Chapter Thirty - Six
Chapter
Thirty-Six
MALACHI
"Ineed you to be careful," I tell Gideon, watching him as he stands near the window of my office. "The Magister has eyes everywhere."
Gideon nods, his expression characteristically stoic. "I always am."
I move to my desk, fingers drumming against the polished surface. "Find out if they're looking for her specifically. If the Council has involved the Order. If they know what she is."
"And if they do?" he asks, voice cool and pragmatic.
"Then we accelerate our plans," I respond simply. No need to elaborate further with Gideon—he understands what's at stake.
He straightens, adjusting his jacket with practiced precision. "What about the others? Elias has been spending a lot of time with her."
A flicker of irritation courses through me. "Let me worry about Elias."
"And Asher?"
I exhale sharply. "Asher is... being Asher. He's not a threat."
Gideon studies me for a long moment. "You're certain?"
"No," I admit. "But I have more pressing concerns right now."
He nods again, accepting my decision without further question—one of the many reasons I value him. "I'll report back by nightfall."
"Be discreet," I remind him. "If the Magister suspects we're harboring a witch..."
"He won't learn it from me," Gideon assures me, his voice hardening slightly. His loyalty has never been in question, not since the day I found him half-dead in that warehouse.
I watch as he leaves, the door closing quietly behind him.
The moment I'm alone, I allow myself a brief moment of uncertainty. The Magister will be looking for her by now. A witch of her power can't remain undetected for long. And once he finds her...
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
I straighten, immediately on alert. "Enter."
The door opens slowly, and I freeze, surprise washing over me before I can mask it.
Sage.
She stands in the doorway, hesitant but determined, her slender frame draped in a simple blue dress that makes her eyes seem deeper, more luminous. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and something about her seems... different. More present. More focused.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
"You're the last person I expected to find at my door," I say finally, keeping my voice neutral despite the sudden tension humming beneath my skin.
She takes a small step forward, entering my domain willingly for the first time. "Is this a bad time?"
I study her carefully, intrigued by this unexpected boldness. "That depends on why you're here."
She closes the door behind her—another surprise. She's choosing to be alone with me, not fleeing at the first opportunity.
"I wanted to talk to you," she says, her voice quiet but steadier than I expected.
I lean back against my desk, allowing a small smile. "By all means. Talk."
She takes another step into the room, her gaze sweeping over my bookshelves, the large window overlooking the estate grounds, before finally settling on me.
"I realized something last night," she begins. "I've been hiding from you since the moment we met."
This admission catches me off guard. "Hiding?"
She nods. "Not just physically running away, but... emotionally. Mentally." She takes a breath. "I've been afraid to face you directly."
"And now you're not afraid?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
"No," she says, then corrects herself with a small smile. "I mean, yes. I'm still afraid. But I'm here anyway."
I push off from the desk, moving closer to her, testing whether she'll retreat. She doesn't.
"Why?" I ask simply.
"Because I want to understand," she says, her blue-grey eyes meeting mine with surprising steadiness. "I want to know you. To face my fear instead of running from it."
I chuckle, the sound low and pleased. "So I'm something to be faced? Like a challenge to be overcome?"
A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "You terrify me."
"Good," I say softly. "Fear is honest. It's real."
I circle her slowly, observing the way she tenses but doesn't follow my movement with her eyes. She's forcing herself to stay still, to endure my scrutiny—to face it, as she put it.
"What exactly frightens you about me, Sage?" I ask, coming to stand before her again.
She swallows, but her voice remains steady. "The way you look at me. Like you can see right through me. Like you know things about me that I don't know myself."
"Perhaps I do," I murmur.
"And the way you make me feel," she continues, the blush deepening on her cheeks. "Like I'm not in control of my own body."
I feel a surge of heat at her words, remembering the night of the ritual—the way she came apart under my touch, uninhibited and raw. The way she felt just a night ago, clenching around my cock as I took her for her first time.
"Is that so terrible?" I ask, stepping closer. "To lose control?"
"For me? Yes." Her honesty is disarming. "I've spent my whole life carefully maintaining control. Being quiet. Being invisible. Being safe."
I reach out, allowing my fingers to brush a strand of hair from her face. She shivers but doesn't pull away.
"And how has that served you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"It kept me alive," she admits. "But not living. Not really."
Something shifts between us—the air growing heavier, charged with an energy that's not entirely magical.
"So this is about more than just understanding me," I observe. "This is about understanding yourself."
She nods. "I think so. Yes."
I move to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. I offer one to her, and after a brief hesitation, she takes it.
"To facing fears," I say, raising my glass slightly.
She lifts hers in response, taking a small sip. Her face scrunches slightly at the burn, and I find the expression unexpectedly endearing.
"Tell me something true about yourself, Sage," I say, leaning against the sideboard. "Something you've never told anyone."
She considers this, rolling the glass between her palms. "I used to talk to my books," she says finally. "After my parents died. I would tell them things I couldn't tell my aunt. My fears. My dreams. It was easier than talking to real people."
The confession touches something in me—a recognition of loneliness I understand all too well.
"Books don't judge," I agree. "They don't disappoint."
She looks up, surprised. "You read a lot?"
"I've had centuries to develop a taste for literature," I say with a slight smile. "You'd be surprised what interests me."
"Try me," she challenges, and I see a flash of the woman she could be—confident, assertive, unafraid to meet my gaze.
"I collect first editions of romantic poetry," I tell her, enjoying her widened eyes. "Keats. Byron. Shelley."
"You're joking," she says, disbelief clear in her voice.
"I never joke about books," I respond seriously. "Beauty is rare in this world. When you find it, you should treasure it."
Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a curiosity. She sets her glass down and steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and delicate.
"You're not what I expected," she admits quietly.
"And what did you expect?" I ask, not moving, allowing her to dictate the closeness between us.
"Someone colder. More... ruthless."
"Oh, I can be ruthless," I assure her. "When necessary."
"But not with me?" she asks, looking up at me.
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility.
"Not in the way you fear," I say finally. "I have no desire to break you, Sage. To control you, yes. To possess you, absolutely. But not to destroy what makes you... you."
She absorbs this, her eyes never leaving mine. "The night you found me at the barrier," she says, her voice dropping lower. "What you did to me..."
"Yes?" I prompt when she falters.
"I've never felt anything like that before," she admits, color rising in her cheeks again. "It was like... like I became someone else. Someone who wasn't afraid. Who knew exactly what she wanted."
"That wasn't someone else," I tell her, my voice deepening. "That was you. The real you, beneath all the careful control."
She steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, the slight tremor in her breath.
"I want to feel that again," she whispers. "But I don't know how to let go."
I remain perfectly still, understanding instinctively what she needs in this moment. "Then don't," I tell her. "Don't let go. Take control instead."
Her eyes widen slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I say carefully, "that there's power in choosing to act rather than being acted upon. In taking what you want rather than waiting for it to be given."
I see understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by something else—determination mixed with desire.
"What if what I want is you?" she asks, her voice barely audible.
The question sends heat coursing through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Then take me," I challenge softly.
She hesitates, uncertainty battling with desire on her face.
"I won't move," I promise her. "Whatever happens next is entirely your choice."
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for manipulation. Finding none, she takes a deep breath.
Then, with a deliberation that's almost painfully slow, she raises her hand to my face. Her fingers are cool against my skin as she traces the line of my jaw, exploring with gentle curiosity.
I remain motionless, allowing her this exploration, though every nerve in my body demands action.
Her touch grows bolder, fingers sliding into my hair, tracing the curve of my ear, brushing across my lower lip with feather-light pressure.
"Your heart is racing," she observes, her other hand coming to rest lightly on my chest.
"Yes," I admit, seeing no reason to deny the obvious.
"Because of me?" she asks, wonder in her voice.
"Entirely," I confirm.
This admission seems to embolden her. She steps even closer, her body now just a breath away from mine. Her hand slides from my chest to my shoulder, steadying herself.
I see the moment she makes her decision—a flash of resolve in her eyes, a slight firming of her mouth.
Then she rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine.
The kiss is tentative at first, hesitant and questioning. I remain still, letting her set the pace, though it takes every ounce of my control not to take over, to deepen it, to show her exactly what I want.
But this isn't about what I want. Not now.
Her lips move against mine, growing more confident with each passing second. When her tongue tentatively traces the seam of my lips, I open to her, allowing her to explore.
A small sound escapes her—surprise mingled with pleasure—and her hand tightens in my hair.
The kiss deepens, her initial hesitation giving way to curiosity, then to hunger. She presses closer, her body flush against mine now, and I finally allow my hands to move, settling lightly at her waist, neither pulling her closer nor pushing her away.
When she finally breaks the kiss, she's breathing hard, her eyes wide and dark with desire.
"That was..." she trails off, searching for words.
"A good start," I finish for her, unable to keep a note of satisfaction from my voice.
She laughs—a small, surprised sound that transforms her face completely. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of who she could be, who she was meant to be, before life taught her to hide.
"Did I do that right?" she asks, and beneath the teasing, I hear a genuine question.
I allow myself a slow smile. "You tell me."
She considers this, her fingers absently tracing patterns on my chest. "I think," she says finally, "I might need more practice."
"I'm at your disposal," I tell her, meaning it more than she could possibly understand.
She studies me, her head tilting slightly. "This isn't what I expected when I came here today."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know," she admits. "To be intimidated. To be afraid. Maybe even to argue."
"We can still do all of those things, if you prefer," I offer, enjoying the small smile that crosses her face.
"No," she says decisively. "I think I prefer this."
I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, allowing myself the small liberty. "As do I."
Her expression grows serious again. "This doesn't change everything, you know. There are still so many questions. So many things I don't understand."
"I know," I acknowledge. "But it's a beginning."
She nods, stepping back slightly, creating space between us. I let her go, recognizing her need to regain equilibrium.
"I should..." she gestures vaguely toward the door.
"Go?" I suggest, arching a brow. "Or stay?"
She hesitates, clearly tempted. "Go, I think. For now."
I nod, respecting her decision even as desire still pulses through me. "Until next time, then."
She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. She turns back, a new confidence in the set of her shoulders.
"There will be a next time," she says, not a question but a statement.
I smile, slow and certain. "Yes, Sage. There will."
She returns the smile—small but genuine—before slipping out the door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and the taste of her still on my lips.
I exhale slowly, allowing myself to feel the full weight of what just happened. Of what it means.
She came to me. Chose to face me. Chose to kiss me.
More importantly, for the first time since I claimed her, she acted rather than reacted. Took control rather than surrendering it.
And in doing so, she revealed a truth I've suspected from the beginning:
She is far stronger than she knows.
I shake my head, unable to suppress a begrudging smirk. Elias, that bastard. The fool actually completed the binding with her. Now I'm going to have to murder him—purely out of principle, of course. Nothing personal.
Well, perhaps slightly personal.