Chapter Thirty #3
For a heartbeat, I can't think. Can’t breathe. This is dangerous. I know it. I fucking know it. I should be stronger than this.
There’s still smoke in my lungs, still a painful ache in my chest—hollow and raw. The only people I ever gave a damn about, my home, gone. I shouldn’t want this. Not after everything that just happened. Not now. Not with him.
But everything’s burnt, destroyed. And with it, whatever grip I had left on my body, my self-control, the distance I’ve kept, the rules I swore by? Every wall I built to keep him out? Gone too.
All that’s left, what's underneath, is just mine. Ugly. Honest and clawing its way out.
His forehead is still resting against mine, and every time he breathes, I feel it—like his exhale is curling straight down my spine. Cedar, sweat and the kind of danger you never walk away from.
For a breath, my gaze flicks back and forth across his, like I’m hunting for a reason I shouldn’t do this, but all I find is the same wrecked want staring right back.
A tremor runs through me, tension coiling so fast my thighs clench instinctively. He’s hardly touching me, and it’s still too much. Still not enough.
This would be a mistake, a very stupid mistake. I wouldn’t just be crossing a line—I’d be letting the enemy in with open arms.
But right now?
Right now, I don't fucking care. A fierce, pounding thrum drives under my ribs, I’m going to break.
All I want is the heat of him. The weight. The wreckage. I want something to feel like something again. It’s just one moment—mine to take.
My risk.
My choice.
I want him.
“Kiss m—”
I barely get the word out before he drops, devouring my mouth with his. Rough, demanding and fuck, yes, it’s exactly what I’ve been starving for.
Cold stone hits my spine, as he pulls me into him, then drives us back, hard. But his arm’s already locked around me, absorbing the impact as his weight presses in—trapping me, holding me, all at once. Like he can’t stand any space between us either.
There’s no escape. I don’t want one.
Warmth flares at my side as his free hand drags up my body—heat searing through every inch until his palm curves over my throat. Confident. Precise. Just enough pressure to steal my breath before his fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head back, angling me for more.
My lips part wider, greedy—and he takes it without pause. Not tentative. Not teasing. Just deeper, harder, like he’s trying to steal the air from my lungs. Like this kiss is the only thing keeping him alive.
A small sting hits as his teeth catch my bottom lip.
He tugs. This isn’t like before, not the fake kiss.
Not the controlled, calculated thing he used to sell a lie.
This is something else entirely. There’s no space, no hesitation.
Just his touch and breath and mouth, all of it fast, hard, like he’s past the point of thinking.
“Bloom,” he moans against me, his voice breaks and my knees almost buckle.
There’s something in the way he sounds, feels, even smells out here.
Smoke laced with sweetness, it's stronger. Intoxicating. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and nothing I’m allowed to have—and I can’t stop myself, I chase it harder, tongue sliding against his—every movement igniting something deeper, until I’m gasping against him.
And god he answers, pulling me in, kissing me back like he’s just as starving as I am. I could drown in this man; I’ve never come apart like this. Bren’s never had me like this. No one has.
My fingers find his hair, grip tightening like I need it to hold me up. The strands pull under my hand, and then his mouth is gone—dragging lower, across my cheek, down to my throat, finding that spot at the base of my neck where everything sharpens.
A sudden hitch runs through me, stealing my next breath before it comes.
He doesn’t search, doesn’t need to. His lips land right where I’m weakest, and fuck, it’s unfair how fast it shatters me. It’s too tender, too exposed, and every last inch of resistance snaps. Threads spark under my skin, pressure building, begging for him, for more.
I’m his. In this moment, I’m his, and I don’t care what it means. I want this.
A deep ache pulses between my legs, sharpening as his thigh pushes between mine, his weight pinning me harder to the wall, pressure landing exactly where I need it.
And my hips shift instinctively, chasing the heat of him, and the friction that follows sparks low and deep—a red hot ache coiling tight, refusing to let go.
I bite down on his lip, desperate to hold my sound in, but his groan tears straight through me as his hand slides down—gripping hard at my ass, pulling me in tighter.
If this is what a mistake feels like, then fuck, give me more. I never want this to end.
My fingers dig into the fabric over his chest, clutching tight, feeling the hard muscle tense beneath. Then his mouth finds mine again—and every slow, claiming stroke of his tongue unravels something in me I didn’t know I was still holding on to; my pulse stutters, my spine bows.
The stone at my back is cold, but all I feel is him, unnatural heat and the slow grind that steals every ounce of air from my lungs.
And still it’s not enough. I need more, want more. I need to feel him, all of him.
My hands roam, tracing the cut of his chest, solid, burning hot beneath the fabric as I search for an opening. It's freezing out, how is he so warm?
But I don’t care. My fingers keep moving, slipping lower, skimming the edge of his waistband until I find the hem of his shirt. I push up, just enough for my fingers to brush that hollow above his belt, the sculpted line of muscle that disappears beneath it. Strong and unfairly perfect.
The first brush of my fingers against bare skin and everything in him goes still—mouth open against mine, breath spilling, uneven.
For a heartbeat, we’re suspended there, lips parted, sharing air.
His chest heaves, rough and hungry. My knees dip, a faint buckle—like I can’t quite hold myself up—but then his hand closes at the back of my neck, firm, dragging me into him as his tongue slides deeper.
A moan breaks loose before I can stop it. This feels so fucking—
Suddenly, a surge. Lightning under my skin, a pull that isn’t mine.
It crashes outward, wild and consuming, and for one breathless second, I swear I’m unravelling from the inside out.
Talen jerks, chest rises hard against mine. My knees give, and the ground tilts. I stumble, breaking the kiss, gasping, but he catches me instantly, hands firm at my waist.
“Everything okay?” His voice is heavy, rough at the edges like he’s still trying to catch his breath.
I blink up at him, chest still rising too fast, heart still hammering. There’s no pain. No numbness. Just… this strange, floating weightlessness. Like I’ve lost the ground under me, but don’t really care.
“I just feel a little... weak,” I manage, panting hard. “Must be the after effects of the poison.”
It’s nothing. A passing rush. I just want to laugh it off, pull him back in, feel his mouth again, lose myself in that body for just one more second—
But he goes still, his grip tightens on me, just for a second, before he pulls back, enough for the cold to rush in where his body had been, just enough for me to see his face. Something flickers there. Not confusion, not concern, fear.
“What did you say?” His voice tense now.
I brace my hands on the wall behind me, steadying myself. “I said I felt weak…?”
His jaw locks, and for a moment, he’s somewhere else, gone. Then finally, he turns and walks a few steps away, his eyes desperate for anything else but mine.
“This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have—” Voice cracking as he runs both hands through his hair, fingers locking behind his head—arms pulled tight, every muscle straining like stillness is the only thing keeping him from doing something worse. “Fuck, Bloom.”
My chest tightens, just a flicker, but it’s enough. Hearing him say it out loud shouldn’t hit this hard. But it does, and it's so fucking stupid because I know it too. I know what this was, a fleeting moment. A mistake. He warned me.
I’m not myself beyond the Veils. I say things, do things, I don’t mean. Things I’ll regret.
And still, I dove in anyway. Knowing full well I hate him, hate what he represents. It was stupid, reckless.
A twitch at my hand, my Threads stir—quiet, faint, off, and the reality of the situation hits: if the poison hadn’t flared back up… would I have even stopped?
God, Lyra, what's wrong with you?
I don’t even trust him. He’s hiding things, I know it. Did he know tonight was coming? I didn’t even ask. What was I thinking? I let myself forget, what he is, what I am. Let it slide for just long enough to want something I should’ve known better than to touch.
I could blame my emotions, the wreck of a night I’ve had.
But I can’t. Because even knowing who’s standing in front of me… I still want more.
The cold of the wall bleeds through my back. It slows my breath, but not enough, it’s still deep, still heavy.
In front of me, Talen drops his hands from his head but still doesn’t turn my way.
He takes a deep inhale, then: “Tell Ezzy I’ll be waiting at the outpost.” He shifts slightly, like there’s more on the edge of his tongue, but nothing comes.
Then he turns and disappears down the hill without looking back.
And I’m alone.
For a moment, I can only pull in air, shaky and uneven, the aftershock of him still thundering through me.
It's quiet. The only sound is the distant crackle of fire, still feeding on the remains of Ashvale.
What just happened?
Not just the kiss. All of it. The fire, the poison, the screaming. How can so much shift in a single day? A single second?
This afternoon, I was home, safe. I’d made it. And now?
I'm choosing, choosing, to walk back into the very place I swore to burn down. And Bren, god, what does this even mean?
I just stand there, dragging in air, or trying to, because all at once—it’s too loud in my head.
And underneath it, just faint, there’s something else. A wrongness. Quiet, but there. Like the poison has hollowed me out. My Threads feel... thin. Like they’ve been wrung dry. Used up.
I stay there, leaning against the old chapel, unable to move, looking out over Ashvale—what’s left of it—as the frantic rhythm inside me unwinds, beat by beat.
Then a few minutes later, footsteps crunch over loose stone. Ezzy and Bren crest the ridge—Ezzy in front, a heavy iron cooking pot cradled in her arms, steam curling over the rim.
“We got the water!” she shouts, breathless and triumphant. Then her pale brow furrows, eyes darting past me. “Wait, where’s Talen?”
“He—he had to go.” I say too fast. “He said he’d meet you at the outpost. It’s okay, the pain’s gone, we found... another way.”
“Oh, okay, so you’re... okay?” she replies.
Bren lingers a step behind her, face tight, eyes locked on mine.
“Yeah,” I manage, swallowing the shake in my voice and forcing a smile. “A little wobbly, but I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
My stomach twists. A low, curling nausea that wasn’t there a second ago. She didn’t see us, and even if she had, it wouldn’t matter—Ezzy still thinks this thing with Talen is real.
But Bren....
His eyes flick once to my lips. They don’t linger, don’t need to. Flushed cheeks, swollen mouth. He’s seen me like this too many times.
“Guess I was right,” he says, gaze moving back to mine, “it was never fake.”
His voice barely carries, but it lands like a crack through stone. No edge to it. No shift in his stance. Just his eyes, wide open, soft, glassy.
Beside him, Ezzy—pot still in hand—glances between us, brow creased, as the word fake hangs in the air. Shit. Does she know? Did she hear that?
But I don’t have time to explain, to smooth it over—lungs won’t even work around the guilt tightening in my throat. I drop my gaze, jaw locked. I can’t look at Bren—I already know what I’ll see.
So I turn instead, breath catching as the cold night breeze scrapes down my raw throat.
The smoke of Ashvale still hangs thick with it, but something else seeps through—the smell of regret.
Like something I wasn’t supposed to touch and I realise the weight on my shoulders isn’t mine, it’s Talen’s jacket.
The breeze kicks up, biting at my fingers, so I shove them into the pockets for warmth—and hit something.
Small. Smooth. I pull my hand free with two small glass vials.
One is full of a clear liquid. The other is empty, a label peeling at its edge.
Tilting the empty one toward the firelight below, I squint until the letters snap into place.
My stomach drops.
What the—
Snare Urchin.