Chapter Forty-Three #3
The bath’s deep, and the warm water curls around my bones like it’s trying to stitch me back together from the inside out. A sound slips from my throat before I can stop it—half sigh, half groan.
God. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this. Nessi owned a bath once. I remember being a kid, going to her place, she’d let me use it sometimes. But it was basically a bucket with kettle water that cooled too fast and had to be reheated every five minutes.
This is... hell, I can’t even explain it.
I slide down until only my head breaks the surface, like I could disappear without actually leaving. Then I sink lower, letting the water close over my ears. The world dulls—all that's left is the slow, heavy thud of my pulse and the quiet truth that I killed someone today.
Not by accident. I chose it. An Outerlander. Like me.
My fingers curl against the edge of the basin, nails scraping stone. The uniform lies in a heap on the floor next to me, heavy with sweat and dust and some blood that isn’t mine.
It happened fast, one strike, one decision. Clean. Cleaner than it should’ve been. I thought I’d feel something more, but I don’t. Not guilt. Not regret. Just… weight. Somewhere low in my stomach.
He would’ve killed that cadet, I keep telling myself. He has killed people like them, like me. That should be enough. And maybe it is. But I still keep hearing his voice in the back of my head.
You wear their colours now.
I came here for answers. For leverage. For revenge. And now? Now I look like them. I train like them. And today, for the first time, I acted like one of them. I don’t know what that makes me.
I sink deeper, let the water close over my face, let it muffle everything. As if I can drown the thoughts out. As if I can wash them off.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Long enough for the heat to fade, for the steam to thin and the surface to cool. By the time I climb out, the water’s gone lukewarm and my skin’s starting to prickle with cold.
I dry off, then grab one of the white robes hanging on the wall, soft and thick. I’ve never felt this clean before. At least on the outside. Inside… I couldn’t scrub deep enough if I tried.
I draw the curtain back—And stop short.
Talen’s stripped down to the waist, his back to me, the black scales tattooed along his spine shifting with every movement, muscles flexing as he twists to look into the mirror above the dresser.
He’s holding a cloth, trying—and failing—to reach the graze just above his hip.
The one from the knife I threw at him earlier.
It's dark outside now, the room lit by candlelight, too dim to see clearly, plus the angle’s awkward. His shoulder blades bunch as he reaches again, jaw tight, breath hissing between his teeth.
“Let me help, Veirmont,” I say, shaking my head.
He turns, eyes flicking toward me, surprised, like he forgot I was even still here.
He mutters something under his breath, shifts his stance, tries again. No luck.
“Just call me Talen. And... fine.” He exhales. “I’m trying to clean it, but I can’t reach.”
I take the cloth from his hand. His fingers brush mine, and our eyes meet, for half a second, before he turns and braces his hands on the dresser, giving me his full back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks as I dab the cloth over the graze on his side.
It’s shallow. Barely more than a scratch. Probably doesn’t hurt at all. But his body is locked stiff, shoulders tight like he’s expecting something worse.
He asks me again, voice quieter this time, but I still don’t answer. Just keep cleaning. I know he can see my face in the mirror. But I pretend he can’t.
“Look,” he says, quiet but direct, “you don’t have to talk about it. Not yet. What you just did and what happened with Beth... no one’s ready to talk about it right after. Pretending you are? Forcing yourself to, that just makes it worse later.”
The muscles across his back rise under my touch as he takes a breath, then he turns to face me.
“The silence?” He continues, barely a step away from me now.
“That’s your mind keeping you upright. It’s normal.
When you’re ready—when it starts to itch under your skin—you talk.
Or you don’t. You write. You draw. You smash something.
But you let it move. You let it out. Somehow, or it will eat at you from the inside. ”
My fingers tighten slightly on the cloth. I don’t speak, just drop my gaze, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, his hand lifts gently, fingers brushing my chin as he tilts my head up, just enough to make sure I’m looking at him when he says it.
“I just want you to know I’ve been where you are. And bottling it up?” He offers me a small smile. Not pity. Just… understanding. “That’s normal too. It just shouldn’t be permanent. Okay?”
Warm fingers rest under my chin, holding me there. His gaze is steady, and for a second, the air stretches tight between us—too quiet, too full. Like if either of us breathed wrong, something might break.
But I nod, once.
He lingers for a heartbeat longer, then lets go and shifts back.
“Is that why you draw?” I ask, voice low.
“Sometimes.” Something flickers behind his eyes—faint, but there.
“More often than I’d like... but look, let’s talk about something else.
” He leans back against the dresser, casual on the surface, but there’s still a line of tension in his jaw.
“I know how much you love asking questions,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“So go on. Distract yourself, ask away. But strictly things about me.”
I guess he doesn’t have any other answers for me yet. But fine, I’ll take the distraction.
“You can call fire?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t know you had Fire Threads. Even if you do, how did you do it? There was nothing burning. No heat. So how the hell did you call a flame when there wasn’t any around?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me, then his eyes darken, just a fraction. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Bloom.”
“Well, whose fault is that….”
He pauses, gaze steady. Then lifts one hand.
The flames in the room respond instantly. Candlelight flickers, then rushes toward him, pulled like breath. It coils into his palm—bright and blinding—folding into his fingers until his hand closes tight.
Darkness slams into the room. Complete, sudden and I freeze, unable to see a thing.
“Most people.” He says, voice low, close, “Can only draw from existing fire; use what's around them. I’ve learned to capture it, create it.”
I can’t see him but I can feel his breath just in front of me. Warm. Steady. Then something brushes my leg in the darkness—his, maybe—but neither of us moves. The air between us crackles, charged.
Then he opens his hand, and the fire spills free. Light rushes back into the room all at once, soft at first—then brighter, blooming across the candles as they flare back to life.
The shift hits fast enough that my eyes sting and when I look back at him, he’s already watching me, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face, but underneath, there’s still tension there.
“Fire isn’t a thing,” he adds. “It’s a reaction. You just need the right ingredients: air and a spark, fuel. Most people are missing fuel. I’ve just learned how to be the fuel.” A beat, “you could too. I could teach you.”
“I’ve never been great with fire, not since my mum died. And now, after Ashvale…” My fingers twitch. I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. My fire Threads have always been dormant anyway.”
One hand flexes at his side, half-reaching. Then it drops back, curled into a fist.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t give you answers yet. About Ashvale. About everything.” A beat. He shifts, jaw tight, air coming thin like he’s biting something back. “But I promise, you’ll get them. Soon. Sooner than you think.”
His eyes catch mine, hazel and gold catching in the candlelight. For a second he holds, but then, slow, unmistakable, his gaze dips to my mouth.
He says he wants my trust, but only after he’s taken my body. So what is this, then? He said I was the one playing games, but he's just as bad, and I'm too tired for this tonight.
“Are you giving me answers because you want to, or because you just want to sleep with me again?”
His head snaps up, too fast.
“You think that’s all I want from you?”
The words come out rough, uneven. He drags a hand across his jaw, muscles flexing hard like he’s trying to anchor himself in the motion.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s the least of what I want.”
Then he looks at me. Really looks. His eyes search mine, slow and intent—like he’s weighing something heavy in the back of his mind. His throat works. Once, twice. Then, softer—raw like skin peeled back—
“Lyra,” he says, “I want the parts you never let anyone touch. The part that’s still shaking from when you were seven in that fire.
The part that gets angry when your Threads lock up.
The part that hesitates on the ledge every time.
I want the part that still carries around that fucking duck even though you haven’t needed it in months.
” He drags a hand through his hair, chest rising uneven now.
“I’m not looking for something I can fuck and forget. I want it. I want all of it.”
My whole body stills, chest pulls tight. Silence stretches between us, long and taut. Because I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.
He’s usually so composed, controlled to the point of arrogance.
But out here, now, he isn’t being cocky.
Or charming. He’s just... standing there, stupidly open and unbearably honest. The last time I saw him like this, unravelling at the edges, was at Bren’s house.
And now it’s happening again. It’s like when he’s beyond the Veils; he’s distracted.
He slips, makes mistakes. Like whatever mask he wears in the Innerlands can’t hold past the Ravine.
I want to say something, that I want that too, that I’m done playing games, but when I reach for his hand, he pulls it back.
“All I wanted was your trust.” He continues, the fight gone from his voice now.
“But wanting it doesn’t mean I should have it.
Because the fucked-up thing is—you’re right.
You’re right not to trust me. No matter how much I want you to, how much I want to make you, I can’t.
You shouldn’t. Hell… I don’t even trust myself.
” He exhales, sharp and uneven, like he hates the next part.
My fingers twitch at my side, itching to reach for him.
“I’m not saying I don’t want the soft stuff, Lyra.
I do. I just know how it ends—for me, for anyone close enough to matter.
The things I’ve done, the things I’ll still have to do… they don’t leave room for it.”
He says it like it’s already decided. Like there’s no path forward, just a closed door with his hand on the lock.
But two months ago, after Beth, I had a choice.
Would I run? Or would I stay and fight to become someone better?
Someone who did the harder things. Who let herself be vulnerable.
Who told the truth, even when it cost more.
I could turn away. Pretend I don’t feel what I feel. That would be easy. Safe. My heart’s a drumbeat in my ribs, too loud, too fast. But I don’t back down. I step in closer.
“I don’t need all the answers tonight,” I say quietly. “I just need you.”
His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop.
“If you were going to betray me, if you were going to hurt me, you’ve had every chance already. I trust you, Talen. I want you. And I’m choosing to give you everything—even if I don’t know what that means yet.”
He looks at me. And god, there’s something in his eyes—like he wants to believe me. Like some broken part of him is clawing for it. But whatever hope might be buried there gets crushed the second he speaks.
“You think you want me now,” he replies, voice rougher, broken.
“But I’m telling you, this only ends two ways.
Men like me don’t get happy endings, Lyra.
We either die young fighting, or live long enough to become the very monster we swore to kill.
” His head shakes and his next words barely make it out.
“And you shouldn’t tie yourself to a man who’s already halfway to both. ”
Well, it's too fucking late for that, I'm in way too deep. I couldn't un-want this, him, even if I tried.
My voice is steady. My hands aren’t.
“Maybe that’s what you believe. Fine. But I don’t. I don’t see a monster when I look at you, even if you’re desperate to make me think otherwise.”
I take a step forward, he shifts back.
“I forced you to kiss me.” He shakes his head again, hands curling into a fist at his side.
“Forced you to date me, knowing full well you hated me...” A breath.
“God, that first kiss... I’d thought about it for so long.
What it would be like. And that wasn’t it.
Forcing you like that.” He swallows hard.
“I wish I could just take it back. Do it all over again.”
I blink.
The day he kissed me in front of everyone after I interfered with Ezzy’s Demonstration. We barely knew each other, still hated each other... And yet he wanted me then?
Silence hums between us, taut as a wire.
I see it in his eyes, war and want, shame tangled with hunger. My heart kicks up hard, climbing into my throat, loud enough I’m sure he can hear it.
But I lift my chin to meet his eyes.
“Do it,” I whisper. “Show me how it was supposed to feel.”
A beat.
“Kiss me like it’s the first time.”