breasts. He cupped them without hesitation.
He massaged the lather into my skin slowly, his thumbs grazing my nipples deliberately, his breath warm against my neck as he focused intently on my every reaction.
I didn't pull away. Didn't tell him to stop.
My breathing quickened. My head tipped back slightly, exposing my throat.
It wasn't exhaustion making me pliant. It was want.
I should say something. Stop him. Or ask for more.
But my throat felt locked, the words trapped.
My silence stretched, becoming permission.
His hand slid between my thighs. He didn't ask, didn't seek permission—he just knew. One hand anchored firmly on my hip, holding me steady; the other parting my folds.