Chapter Twenty - Seven
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
SAGE
Iclose the door behind me, exhaling shakily.
My heart is still racing.
I touch my lips, pressing my fingers lightly against them, as if the warmth of Elias's kiss might still be there.
Oh. What just happened?
I sink onto the edge of the bed, trying to process.
The way Elias touched me—so careful, so gentle. The way he held himself back, even as he kissed me like he couldn't help himself.
It should have been overwhelming. It was overwhelming.
But not just because of him.
Because he wasn't the first.
Because Asher kissed me too.
Because Malachi had his hands on me the first night, had me trembling beneath him.
Because even Gideon, with his silence, with his distance, looked at me in ways that made me feel things I don't understand.
It's too much.
I need to clear my head.
I carefully remove the dress and robe, setting them aside as I step toward the bathroom and its large freestanding tub, already filled with steaming water. It's extravagant, really—too luxurious for someone like me—but for once, I don't overthink it.
I step in, the warmth enveloping me, and for the first time since I got here, I'm alone.
No warlocks watching me.
No intense stares.
Just silence.
I sink deeper, my muscles unwinding, tension easing from my body as I close my eyes.
But my thoughts won't stop.
Elias.
Asher.
Malachi.
Even Gideon.
I bite my lip, shifting slightly in the water. This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be thinking about them like this. But the heat of the bath, the way my body feels too aware of itself—it's making it impossible to ignore.
I let my hand drift lower, hesitantly sliding across my collarbone, over the curve of my breasts, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through me.
I shouldn't.
But I can't stop.
Because then I think about Asher, the way he smiled before he kissed me. The playfulness that made me feel less afraid. The way he made me feel wanted.
The water is warm but it’s not helping.
If anything, it’s making it worse.
It’s like the steam is seeping into my skin, feeding this heat already coiled in my belly—tight and needy and getting harder to ignore by the second.
I try to close my eyes, try to relax, but all I can see is him.
Malachi.
That first night. His fingers inside me, slow and calculated, like he was mapping every inch of me with the intent to ruin. His voice, low and demanding, calling me good girl like he knew it was the one thing that would break me open.
God, I’d let him do it again.
I press my palm between my legs. Just pressure, at first. A tease. But the ache is immediate—deep and wet and hungry.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Because I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t want them.
I rub slow, lazy circles against my clit, biting down on my bottom lip. My hips twitch at the touch, already too sensitive, already soaked.
I can’t stop thinking about Asher.
That cocky smirk, the way he touched me like I was already his. The way he kissed me like he’d waited years for it—mouth hot, hands everywhere, all confidence and chaos.
Then Elias, fucking Elias, with his perfect mouth and his perfect words and his soft goddamn hands. He’d be the type to talk me through it, to make me say please just to hear it in my voice.
I slip two fingers inside and moan quietly, head falling back.
Fuck.
My walls clench around the intrusion, tight and greedy. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
I want a mouth on me. I want a cock filling me, stretching me, making me feel used and worshipped in the same breath.
And **Gideon—**that unreadable bastard who looks like he could break me in half without trying. His silence says more than words ever could.
What would he sound like when he loses control? What would he do if I dropped to my knees and begged?
My fingers move faster, sloppier now.
The tension builds sharp and fast—a fever pitch of desire that burns through every rational thought.
I imagine Malachi watching me. Not stopping me. Just standing there, arms crossed, eyes dark. Smirking while I fall apart, because he knows he’ll be next.
And that thought sends me straight over the edge.
I come with a stifled cry, clenching around my fingers, thighs shaking, teeth biting into my lip to keep from screaming.
It crashes through me, intense and consuming, a full-body unraveling.
I lay there panting in the tub, water rippling gently around me.
I don’t move.
Because the worst part?
I want more.
And I’m starting to realize?—
They haven’t even touched me yet. Not really.
I force myself out of the water and towel off slowly, my limbs heavy, languid from the bath. But the moment I slide beneath the sheets, exhaustion doesn't claim me the way I expect it to.
I should be relaxed. My muscles are loose, my body spent from the bath, the tension from the day drained away.
But something is wrong.
I feel it before I fully slip into sleep—a pull, a shift in the air, something curling at the edges of my mind.
And then?—
Fire.
It roars around me, crackling, consuming.
Thick, black smoke coils into the sky, choking, suffocating. The scent of burning flesh fills my nostrils, mingling with the acrid sting of charred wood.
I hear them before I see them.
The screams.
High and shrill, women wailing, pleading.
Run. Run. RUN.
I can't move.
I can't move.
The world shifts, flickering like a distorted film reel. I blink, and I'm standing in the middle of a clearing.
Bodies tied to stakes.
Women. Their faces twisted in agony as flames lick at their skirts, their hair, their flesh.
I want to look away.
I can't.
I hear them crying, screaming for mercy, their eyes wide with terror.
"Please! Please!"
Their voices blend together, a chorus of pain, of betrayal, of loss.
I turn—warlocks. Dozens of them, watching. Some with hunger. Some with satisfaction. Some with cold, detached amusement.
They stand in perfect rows, faces obscured by dark masks.
I stumble backward, breath coming in sharp, gasping bursts.
This isn't real. This isn't real.
The smoke burns my throat. The heat scorches my skin.
And then I hear the worst thing of all.
A voice. Deep, commanding, laced with finality.
"Take their souls."
A warlock steps forward, lifting a hand, dark tendrils of magic stretching toward the dying women.
No, no, no.
The magic curls around their bodies, and suddenly—their souls begin to rise.
Light. Flickering. Fragile.
It's beautiful.
It's horrific.
They reach toward the sky, toward something beyond this world.
And then the warlocks take them.
The women's bodies go still.
Their eyes, once filled with pain, go empty.
Silent.
And the warlocks—they glow.
Their bodies drink in the power, absorbing the very essence of the women they just burned alive.
I choke on a sob.
I know this magic.
I saw it at the Ritual.
I finally find my voice, a soft, broken whimper escaping my lips?—
And I wake up.
I bolt upright, gasping.
The sheets are damp with sweat. My skin burns like I was standing too close to the fire. My lungs ache, my pulse racing.
I press a hand to my chest, willing myself to breathe.
It wasn't real.
It wasn't real.
But my fingers curl into the sheets, trembling.
Because it was.
Somewhere, sometime, it was real.
And somehow, I remember it.
I sit there in the dark, wide-eyed, heart thudding in my chest.
There's no way I'm getting back to sleep.