20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter twenty
M y eyes are gritty when I arrive in the concierge room. After yesterday, and last night, I barely slept at all. River’s whispered comment as he left about not worrying about Nix’s views on Quillian didn’t help either.
The board tells me Paulana is still sick today so, with no prisoner allocations myself yet, and no meetings scheduled with Quillian, I take her shift instead – cleaning the concierge rooms. It’s not glamorous by any means and, at one point in my time here, I swore I’d never clean another room again. But it also provides a perfect opportunity to be on my own and somewhere I won’t accidentally run into Nix or Quillian. Or River – that man knows too much.
Today, I almost feel exceptionally grateful to do it. Just yesterday, I wanted off the island so badly. Now, when faced with the reality that Nix and River might not escape Vana because of my decision not to tell Cortane, I’d happily clean these rooms every day for the rest of my life if it meant they didn’t get transferred to the worst place in the world. While we don’t ever engage with the Vanan Hunters, we have seen the small group of workers stationed there on duty like us on occasion. And the only thing they have to be grateful for is that their roles don’t always explicitly involve torture – unless some are that way inclined already.
One woman I met told me the sound of screaming doesn’t ever leave her – not while she eats or bathes or is supposed to be off shift or sleeping. Never. Just a constant stream of strangled noise in her head. Though I all but dismissed what I thought was an exaggeration of their duty at the time, now that I know what the people I’ve waited on day and night during my duty on this side are capable of, I’m not so sure. I’m not certain I’d be strong enough to survive a day in that place. Definitely not if I had to watch Nix and River in there, too. But won’t it be worse if I am sent back to the mainland and have no idea what happens to them?
Collecting the brass trolley, I make my way to the concierge wing. Working from the furthest end of the hallway, I move through each of the rooms. All the concierges know this is cleaning day and so most personal effects are put away and tucked out of sight for ease of cleaning. But it’s still, mostly, fairly easy for me to work out who belongs where, if I didn’t already know. Like how Emeris never fails to leave a vest hanging over the back of his couch; and Shiloh has medical textbooks on her coffee table. Not all of the rooms are in use but I give them a once over anyway so they’re ready.
Finding my rhythm quickly, I spend the day cleaning bathrooms and turning down beds. Mopping floors and tidying kitchens. It’s not work I particularly enjoy but there is a certain satisfaction in seeing the spotless rooms.
The last empty room has two bedrooms and I check over the second bedroom first. Glancing out the window, the sun has gone down and I know I should have finished some time ago. But this is the last stop so I might as well finish it. I smooth the covers and fluff the pillows before deciding it’s done and crossing the living room for the other bedroom.
The door opens and I let out a little squeal.
Quillian kicks the door shut with his heel as he spins to look at me, one fluid movement.
Fuck.
Our gaze locks, his as dark green as the forest we were in not so long ago. The thickness of the air shifts, pressing against me, the little hairs on my arms standing on end. He takes a step towards me, almost involuntarily, and his face darkens as he seems to realise our proximity. My skin prickles in response to the look on his face.
But I don’t move away.
I should, I didn’t choose to like him. Even if his bewitching eyes stalk my dreams and my mind constantly snags on the feel of his hands on my stomach as he stitched me up, the way he caressed my fingers last night … how it felt for him to lift my chin like he was going to properly kiss me. He’s a complication I don’t need. One that is clearly unsettling Nix as well. Not to mention the unspoken ‘goodbye’ in Quillian’s kiss on my cheek last night. Or the fact that I blew the best way off the island for Nix and River for him. Chose him over Claudius’s wishes for me.
Through the shock on Quillian’s face, I can see the warmth that’s in it whenever he looks at me. So different to the hardness he shows the prisoners.
I should definitely move away. But how do I do that when I can physically feel his presence in the room like a current dragging me closer? When he’s able to draw a smile from my lips in times I would never expect? When, despite the things happening around us, he seems to focus on me so intently? Seems to want to make sure I’m okay? Even when he’s kissing my cheek.
‘I didn’t know you were checking the rooms,’ I manage to say.
‘I’m not,’ he says quietly, frowning. ‘I’m … staying here.’
My gaze flies to his face but there’s no joking there and I cover my mouth.
‘Oh … shit,’ I mumble through my fingers. ‘I had no idea. I was—Paulana was— is sick. I was—I’ll go.’
I make to walk past him, but he doesn’t move. He raises his chin a little, looking down at me, hesitant but assessing. We’re less than a hand span apart and I can almost feel the beating of his chest against mine. The pulse in his neck hammers hard, his dark-brown skin flickering in that spot where it beats in and out of the light, and on the other side, his sparkling tattoo runs along the side of his neck and disappears into his shirt.
My fingers twist a little in my dress as a sharp image of my fingers chasing the ink flashes in my mind.
Following where it leads.
Can’t take off his Warden hat just yet, he’d said last night. He’s your boss, Luka, I tell myself. This isn’t a good idea.
‘I really should go,’ I make myself say, but I blush at the lack of conviction in my tone, it’s breathlessness.
He nods shallowly. ‘You should.’
Still, neither of us move.
I blink and he wraps his arm around my middle, palm on my lower back, pressing me into him. A cold rush of air tears down my throat as I gasp into the mouth that’s now kissing me like I’ve never been kissed before. Even before my arms finish their journey around his tattooed neck, I know this is a kiss I’ll never forget.
One I’ve waited for.
His lips are hot, his tongue is hotter as it finds mine and runs along my teeth. Large hands rove my back and pull me tighter, tighter; his callouses catching slightly in the delicate fabric of my dress. The hair between my fingers as I run them up the back of his head is short and surprisingly soft.
Something near my heart expands and catches alight, and I groan as I focus on the feel of his muscled form pressed along my front. I lean further into him, as if we could become one right here, and he sinks his teeth into my bottom lip. I trail my hands down his back. The shape of him is smooth and defined and, at least through his shirt, there is no indication of where his wings begin.
Stumbling back towards the kitchen as I try to make for the couch, I drag on the front of his shirt and he follows me step for step. The need to take as much as I can before we have to stop, consuming me. Finding my path to the couch blocked by the kitchen bench, I unhook my arms from his neck briefly to lift myself onto it instead and he grips my hips, helping me there. Running his hands up my legs he grapples with my dress and shoves it up towards my waist.
I pant there for a moment, looking at him, his face slightly flushed with desire. A moment’s pause passes between us. As if we’re both waiting for the other to put a stop to this rush of blood.
Reaching for his pants instead of the door, I let my heating body decide for me. Using the heels I have now wrapped around the back of his legs, I pull him closer again.
‘Are you …’ he asks in a hoarse whisper.
I nod into the neck I’m kissing, his clean shaven skin soft on my lips. I bite him there, hard. He moans.
‘In the tipples,’ I murmur against him.
He exhales loudly before pulling my face back to his and taking my mouth once more. The need he’s driving through my limbs and core blurs my vision and I let my head fall back, pushing the tops of my breasts into his waiting mouth as he leans down to meet them.
Another gasp escapes my throat as he frees my breasts from my dress, tugging the fabric down, and takes my nipples, in turn, into his mouth. I reach between my legs and guide him to me. Lifting my head, he looks at me one last time, eyes sparking. Another opportunity to say no – one I don’t take – and then he yanks my underwear sideways, driving himself completely into me. Pressing my fingertips into the cold stone bench top behind me, I brace myself.
Quillian’s movements are hard and fast, forcing all thought from my mind, and I tilt my hips up to meet his rhythm. Sweat beads on his forehead, and I suck on his tongue as a moan escapes him.
The building in my core starts much faster than I’ve experienced before and soon I can’t help but call out as the feeling becomes too much, letting it consume me. Quillian drags his teeth over my neck as I tremble in his grip, head dropped back and chest heaving.
He thrusts into me again and again before he presses so deep, spilling himself into me, I think I might go over the edge so hard I’ll never come back. His hands are tight on my hips where he holds me in place, before his head comes to rest on my shoulder, breathing hard down the front of my chest.
We stay like that for long moments, me raking my fingers in his short hair; his hands winding around my waist and holding us together.
I watch the dark, starry sky across his small living room and out the doors to the balcony, understanding, with a slow acceptance, that I don’t feel like I should be anywhere else. Right now, I don’t even want to be off the island if it means I’m without Quillian. And it’s that understanding that shocks me the most.
But I know it’s just for now – the post-fuck glow.
I think.
Slowly, Quillian eases himself from me, lifting his head from where it fell, and clearing his throat. He does up his pants without looking at me, and my chest tightens a little.
What did I just do? With my boss ? The one who can’t stop ‘Wardening’. The one who might need to give me access to the portal in the Warden’s residence, even if he’s not staying there.
I slide off the bench, also not meeting his gaze, and replace the folds of fabric properly over my legs. The act of placing my breasts back in the front of my dress brings a rush of heat to my cheeks as it really starts to sink in what we’ve done.
Moving away from the kitchen, away from Quillian and his broad, brooding form and towards the door, I clear my throat.
He remains silent.
‘Now, I really should go,’ I say quietly.
He reaches out, quicker than I can react, and takes my hand. Looking back to him, it’s there. On his face. The warmth and the vulnerability he shows to me. The wanting kindness that dances across his face. And it bathes my soul, my heart rate quickening again.
‘Please,’ he whispers. ‘Not yet.’
He watches me carefully as he says it, as if fully expecting me to say no. I can tell by the sag of his shoulders and the cracking appearing in his eyes.
Silently, I link my fingers in his as a tightening in my chest takes hold, and let him lead me to the other bedroom – his bedroom. It’s the same layout as mine but his bed linens are darker, a richer representation of the midnight blue of a sunset. He hasn’t made it today – maybe he never does – and I glance up at him. At the intimacy of bringing me into this space that’s dominated by the smell of him.
He pulls me close again. I don’t object when he cups my face and kisses me again, slowly, deeply, and passionately enough my body starts to beg for another turn of him. Gently, he lifts my dress, this time taking it all the way over my waist, and I lift my arms for him to remove it entirely. His forest-coloured stare drinks me in as I slip my underwear off, letting them fall down my legs, and stand naked before him, his pants tightening as he watches. His face shows promises I’m now pretty sure he knows how to keep.
We’re more leisurely this time, more exploratory, the thickness of the air having shifted again into something more vulnerable. Warmer, rather than scorching hot. Removing his uniform from him, I trail my fingers along every edge and muscle and scar I can see. The tattoo I’ve been so mesmerised by still holds much of my attention. Its shimmering lines and curves drop onto his chest where they explode in a rush of colours that blow out across the top of his stomach and wrap around his ribs on the other side.
I feel it all and I don’t miss the jagged, scarred skin under the tattoo. But how much of it there is, or what all the words say, is harder to tell in the dark.
He lowers us into the bed and lifts me onto his hips where I rock to the rhythm he sets, his hands holding me on either side of my waist. His palms snake up my front, massaging my breasts as we come together. I lean forward a little and one of his hands comes higher, running up the side of my neck and taking my face again, slipping a thumb into my mouth. Running my tongue around it, he moans softly before finding my gaze again and we watch each other’s undoing.
I lie on his chest for a moment afterwards, trying to digest why my own feels like it’s grown three sizes in the time I’ve been here. And trying to find my resolve to finally leave this apartment where my senses seem to fail me. Or at least run amok in their own desires.
But as I roll off and land beside him, readying to get up, his arm wraps around my waist once more and tucks me in against him, my back to his chest as a deep slow breath leaves him. A contented one. I still. All intention of going back to my own room evaporating as if it never existed.
It’s darker than normal when I begin to wake, but the chatter of birdsong tells me it’s morning. Quillian’s arm is still around my waist and I don’t dare to move. Opening my eyes, it’s immediately clear why it’s dark.
I’m cocooned in a storm-grey wing, the feathers creating a cave around my head and shoulder.
I can’t feel them against me, the edge must rest against the bed cover that’s in place at my waist. Tentatively, I reach out to where the wing descends to the mattress in front of my face and run a single finger down one of the darkest feathers. My breath catches in my throat as I let more fingers trail the softness. Fully aware they could slice my skin whenever he chooses. Or flinches.
I allow myself to stretch slightly, my fingers still roaming, and I can feel his desire growing behind me. But he doesn’t move and his breathing doesn’t change from the sleeping tempo it was a moment ago. Before I traced his wing.
Then he shifts, stifling a waking groan, and leisurely kisses my bare shoulder.
I turn to face him, our bodies still flush against each other, and he blinks slowly at me. I watch as his sleepy, open face crashes with shadow. His green eyes, now worried and … almost sad, run over my face.
‘Oh, Luka,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I—’
The sound is loud, harsher that I can bear, and I hold a hand up to stop those words, as if not hearing them will make it easier. As if it’s no less painful to see them written on his face. As if they didn’t create a fissure as soon as he uttered them. As if it’s not screamingly clear I’m not wanted here.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, still unable to move. The words are completely inadequate for the sense of singed falling that’s currently swamping my system. Like I’m suddenly made of burning leaves. And nothing about the look on his face, and those words, while I lie skin to skin with him is fine.
‘Fuck,’ he says, as a rush of air chases his wing back into his skin, leaving me even more exposed. ‘I shouldn’t have—’
He gets out of the bed as I sit up slowly, clutching the midnight blue cover to my chest. Hating the compression that starts there, the way the back of my throat starts to feel like its aflame. Scrambling for his clothes, he heads to the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again without looking at me and leaving his own room. A moment later, I hear the apartment door shut, too.
I stare at the spot he occupied. It’s numbness I expect to feel, one that slowly creeps through my limbs. And it comes. Just not fast enough to drown out the sting on my cheeks that blooms as if I’ve been slapped, the beginning of tears clouding my vision.
My chest constricts further in its vice as I throw my legs over the side of the bed and gather my dress. The tears retreat, the warmth I’d felt only a handful of heartbeats earlier being replaced by something else.
I close the door to his apartment behind me quietly, checking there are no other concierges around. My heart sinks a fraction at the knowledge I will never set foot in that room again, will never do that with him again.
But I ignore that foolish emotion and don’t look back as I walk away.