Chapter 38
“The touch of love is tender yet fierce, capable of healing wounds unseen.”
- The Old Book
Rowan stiffened the moment my lips touched his, tension radiating from every line of his body.
For a breathless second, he didn’t move—then something shifted.
His muscles relaxed beneath my hands, and he exhaled slowly, surrendering to the kiss with a quiet intensity that stole the breath from my lungs.
His hands came up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing softly across my cheeks. The warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, anchoring me in the moment. I dissolved into it, savoring every heartbeat, every inhale, every second that passed like a slow burn.
Then his hands slipped to my waist, grounding me, exploring.
Heat surged through me, sharp and dizzying.
My pulse pounded wildly beneath my skin.
I pressed in closer, arms winding around his neck, needing to feel every solid inch of him, needing to remember what it was like to want something that wasn’t about survival.
And then—he pulled away.
Abruptly. Sharply. Like the air had grown too thin.
His breathing was ragged—his eyes unreadable. Desire still lingered there, but something colder moved behind it: restraint.
“We should stop,” he murmured, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper.
I opened my mouth, ready to protest. But the look on his face stopped me. He wasn’t just retreating—he was fortifying. Bricking himself behind the invisible wall he so often lived behind. Whatever freedom he’d allowed himself in those brief seconds was now being sealed away again.
I bit back the sting of rejection and nodded silently, trying to slow the thunder in my chest.
Rowan moved to the door, opening it with quiet precision.
I followed, knees unsteady, cheeks flushed and burning with unshed emotions.
As we stepped into the hallway, he placed a gentle hand on the small of my back.
The contact was brief, but it steadied me, soothed some of the unraveling inside me.
I leaned into his touch, savoring the closeness that felt so new yet undeniably right.
We rounded a corner just as two Veilers appeared from the opposite direction.
Rowan gave them a brief nod—professional, unreadable.
The Veilers’ eyes flicked to me, then back to Rowan, their expressions indecipherable but undoubtedly curious.
I forced my features into neutrality, but my face burned.
I had just shared the most electric kiss of my life and now had to pretend it meant nothing.
To them, Rowan was a commanding officer.
To me… I wasn’t sure yet. But I knew my sentiments toward him had changed. He was no longer just another Veiler—cold and detached. He had a name, and that name made me to feel things I never thought possible.
When we reached the door to my quarters, Rowan paused. For a moment, we just stood there, the silence heavy between us.
Then he leaned in, brushing his lips gently against my cheek. “Good night, Mavis,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath lingering on my skin.
“Good night,” I replied, my voice small, and a little dazed.
I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. My body sagged against it. My fingers drifted to the spot where his mouth had touched, my lips still tingling from his kiss.
I couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt light. Giddy. Unsettled, but not in the way fear unsettles—it was the way something new stirred. My chest fluttered with a sensation I’d only heard about in stories. Butterflies. And gods, they were riotous.
I crossed the room and flopped onto my bed, my chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. I pressed my hand against it, trying to calm the strange ache there.
It was probably just nerves. That had to be it. Rowan had my emotions in an uproar.
But somewhere in the quiet, beneath the buzz of my thoughts, a different question whispered through me: What if I had never left Oak Hollow?
I knew my chances of going home were slim, but it wasn’t something I had given up on. I mourned the girl I was and the life I could have had. My thoughts briefly flickered to Kaven. I wondered how he was, if he had moved on. I hoped he had.
All I was certain of was that kissing Rowan hadn’t been about games or survival. It also hadn’t been like kissing Kaven—about forgetting and comfort.
It had been about desire. About choosing to feel something good, just for myself. Perhaps part of the lure was its forbidden nature, or the mysterious air that Rowan had about him, but the main reason was simple: he made me feel free.
It was an absurd thought considering he was my captor, yet I had truly never felt so free in my life. Free to be angry, laugh, and cry. Free to be open about my darkness.
A small cough interrupted my thoughts. I turned and spotted Talia, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a paintbrush in one hand, her face wearing the most knowing smile I’d ever seen.
“Oh, gods, how long have you been here?” I asked, startled.
She giggled and gave a dramatic shrug, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in the room.”
Talia waved it off, unbothered.
I walked closer, watching as she dipped her brush into yellow paint and continued working on the dresser drawers.
“What are you painting?”
“Flowers,” she said simply. “It’s almost springtime at home. I miss the flowers.”
I watched her strokes—steady, delicate, and precise. Despite everything, she still found beauty in the world.
“They’re beautiful, Talia,” I whispered.
She looked up at me, and for the first time in days, I saw a small but genuine light in her eyes.
“Thanks,” she said softly. Then, after a beat, she added, “You look happy.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Instead, I watched her work, the image of yellow blossoms blooming across cracked wood reminding me that life could grow in strange places—even in this one.
Even here.
Even in me.
“I am.”