Chapter 34 Aurelia
Aurelia
The low murmur of voices dragged me upward.
Slow and heavy, pressing over bone and thought until the ache of waking grew too loud to ignore.
My mouth was dry. My limbs, heavy. I couldn’t lift my head, not yet.
I was thirsty. Gods, I was so thirsty.
Not the kind of thirst that came from a dry room or a fever. This was deeper—cell-deep, marrow-deep.
I tried to speak. The words stuck. My lips were cracked, my throat raw.
Water. I needed water.
A shadow moved at the edge of my vision. A figure knelt beside the bed—Kaelith.
His face was composed. Serene, almost. But his eyes shimmered faintly, the color too bright in the firelight. There was something strange in the way he looked at me.
He held a crystal glass in one hand, etched in curling patterns that shimmered violet and silver. The liquid inside glowed.
He lifted it to my lips without asking. The scent hit first: sweet, metallic, spiced like crushed berries and lightning.
I hesitated. But my body answered before I could think. The first swallow was silk. Cool. Heavy. Strange.
My throat stopped aching. The burn melted into numbness. The world tilted and blurred.
I heard him speak, though it sounded far away.
“She’ll be like this for a while,” Kaelith said. “The change will complete over the next few days. Tonight is the most critical.”
Another voice answered. Malachi. Rougher. Closer. More grounded than the rest of the world.
Kaelith continued. “Have the rest of your companions prepare the mares. Two of them. Gabriel can walk.”
A pause.
“Take her to her chambers. I want her rested. Meet me at the hall come morning. There’s a stop we must make before returning to Synnex.”
The words faded. And then, I was weightless. No. I was being carried.
Malachi.
His arms curled beneath me, solid and steady. My head lolled against his chest, cheek pressed to the warm space just beneath his collarbone. I didn’t have the strength to hold myself, but I didn’t want to move anyway.
He smelled of cedar and rain and something darker beneath it all, something familiar. The rhythm of his footsteps echoed through the corridors. All I could do was listen.
The light in the hall flickered above us—torches blurred into amber smears across my vision. I watched the way the shadows lengthened on the stone. Watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
My fingers twitched. I curled toward him, cheek smushed against his chest.
I liked the feeling of being held like this.
I had no sense of time anymore. Only his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath my cheek. I could fall asleep like this. I could disappear. And part of me almost wanted to.
I felt…
Safe.
He pushed open the door to my room and hesitated at the bed, ready to lay me down.
But I stirred. “I need…” My voice cracked. “A bath.”
He looked down at me, surprised. “The Keepers have gone to sleep. You can bathe in the morning.”
“No.” I barely whispered it. “You do it.”
His brows drew together. “You’ll drown like this.”
“Then get in with me.”
A long breath. He looked at the dirt on my legs, the dried blood flaking against my collarbone. And then he sighed.
“Fine.”
I watched him through half-lidded eyes as he moved to the basin in the corner, began drawing water and adding oils I couldn’t name. Steam rose in curls, fragrant with wildflower and clove. The scent drifted toward me, comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
He returned to my side, his movements careful.
He didn’t undress me completely—only enough to keep me decent. He removed his jacket, then his shirt.
I saw the muscles beneath, the faint play of light across the hard lines of his torso.
The shadow at his hips dipped lower, vanishing beneath the band of his trousers.
My vision blurred at the edges, but that much I noticed.
More than noticed. Heat flushed unbidden across my cheeks, though no words would come.
My lips parted once, closed again. The silence said enough.
He stepped into the water first, testing the warmth. Then he returned and lifted me again, pressing me to his chest as he stepped down into the basin, letting the water wrap around us both.
The bathwater was warm against my back, steam curling around us. I lay reclined against him, my head nestled against his chest. His arms cradled me carefully.
“Just be still,” he murmured.
As if I could move.
My limbs were waterlogged, disconnected from will. But I could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek, steady and strong, and the rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took.
He reached up, brushing his fingers through the damp curls near my temple. Carefully, he began unweaving the delicate pendants and braids still tangled in my hair. One by one, the strands fell slow and heavy down my back, pooling like ink around my shoulders.
I watched it happen. Watched as each piece of the girl I had been fell away.
His fingers moved through my hair again, massaging soap into the strands, gentle but thorough. Then he turned me to face him.
I straddled his lap, the warm water rising between us. My arms lay limp at my sides, but his hand rose to cup the back of my head, supporting its weight. With the other, he dipped a cloth into the bath and began to wash my face, eyes never leaving mine.
He wiped along my jaw, then down my throat, tracing the scar’s jagged edge. The cloth swept over my collarbone, where dried blood had crusted like rust, then continued lower—following the path of the scar between my breasts, where it had dripped and dried like a falling star.
He looked down. Just once.
His breath caught. And in the next moment, I felt him harden beneath me.
He shifted immediately, angling his hips back, setting more space between us even as I stayed in his lap. He cursed under his breath and spun me gently around, so my back pressed to his chest again instead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, low and rough.
He tried to move further away from where our bodies met, but the motion only made things worse. A small, involuntary sound escaped my throat—more breath than voice.
At the sound, his hands tightened around my waist.
“Alright,” he said after a long breath. “You’re clean.”
And with that, he stood, lifting me from the bath. He kept me pressed to his chest, water trailing down both our bodies. The towel he used to dry me was soft, but his hands avoided every inch they could—rushing where they might linger, gentling where they might shake.
When I was mostly dry, he stepped back just enough to lift a clean sleeping gown over my head. He held it open while I leaned forward, letting the wet shift fall away unnoticed. I kept my eyes closed through it all.
Once dressed, he carried me back to the bed and laid me gently down, tugging the furs over my body with more care than he likely intended to show.
He hovered for a moment. Adjusted the wet strands of hair across my pillow.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Don’t ever ask me to do that again.” His voice was quiet. No anger. Just restraint so tight it frayed.
He stepped back, already retreating into shadow. “I need to find Santiago. Try to sleep.”
And then he was gone.
The chamber dimmed.
And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, I sank into sleep without dreams.