Chapter Forty - Seven
Chapter
Forty-Seven
SAGE
I'm reading in the library when Gideon finds me, his footsteps silent until he deliberately clears his throat to announce his presence. I look up, my heart skipping at the sight of him—tall, stoic, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Malachi wants to see you," he says without preamble.
I close my book slowly, carefully marking my page though I know I won't remember where I left off. "Now?"
"Now."
I rise, smoothing down my dress with suddenly nervous hands. "Is he angry?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with significance. Malachi's temper is legendary among the warlocks, his control rigid and unforgiving. Breaking it is not something done lightly.
Gideon's expression softens fractionally. "Not in the way you think."
An enigmatic answer, but somehow reassuring.
I follow him from the library, through the winding corridors of the estate.
As we walk, I'm acutely aware of Gideon's presence beside me—his measured stride, the controlled power in his movements, the subtle scent of him that I've come to recognize.
Our last encounter lingers between us, unspoken but not forgotten.
"He knows," I say quietly, not a question but a statement.
"About Elias. About Asher." Gideon nods. "Yes."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the evening.
"What will he do?" I ask, unable to keep the tension from my voice.
Gideon glances at me, something unreadable passing across his features. "He'll train you. As he should have from the beginning."
We stop outside Malachi's office, the heavy oak door more imposing than I remember.
Gideon studies me for a moment, then reaches out, his fingers lightly touching the bands on my wrist. The contact sends a shiver through me—not exactly desire, but something adjacent to it, a recognition of potential.
"Your training with Elias focused on control," he says, voice low. "With Asher, pleasure. With me, defense." His fingers linger on my skin. "With Malachi, you'll learn raw power."
He steps back, gesturing to the door. "He's waiting."
Taking a deep breath, I knock. The door swings open immediately, as if Malachi has been standing just on the other side, waiting.
He has.
Malachi fills the doorway, his presence more commanding than I remember. Dressed entirely in black, his dark hair swept back from his face, eyes glittering with something beyond mere interest, he studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"Sage," he says, my name like silk in his mouth. "Come in."
I step past him into the office, hearing Gideon's retreating footsteps behind me as the door closes.
The room is different than before—the furniture pushed against the walls, creating a large open space in the center.
Candles burn in iron holders, casting dancing shadows across the floor where an intricate pattern has been drawn in silver.
A ritual circle.
"What is this?" I ask, unable to keep the nervous edge from my voice.
Malachi moves to stand before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Your real training begins tonight."
He reaches for my hands, turning them over to expose my wrists. His thumb traces first our band, then the golden one, finally the crimson one, his touch sending sparks of awareness through my skin.
"Interesting," he murmurs, studying the magical marks. "How do they feel?"
The question catches me off guard. I'd expected anger, possessiveness, perhaps even punishment for binding with others without his permission. Not this calm curiosity.
"They feel... right," I admit, watching his face carefully for any reaction. "Like parts of a whole coming together."
A smile curves his mouth, surprising me further. "Good. That's exactly as it should be."
He releases my wrists, moving to the center of the ritual circle. "Come here, Sage."
I hesitate, wary of whatever magic he has prepared.
His smile widens, revealing a rare flash of genuine amusement. "I won't bite." He pauses, eyes darkening. "Unless you ask nicely."
Heat rushes to my face, but I force myself to move forward until I'm standing before him in the center of the circle. The silver lines begin to glow faintly beneath my feet, responding to my magical signature.
"The others have been teaching you control, pleasure, defense," Malachi says, echoing Gideon's earlier words. "Important lessons, certainly. But insufficient."
"For what?" I ask.
"For survival," he says simply. "The Magister and the council move against us, Sage. Sooner than we expected. When they come—and they will come—elegant control and pleasurable exploration won't save you. Raw power will."
The seriousness in his tone makes me shiver. "You think I have that kind of power?"
"I know you do." His certainty is unwavering. "I've sensed it from the beginning. But you've barely scratched the surface of what you're capable of."
He begins to circle me slowly, his movements predatory, measured. "Tell me what you've learned from the others."
I swallow hard, hyper-aware of his proximity as he moves around me. "Elias taught me focus. How to shield my signature, how to direct energy purposefully."
"And Asher?" he prompts, voice dropping lower.
"How magic responds to emotion," I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady as he completes another circle around me. "How pleasure and power intertwine."
"Hmm." He stops directly behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the whisper of his breath against my neck. "And what would Gideon have taught you, I wonder, had you succeeded in seducing him?"
My breath catches. "I wasn't?—"
"Don't lie, Sage," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "It doesn't suit you."
I close my eyes, fighting the wave of sensation his proximity triggers. "Defense," I manage. "Physical and magical."
"All valuable lessons," he acknowledges, still standing behind me, not touching but close enough that every nerve ending in my body hums with awareness. "But incomplete without what I have to teach you."
"Which is?"
"How to reach into the core of your power," he says, his hands finally coming to rest on my shoulders. "How to access the raw, untamed magic that flows through your veins. The kind of power that could level this mansion with a thought. Made stronger through our bond."
His touch sends a jolt through me—not just physical awareness but magical recognition, as if my power responds to his on some fundamental level.
"I don't know if I want that kind of power," I admit quietly.
His grip tightens slightly. "It's not about wanting it, Sage. It's about acknowledging what already exists within you." He turns me to face him, his expression serious. "The council won't hesitate to destroy you. To survive, you need to embrace every weapon at your disposal."
The intensity in his eyes is mesmerizing, his conviction absolute. Despite myself, I feel drawn to that certainty, that unwavering belief in what I might become.
"How?" I ask simply.
His smile returns, a predator pleased with its prey's surrender. "Take off your clothes."
I blink, certain I've misheard him. "What?"
"Your clothes," he repeats calmly. "Remove them."
Heat floods my face. "I don't see how that's necessary for magical training."
"Don't you?" He circles me again, each movement deliberate, controlled. "Magic flows through the body, Sage. Fabric creates barriers, disrupts the natural current. For what I'm about to teach you, we need those currents unimpeded."
His explanation sounds reasonable, logical even. But something in his tone suggests there's more to it—a test, perhaps, or a challenge.
"You could transform them," I point out. "Like Asher did."
"I could," he acknowledges. "But that would deny you an important lesson in vulnerability." He stops in front of me, eyes holding mine. "Power requires surrender first. The willingness to be exposed, physically and magically."
His gaze is unwavering, expectant. This is a threshold, I realize. A moment that will define our relationship moving forward. If I refuse, he'll accept it—but something important will be lost between us, some potential connection broken before it forms.
Decision made, I reach for the top button of my blouse, watching his expression as I slowly undo each one.
His eyes darken but remain fixed on mine, not dropping to watch my fingers work.
When I shrug the fabric from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, his only reaction is a slight flare of his nostrils.
I continue methodically, removing each piece of clothing with deliberate care. My skirt follows, then my camisole, until I stand before him in only my underwear. Still, his eyes don't leave mine.
"All of it," he says quietly.
Drawing a deep breath for courage, I remove the final pieces, standing naked before him in the center of the glowing ritual circle. I resist the urge to cover myself, instead lifting my chin, meeting his gaze with as much dignity as I can muster.
Only then does he allow his eyes to travel downward, taking in every inch of me with unhurried thoroughness. His inspection isn't lewd or objectifying—it's assessing, almost clinical, yet somehow more intimate for its detachment.
"Beautiful," he says finally, his voice deeper than before. "Just as I remember."
Before I can respond, he steps back, unbuttoning his shirt with efficient movements. "The lesson requires equal vulnerability," he explains, removing the garment to reveal a torso sculpted with lean muscle.
My breath catches as he continues undressing, his movements neither hurried nor deliberately sensual, yet captivating nonetheless. When he stands naked before me, I can't help but stare, taking in the perfect proportion of his body, the controlled power evident in every line and plane.
Unlike Elias's scholarly frame or Asher's lithe grace, Malachi's body speaks of ruthless discipline, of power harnessed and directed with absolute precision. A body created as a weapon, as a tool of his will.