Chapter Seventeen #2
His hands find my hips, the grip is firm but not tight, as he pushes an inch of distance between us, more serious now. “I'm not going to kill you, Bloom. I thought I made that very clear.”
“Then why the ongoing threats and death stares?”
“Trust me.” His hands tightens around me. “It's in your best interest if people in here think you’re mine. But then again,” he adds, “maybe I just enjoy watching your thorns come out.”
My elbow jerks back before I think, driven by instinct, not strategy. It slams into his gut, solid muscle meets bone, jarring up my arm.
“That’s more like it,” he huffs, leaning back in, the full weight of him against me now.
I can’t see his face, but I know that crooked grin is sliding right back into place—smug, practised, infuriating.
“Just play your part so we can get this done. You’re not the only one who wants it over fast. I’d rather be stuck in this cell with Strannt than in here touching you like this.” He spits the last few words. Precise. Each syllable carved clean with contempt.
“Don’t worry.” I murmur, fingers curling against the stone. “The feeling’s mutual.”
I have questions, too many. The truce, the envelopes.
The bloody dragon. But right now? Right now I’d rather rip my Threads out of my own arms than spend one more minute in this room, waiting for answers he’s never going to give.
I’m done playing. Done dancing around him, around them. No more questions. No more games.
“Just get this over with,” I hiss. “Don’t want to keep your little audience outside waiting any longer”.
He doesn’t reply. Just lets the quiet drag out, long enough for the pounding in my chest to take over, for the cold press of memory to slide in. The tunnel, my dreams, my nightmares. The ones I wake up sweating and shaking from.
This isn’t that... But it’s close. Too goddamn close.
I swallow, forcing the rising tension down, and press my palms harder to the wall, grounding myself in stone, pressure, pain.
But still, my Threads stir against my skin, twitching with unease, restless, alert, like they’ve already decided something’s coming.
Then he shifts.
Just an inch, maybe less. But I feel it. The weight of him easing back, pulling heat with it. Cold slides in to take its place, greedy and instant.
His hands stay on my hips, heavy, then they move.
Quick at first, efficient, sweeping up the back of my body in one rough motion. He’s not lingering, it’s almost mechanical, practised.
I stay locked, every muscle braced, not giving him anything as his fingers trace the line of my spine, rise over my shoulders, sweep down my arms, and return to my hips.
Then a pause, almost a hesitation. Pressure eases, his grip softens until he’s no longer holding, just resting.
Something shifts in the air, just enough to catch.
A breath, low and controlled, brushing close.
And then his fingers move again, slower now, more delicate.
Knuckles brush skin as they slip beneath the hem of my shirt.
My magic sparks, lungs catch—tight and involuntary—as I brace for the chill of his touch. But it doesn’t come. Instead, his hands are warm, hot against my bare skin.
The air around me thickens, heavy, pressing in, sinking over me, crowding out my thoughts as his hands continue to rise. Inside my shirt—tracing the line of my stomach in an aching, deliberate glide.
His skin against mine, no barrier now. I can feel everything—every rough line of his palm, the ridges of his knuckles, the subtle scrape of callus brushing over the dip of my waist, dragging along the curve of my ribs, muscles tightening on reflex beneath him.
Veirmont, Veirmont, he’s a fucking Veirmont.
A citadel officer. I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tight. His touch shouldn’t affect me like this, I despise him, I should recoil. Spit. Fight.
But still, each tiny movement sends sparks racing hot across my skin, nerves lighting up like a static charge just before the break of a storm.
Behind me, he stays silent. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps moving, gliding higher inch by inch, till he reaches the space just beneath my breasts.
A sudden pulse hits low, curling tight as my threads stir, drawn upward, pulled toward him, towards the heat of his touch.
I grit my teeth.
Get it together, Lyra.
God, he might not want to kill you—but you know what he is, what he stands for.
Don’t forget he snapped a cadet’s neck last week like it was nothing, no flicker of guilt, just cold, perfect execution.
Ignore his Nightrose tricks. Just keep control—of your magic, your body, yourself.
Just get through this. Whatever the hell this is.
Still, the hairs on my arms rise. My chest tightens, my knees almost give as the roughness of his thumb grazes the soft hollow beneath my chest. But I lock my muscles, refuse to flinch, even as everything inside me pulls, desperate to shift. To lean—toward him.
He pauses there, hovering like he’s on the edge of something, like he’s waiting for a signal. A reason, an excuse.
He’s drawing it out...
Part of his sick performance, for Strannt, for Lucien, for whoever the hell is watching from behind that door. Letting them get their little thrill from watching a girl held still and handled.
Pressure blooms fierce as I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Focus. Control. I will not react. I will not give him, them, anythi—
His hands move.
Higher. Slightly.
Just enough for his fingertips to brush the swell of my breast. Just enough for the pounding in my chest to seize, for the tension to snap tight. For my thoughts to twist—hot, dark, wrong.
Just enough for that sick part of me—buried deep, born from my nightmares—to start wanting more. To touch more. Feel more. For him to reach up that little bit further...
There should be anger, there should be fear, but they’re not here. What comes instead is heat, deep and unwelcome, flaring in my stomach, wrong in all the ways that matter.
And before I can even stop it, my spine responds, arching into him.
Something sparks, my knees buckle and behind me, his body goes stiff. Grip tightens, just a fraction. And for one sick second, I think, hope, he might push back.
But then—
His hands drop, fast.
And in one clean, ruthless motion, he pulls away. Cold and final.
Two loud bangs against the door, followed by a click of the lock.
“We’re done here,” he calls, flat, louder than it needs. “She’s clear.”
The door creaks open behind me, but I don't turn. Not yet. Because my face is too flushed, my chest rising too fast, and my whole body aches with betrayal. It settles in the back of my throat, thick and sour. Not just shame, loathing. At him. At me. Mostly me. But I don’t want my back to whoever just walked in.
So I force a breath, steady myself, and turn.
“Fuck Goldie,” Lucien breathes out, looking at Talen, the stone on his rope necklace catching the light as he steps into the room. “I've been shitting myself wondering if you’d made it back.”
Talen’s already across the room—arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes pinned to the far wall like the sight of me turns his stomach. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” he replies, voice clipped.
Only then does Lucien seem to clock me. His gaze drags over my face, then drops, not with concern. Just calculation.
“You should be thanking this guy, just saved your fucking life.” He turns back to Talen. “Putting yourself in front of that dragon, like that...” A scoff. “Especially for an Outerlander. I would’ve just let her burn.”
What? It was him? My head snaps to Talen. He distracted the dragon? Why? That makes no sense.
But he doesn’t move, doesn’t look at me.
My mouth opens—to ask, to demand something—but before I get the chance, Strannt storms in, dragging Ryven by the collar like a prize catch. He looks pleased with himself.
Lucien snaps first. “What do you want, Strannt?”
Strannt barely hears him, his weaselly eyes are already locked on mine, practically gleaming.
“This one,” he says, shaking Ryven by the scruff. “Just told me our little redheaded Outerlander here tried to bolt. Said she ran off just before the dragon hit.” A beat. “And we all know the punishment for abandonment…”
Shit, they know.
A jolt lashes up my spine, fear, this time for real. I don’t know where it’s been, but it’s back. And it’s loud. Cold sweat breaks across my skin, like my body’s only just remembered we’re not safe.
How the fuck am I getting out of—
“You’re mistaken,” Talen cuts in across the cell.
“I was with her the whole time, and I would’ve known if she had tried anything as foolish as that.
” He pushes off the wall, pacing toward Strannt with the kind of slow, surgical precision that makes him flinch.
“So next time you barge in, wasting our time, make sure your facts are straight first.” He stops in front of him.
Glances down at Ryven, one second, maybe less.
“And if he’s caught lying again…” A corner of his lip pulls.
“Next time, he won’t have a tongue to lie with.
” Then he turns to Lucien without missing a beat. “She’s done here. Get her out.”
He doesn't wait for a reply. Just cuts through them both, no eye contact, no pause, just gone. And I stand there, useless, trying to catch up.
He risked himself to call off a dragon. Then lied to Strannt’s face, to Lucien, for me... Why?
The air feels wrong in my lungs, too thick.
My Threads stir, uneasy. I can’t make it add up.
None of it makes sense, but I don’t get the time to process anything, because Strannt shoves Ryven out the door, muttering something under his breath about him being a lying piece of shit, and turns his full attention to me, eyes disapproving, disappointed.