Chapter 11 #2
His nostrils flare. He makes another sound, softer this time, and then he catches my mouth like he hates himself for it, kissing me hard, all heat and anger and something that feels dangerously close to surrender.
Fucking fuck, his mouth feels good against mine.
The medical band on his wrist is flashing frantic red now, throwing bursts of light across the wet tile and the curve of his throat. It's fascinating.
What does it do to him when I push him this far?
The question flickers through my head, but not long enough to matter. Not with the way Rowan has curved into my hold, his chin tucked against my collarbone, his face tipped up so I can kiss him exactly how I want to, his cock jerking against my hand every time I tighten my grip.
If anything, I'll jerk him faster, loving the way the water shifts around us in soft, restless waves. Rowan is shaking now, breath breaking against my lips, body rocking helplessly against me even while his hands clutch at my shoulders like he still wants to fight.
"That's it," I murmur against his mouth. "So good for me. So easy to ruin."
He makes a strangled sound and tries to turn his face, but I catch his jaw and kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth while I keep him pinned where I want him.
"You feel so good," I whisper. "Fuck, baby. I want more of you."
Then he breaks with a sound that is wrecked and furious and humiliatingly helpless all at once, and I feel it in the way he arches into me, in the way his grip turns desperate, in the way he can't stop shaking even after it's over.
I work him through it, gripping his rigid length and stroking him relentlessly, chasing his erratic breathing until his hips slam forward into my hand. A thick rope of hot cum shoots across my knuckles, painting my palm in white streaks as he groans against my throat.
"Fuck you," Rowan gasps.
I give him one final kiss. "Filthy little mouse," I murmur against his mouth, smiling when his green eyes widen, still glassy and dazed. "I'm already thinking about next time."
Then I drag my tongue across my knuckles, licking them clean.
Fuck, he tastes perfect, like salt and heat and something unmistakably his.
And all fucking mine.
The moment my tongue slides across my knuckles, Rowan goes completely still.
For one shocked second, he just stares at me. Then his whole face changes. "Get off me," he gasps.
"You're welcome." Grinning, I finally let him shove at my chest.
I don't give a single fuck about the attitude, not after what just happened. I got to watch the exact moment he lost the fight, lips trembling, eyes gone glassy, his whole body giving itself away no matter what came out of his mouth.
And no one else has ever had that privilege.
"This is—it's disgusting."
Rowan stares at me like he wants to kill me before scrambling for the ladder and hauling himself out of the pool, movements jerky and frantic as he grabs for his towel with shaking hands.
"Oh, don't worry about the pool," I call after him, still smiling. "I'll have it cleaned."
He freezes like he can't believe I said that out loud.
Then he disappears through the locker room door.
Idon't expect anything to happen this late, especially after the pool and the way Rowan looked Exton before he bolted. Now I'm heading back through the halls, water drying on my skin, when my multi-slate bubbles in my pocket. I almost ignore it. Almost.
It's one of Dad's guards, informing me that Rowan's left his dorm by himself.
Really? At this fucking hour?
I shove my boots on and cut for the nearest exit. "Where is he now?"
"East wing," the guard says, a beat of static under his voice. "He just passed the lower hall. Looks like he's heading for the side gate."
"You sure?"
"I've got eyes on him. He's moving fast."
I hit the corridor at a run and catch sight of him halfway down the hall, moving fast enough that it's obvious this isn't some restless walk to clear his head. He's wearing a dark coat instead of his uniform jacket, a satchel slung over one shoulder, his whole posture tight with purpose.
Ten minutes ago, he practically ran from the pool. Now he's sneaking off campus in the middle of the night. He's going somewhere, and wherever it is, he doesn't want anyone to see.
I watch Rowan disappear through the side gate, heading down the path toward the lower-city tram line, and something in me sharpens.
Where the hell are you going, little mouse? What the fuck are you hiding?
He's slipping out alone like this, still chasing something after the pool, after looking rattled enough to run.
I cut through the east stairwell instead and head for the service arch before Rowan can get too far ahead.
The air outside hits colder than it should after the humidity of the natatorium, damp enough to cling to my skin as I step out under the open night.
Caervast looks different after dark, less like a school and more like something built to keep its secrets.
The paths are still lit in clean white strips set into the stone, but farther on the light changes, old iron lamps burning amber beside sleek security nodes.
Glass transit lines curve overhead, carrying steady traffic, while arches throw long shadows across the walkways and silent shuttles glide above.
Rowan doesn't slow. His dark coat catches the wind as he heads for the tram platform, moving with that same tight, purposeful stride, and the sight of him pushing deeper into the city at this hour sends something mean and restless through me.
Because Rowan Ashford has exactly two talents when it comes to danger: he notices it, then walks straight toward it alone.
By the time I reach the lower tram, the city is already changing.
The market noise thins first, the cleaner academy finish dropping away block by block until what's left is the older part of Sero, where the streets run narrow and slick with earlier rain and the buildings press close enough to cut the light between them.
Down here, all the polished Caervast bullshit gives way to what was already here—old stone, rusting ironwork, and money that knows how to hide the rot.
I can't help the small smirk that pulls at my mouth. We built half of it.
I catch sight of Rowan two blocks ahead and keep my distance, letting the evening crowd hide me.
He doesn't move like he's turned around.
He checks the folded slip under a flickering streetlamp, glances up at a worn corner marker carved into the stone, then keeps going without hesitation, cutting deeper into the district.
That lands wrong in my chest fast enough to feel instinctive.
He knows where he's going. Whatever pulled him down here matters more to him than the fact that he's walking alone through one of the most dangerous parts of the city at night.
Halvern wants him visible. Dad wants to know why. Watching Rowan disappear deeper into the old city, I'm starting to think the answer isn't sitting inside the academy at all.
The cleaner storefronts fall away fast. Neon signs buzz too dim to be respectable. A pawn broker with a dead holo display. A back-room card den behind smoked glass. A chapel wall gone black with age, its saints half eroded under graffiti and rain.
This is the kind of district that survives by keeping its mouth shut.
Rowan looks out of place here. Too careful.
Too clean. Too visibly alone. His dark coat is plain enough to pass at a distance, but up close he still carries the academy on him in all the ways that matter.
The cut of his clothes. The satchel slung tight to his side.
The way he holds himself like he knows he shouldn't be here and came anyway.
A woman leaning in the doorway of a red-lit club catches sight of him and straightens, one heel sliding against wet stone. She says something low as he passes, her mouth curving when he startles just enough to give himself away. Rowan doesn't answer. He just walks faster.
Of course he does.
That alone would be enough to piss me off. But what really gets under my skin is the way he keeps moving, deeper in, past the last stretch of bars anyone respectable would still call open, toward the darker end of the club district where the music goes muffled and the streetlights thin out.
He's being watched, and not just by me.
No, as it turns out, I'm not the only one tracking him.
I catch it in pieces once I know where to look. A shape shifting behind the smoked glass of a shuttered shop. Movement in an upstairs window that disappears too fast. A man at the far corner pretending to light a cigarette while Rowan passes, but not once looking at the flame.
Rowan doesn't see any of it. Or he sees enough to know he should turn around and keeps going anyway.
Fuck that.
I click on my multi-slate and type fast.
you close
Lucan replies almost instantly.
Black Chapel. Why?
i'm going to need the bike. like, now
The typing bubble appears. Stops. Appears again.
What the fuck did you do???
i'll tell you later
I cut across the street toward the edge of the club strip, slipping between a pair of drunk tourists and a delivery cart humming low over wet stone. The Black Chapel spills music and violet light into the lane when I reach it, bass thudding under my ribs.
Lucan is already outside, one hand on the handlebars of his hoverbike, looking deeply offended on principle. "You look like you're about to commit a felony."
"Helmet."
He blinks, then follows my line of sight past me toward the darker stretch of street. Whatever he sees there wipes the grin off his face.
"Oh." He glances past me again, then shoves the spare helmet into my hand. "Yeah, okay, I get it. Questions later."
"Tell Rafe I took yours."
He snorts. "Absolutely fucking not."
I swing onto the bike before he finishes the sentence and let the grav-field catch with a low electric hum, lifting clean under me as I cut out of the lane and head back toward the dark end of the district.