Chapter 8
ROWAN
After the disaster at the pool, I spend the next day practicing the Noctis for hours, forcing Halvern's voice into my head.
Strike, pull, strike, feel.
But it doesn't work. Nothing works. He's here. Ciaran Virel.
His half-naked body dripping wet, his rippling muscles carved in swirling ink.
Black hair plastered to his gorgeous face, those long dark lashes lowering over rich brown eyes before he looks at me again like he already knows exactly what he's doing.
The sharp line of his jaw. That straight, proud nose.
And that mouth.
I shudder at the thought of those lips brushing my ear, skidding down to my throat, to the corner of my mouth. Hot water runs down the back of my head and over my shoulders, and I dip my chin with a groan. My hand's already on my dick.
I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But the shower feels like the only place where I can let go of this pent-up energy.
I'm desperate with the thought of Ciaran. With his voice, his touch. I can still feel the ghost of his lips on my throat, the heat of it making my skin feel too tight.
My hand moves down, my fingers slick with soap and the first thick traces of precum. I wrap my palm around the length of my cock and groan, the sound dimmed in the roar of the spray.
It's humiliating. The way I'm standing here, shaking, getting off to the memory of a man who knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And it's not even only his touch. It's the way my body went still when he wanted it to. The way those long, deft fingers closed around my throat that first night and somehow made the world stop spinning long enough for me to breathe again.
Rocking my hips into my fist, I squeeze my eyes shut.
You were staring. The words echo through my head in his voice. Caught you.
Heat floods my face.
I can practically hear him saying it again, looking down at me with that infuriating amusement like he already knows exactly how badly he's gotten to me.
I hiss as the friction catches, my grip tightening. He seems to thrive on getting under my skin, and I hate that some part of me wants him to keep going.
I drop my free hand lower, fumbling through the hot water. I must be losing my mind. I have too much to lose, and still here I am under the water, toes curling against the tiles, thinking about him anyway.
I'm pathetic; I know that. But I can't seem to stop, my breath coming in jagged bursts. I think of the messages on my multi-slate, the ones I haven't answered but have read a hundred times until the words feel burned into my brain.
i liked the way your freckles lit up when i touched you
I wanted to type something back, something mouthy, something that sounded like I had a spine, but my thumb just hovered over the glass. He's playing with me. Moving pieces around a board where I don't even know the rules.
My head falls back against the wet tile, water running over my face as I picture him behind me, his inked arm stretched across my stomach, holding me down like I belong under the weight of him.
“Ciaran,” I rasp, desperate.
The name tears out of me, and I'm rocking harder before I even realize I've sped up, chasing the image of that knowing look in his eyes, hearing those messages in that gravel-edged voice, while I feel my body betray me all over again.
I'm a mess. And worse, I think, I'm lying to myself. Because if I really wanted him gone, I wouldn't have just whispered his name.
The tension snaps, and I shudder as my back arches off the wall. A broken sound tears from my throat before my knees give out, leaving me slumped against the tile.
I stay there for a long time afterward, my head resting against the wall as I watch the water carry the evidence toward the drain. The heat disappears almost instantly, leaving only a biting cold.
I look down at my hands and feel exposed. Embarrassed in a way that makes my throat burn.
"Rowan?"
I jump at the sound of Damaris. When did he get back?
"Coming!" I scrub a hand over my face, my skin burning even though I'm standing here alone.
I get dressed quickly and press my thumb to the band until the number comes down to something manageable. When I open the bathroom door, the scent of cinnamon hits me, cut through by the sharp smell of yeast.
Damaris is already there in the small kitchen area, eating something wrapped in grease-stained paper. When he sees me come in, his brow furrows. "You're red, boo. You okay? Did you have another spike? You don't look great."
"It was just the shower." I make a show of drying my hair with the towel. "I stayed in there longer than I meant to."
When he smiles at that, I almost tell him.
About the library. About the photo I found on the terminal screen, the one of Halvern standing beside a woman who looked too much like Sola for me to explain away.
Even now, I can still feel the edge of that image under my skin, like I shoved it into my pocket and brought it back with me.
And that half-hidden street sign, still lingering in the back of my mind, the blurred lettering refusing to resolve into anything useful.
But the words stay where they are.
The guilt has been following me around ever since the library. Damaris has shared every theory, every stupid joke, every half-baked plan with me, and here I am keeping things from him.
But I don't know enough yet. I don't know what it means, and dragging him into it before I have something solid feels wrong.
"Scalding, huh?" Damaris grins, holding up the grease-stained paper. "Well, you need the fuel. I found these at a cart near the gates. They're calling them Sero Sunsets. They're basically cinnamon rolls with a death wish."
"Thanks, Dama."
I take a piece and chew slowly, sugar and spice melting on my tongue. It does make me feel better, even if not for the reason he thinks.
Damaris snorts. "They're good, right? But I'm already thinking about how I'd improve them."
I huff. "Of course you are."
"I knew you'd say that." Damaris laughs, leaning against the counter.
"Which is exactly why we're heading out.
Apparently there's a whole district below the hill—the original old city.
And someone told me there's a market on Saturdays that runs until four.
It's cheap, it's crowded, and I bet they have better flour than whatever this place uses. "
"What time is it now?"
He checks his multi-slate and grins. "Three. But it only takes twelve minutes on foot. I already mapped the route. We can see the real Sero, get some proper supplies, and maybe find actual coffee. Not the sludge from the dining hall, but real, bitter, wake-you-up-and-slap-you coffee."
"We can't afford actual coffee."
Damaris waves a hand dismissively. "I've got some credits."
I blink. "Since when?"
"Since mind-your-own-business o'clock."
"Dama."
"Relax. We're not buying a starship. We're buying coffee."
"Okay." I roll my eyes, grab my coat from the back of the chair, and head for the door. "Let's go, then."
The walk into Tolian turns out to be even shorter than the twelve minutes Damaris promised.
One minute we're leaving the academy hill behind, the next we're spilling into the capital proper, the streets opening wide beneath us in pale stone and clean light.
The afternoon is still bright, but the city already feels like it's leaning toward evening, shopfronts glowing warmer by the minute, old lantern fixtures beginning to burn gold against carved facades while hover traffic slips overhead in soft, steady streams.
I barely have time to take any of it in before Damaris makes a strangled sound beside me.
"Good Light." He turns in a slow circle, staring upward. "Ro, do you see that? That building is insane."
"You've said that about six different buildings already," I tell him, fighting a grin. "At this point I'm starting to think you'd fall in love with a particularly well-lit brick."
The city rises around us in polished glass, old stone, and impossible money, the kind of place built by people who expect to be admired for it.
Sleek transit rails hum overhead. Light flickers across tall windows and carved balconies.
Every street looks planned, every storefront filled with things that probably cost more than a month's rent back home.
Damaris looks ready to adopt the entire city, but the more he falls in love with it, the more uneasy I become.
Back in Düren, everything feels more lived-in.
Dust in the air. Heat on your skin. Buildings put up because people need somewhere to live, not because anyone cares what they look like.
Here, everything feels too precise. Too polished.
Like the city was built for people who already know how to move through it without being noticed for the wrong reasons.
Damaris keeps talking as we follow the flow of the afternoon crowd downhill, weaving past people in tailored coats, students in academy colors, and couples drifting between shopfronts with bags in their hands.
"I'm telling you, we should come into the city more often.
" He gestures broadly at everything around us, nearly clipping a passing pedestrian.
"Everything here is better. The food, the clothes, the actual atmosphere.
I am not spending the whole semester trapped behind academy walls eating sad cafeteria noodles. "
"You've been here for four days."
"And I've already made excellent decisions."
I huff. "That's not reassuring."
He bumps my shoulder with his. "Relax. I know where I'm going."
Ten minutes later, after leading us three streets too far and insisting a dead-end alley was a shortcut, he stops abruptly in front of a narrow side street washed in red-gold light.
The whole block shifts there, the polished storefronts thinning out around us, but I barely notice.
"I think we took a wrong turn." Damaris glances down at his multi-slate. "Actually, I think we took several wrong turns."
"Probably." I know this street.