Aven
I've spent three days not looking directly at the spirit in the corner which sounds impossible, considering she's the coldest thing in the shop and I'm the only one who can see the shape of her pain clearly enough to be useless about it.
But avoidance is a skill. The Seminary taught me prayer, shame, and how to stare through the dead until my eyes watered.
I can dust around a haunting. I can restock mourning stationery beside a woman-shaped absence and pretend the air isn't thinning around her every hour.
This morning, pretending stops working. She’s kneeling near the Victorian cards with both translucent hands at her throat. Yesterday, she still had a face if I looked sideways. Today, she's mostly charcoal blur and pressure, vibrating so hard the glass display case beside her has filmed with frost.
Soren comes up beside me without making a joke.
That's how bad it is. Ira turns from the ward by the door, already looking at the cold corner, and Cain steps in behind me, hands settling at my hips only after I lean back enough to ask without words.
The room narrows around the thing I've been trying not to see.
"She's worse," Soren says.
"Yeah." The joke waiting behind my teeth doesn't make it out. "I noticed."
"Normal spirits have texture," he says. "Purpose. Habit. Something that belongs to them. Even when they're confused, the confusion is theirs."
I look at the woman-shaped blur near the mourning cards. Her hands stay locked at her throat, fingers clawing at something I can't see yet. "And this?"
"This is pressure," Soren says. "Something's holding her in place or pulling from the other end. I need you to look close enough to tell which."
Cain's thumbs press once against my hips, steady enough to remind me where my body ends before I look too closely at hers.
I focus, letting the blur of the shop fade until the woman in the corner becomes the only thing in high definition. I see her now. She's kneeling, translucent hands clawing at her own throat. Then I see it. Cain’s hands keep the static down but hey don’t stop me from looking where I choose to look.
The chain.
It isn't iron or steel. It's a gossamer line of golden light, pulsing with a rhythm that feels sickeningly familiar. It's the same hue as the incense at the Seminary, the same glow that used to emanate from the high altar during the Feast of the Martyrs.
"That light," I whisper. "I know that light."
The chain isn't metaphorical. It's a tether, a parasitic link draining her essence and sending it somewhere else. Every time she flickers, something travels up that line, thinning her further before vanishing into the ceiling.
"Gathered divinity," Soren says, and the words come out scraped raw. "That's what the old text called it. Binding what should have moved on and making it useful."
Ira shifts, his boots creaking on the floorboards.
I can feel the surge of his exorcist magic, a wall of static energy that reinforces the room, keeping the external world out so I can work within it.
Cain's grip on my hips tightens, his thumbs tracing slow pressure into my bones. His blood magic settles heavier around me, muting the rest of the dead so this one thread doesn’t drag me under.
"Only look at the link," Cain says softly. "Stay with my hands. Don't follow it anywhere else."
"That sounds like advice from a man who's never met my self-preservation instincts."
"Precisely."
I reach out.
My fingers tremble as they pass through the cold, wet air of her manifestation. I find the golden wire. The moment my skin brushes the light, the world breaks open.
It isn't just a vision. It's an immersion.
I'm her. I'm dying in a sterile hospital room, and there's a man in a black collar standing over me, promising peace while he wraps a prayer around my wrists.
I feel the moment of binding: the snap of the lock, the cold realization that the light I was promised has teeth.
I feel the long thinning after, the ache of being pulled smaller and smaller until my name frays at the edges.
I scream, or maybe she does. The sound is a jagged glass shard in my throat.
I grab the chain with both hands, whatever the church calls celestial surging through my blood, a white-hot fire that tries to burn through the golden lie.
I feel the link groan. I feel the tether fray under the weight of my fury.
But the backlash is a physical blow. The magic isn't just a lock.
It's a trap. The moment I damage the chain, everything it's taken from her tries to rush through the break, using me as the easiest open door.
My knees hit the floor. The shop spins, rows of dried herbs and jars of salt blurring into a kaleidoscope of gray and gold.
I've broken a link, but I haven't freed her. The woman is no longer vibrating. She's weeping, a sound like dry leaves skittering over pavement. The chain is jagged now, glowing a bruised purple, but it's still there.
And I'm empty.
I can feel the essence draining out of me, poured into the vacuum I just created. My vision tunnels. The last thing I feel is Ira's massive hands catching me before my head hits the mahogany, and Cain's voice, no longer smooth, but ragged with a fear I've never heard before.
"He's cold," Cain says. "Ira, he's going gray."
"Upstairs," Ira says, voice a bark of command. "Now. We aren't letting him slip."
Movement reaches me in pieces after that. Ira’s arm under my shoulders. Cain’s voice somewhere near my ear, too sharp to be calm. Soren’s magic flickering against my skin and then pulling back before it can become another open door.
The shop tilts away. Stairs pass under us in heavy, uneven rhythm. My head rolls against Ira’s shoulder, and I catch the scent of ward-metal, cedar, lavender, and the cold iron edge of Cain’s panic. I try to help by staying conscious, but my body has become heavy in a way that feels borrowed.
They put me on the bed. The mattress dips under the weight of all of us, and for one second the ceiling swims above me like another surface I might fall through.
I try to make a joke, something about saving the dead apparently requiring better core strength, but all that comes out is a wet, rattling breath.
My hands are shaking so hard I can't even curl them into fists.
"Don't," Soren says. He's hovering over me, face pale, green eyes wide with a frantic, stuttering light. "Don't you dare try to be funny right now, Aven. You almost let that thing hollow you out."
"Terrible bedside manner," I rasp.
His mouth twists like he wants to snap back and can't make his face obey.
Ira sits at the head of the bed, his large hands framing my face. His thumbs stroke over my cheekbones, grounding me with terrifying focus. "You're open," he says. "Too open. If we leave that space empty, something else will find it."
Cain slides in behind me, a long, lean presence that fits against my spine.
He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His skin is cool, but his energy is a furnace.
Soren kneels in front of me, one hand hovering over my sternum like he's afraid touching me too quickly will make me vanish.
Ira's gaze locks on mine. "Look at me. You answer. If you want this, you say it. If you don't, we stop and find another way."
My breath stutters. The hollow place inside me echoes with the shape of the spirit's pain, cold and hungry and wrong. But Ira's hands are on my face, Cain's arm is around my waist, and Soren's magic flickers warm against my skin, waiting instead of taking.
"Yes," I whisper.
Ira keeps one hand at my jaw until my eyes focus on his, while Cain stays behind me, arm locked around my waist, and Soren reaches for the hem of my shirt only after I manage to nod.
The fabric peels away slowly. Soren’s hands are careful as he pulls my shirt up and over my head, his fingers brushing my ribs on the way down.
Cain’s arm stays tight around my waist, holding me steady against his chest. Ira doesn’t look away from my face.
His thumb strokes once across my bottom lip, grounding me.
“Stay right here,” Ira says, low and steady. “With us. If anything feels wrong, you say it. We stop. Understand?”
I swallow. My voice comes out rough. “I understand.”
He nods once, then leans in and kisses me.
It’s deep and controlled, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s reminding me how to stay in my body.
Behind me, Cain’s mouth finds the side of my neck, warm and deliberate.
Soren’s hands move down my chest, palms hot as they map over my skin.
They undress me together—Soren tugging my jeans down my legs while Cain keeps me upright, his free hand sliding along my hip.
I’m naked between them before I fully register the cool air on my skin.
Ira’s hand stays at the back of my neck as he guides me onto my back. Cain moves with me, settling behind so my spine is pressed to his chest. His arm stays locked around my waist. Soren shifts to my side, one hand already trailing down my stomach.
Ira settles between my legs. He doesn’t rush. He runs his palms up the inside of my thighs, spreading me open, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Look at me,” he says. “Breathe. Feel my hands.”
His fingers wrap around my cock, stroking once, slow and firm.
The friction sends a jolt straight through me.
I’m already half-hard from the way they’ve been touching me, and the first real stroke makes my hips twitch.
Soren leans in at the same time, his mouth finding mine again.
His kiss is warmer, messier, his tongue sliding against mine while Ira keeps stroking me in that same deliberate rhythm.
Behind me, Cain’s hand moves lower. He palms my balls, rolling them gently in his fingers while his mouth stays at my neck. The three of them are touching me at once—different pressures, different temperatures—and the hollow, drained feeling in my chest starts to ease under the weight of it.
Ira doesn’t stop stroking me as he reaches for the small bottle on the nightstand. He coats his fingers in the slick herbal oil and presses one against my entrance. He holds there, letting me feel the steady pressure.
“Push back when you’re ready,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s heat underneath it. “Take what you need.”
I do. I bear down slowly, and he slides the first finger inside.
The stretch burns at first, then settles into something heavier.
He works me open with the same focused patience he uses on everything else—slow, steady, one finger becoming two when my body starts to yield.
Every time I tighten around him, he waits, his other hand still stroking my cock in long, even pulls.
Soren’s mouth moves down to my chest, tongue circling one nipple before he sucks on it gently.
Cain’s arm tightens around my waist, and I can feel the low, steady pulse of his blood magic feeding into me through the contact—cool and anchoring, not overwhelming.
Ira adds more oil and works a third finger in. The stretch is deeper now. My breath catches, and Ira’s hand on my cock slows to almost nothing, just holding me while I adjust.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. You’re doing so well.”
He crooks his fingers, pressing against that spot inside me, and a broken sound slips out of my throat. Soren swallows it with another kiss. Cain’s free hand slides down to join Ira’s, his fingers brushing where Ira is working me open, adding pressure without pushing in.
When Ira finally pulls his fingers free, I feel empty for a second—open and aching. He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against me. He doesn’t push in right away. He waits until I meet his eyes again.
“Still want this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He sinks into me slowly. The stretch is intense—Ira is big, and he doesn’t rush it.
Inch by inch, he fills me, his hips pressing forward until he’s buried deep.
My body clamps down around him instinctively, and a low groan rumbles out of his chest. Behind me, Cain’s arm tightens, holding me steady.
Soren’s hand returns to my cock, stroking me in time with the slow, deep roll of Ira’s hips.
Ira sets a steady rhythm—deep, controlled thrusts that grind against that spot inside me with every movement.
He keeps one hand braced beside my head and the other on my hip, guiding me.
Cain moves with us, his body rocking against my back in time with Ira’s thrusts.
His cock is hard against the curve of my ass, but he doesn’t push for more.
He just holds me, his mouth at my neck, feeding that steady warmth into me through the bond.
Soren leans over me, kissing me again while his hand works my cock faster.
The three of them move together—different rhythms, different pressures—but all of it focused on me.
The hollow, drained feeling inside me is filling fast. Not with words.
With heat. With pressure. With the solid weight of their bodies and the way the bond pulses warm and steady between us.
Ira’s thrusts deepen when I start pushing back against him. He groans, low and rough. “There you are. Take it. You can take it.”
Soren’s hand on my cock tightens, twisting on the upstroke. Cain’s mouth finds the sensitive place behind my ear, and I feel his fangs graze the skin—not biting, just there. The pleasure builds thick and heavy, spreading through my limbs until I’m shaking between them.
I come apart with all three of them holding me in place, my body clenching around Ira while the bond floods with warmth.
When I finally come back to reality, I'm tucked into the center of the bed with all three of them around me, pinned by heat and weight and the kind of care I don't have enough energy to mock properly.
Ira's hand is still resting on the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the base of my skull.
Cain is behind me, his chin hooked over my shoulder, his breath finally evening out.
Soren is curled against my chest, fingers still linked with mine, his reddish-orange hair tickling my chin.
I should be embarrassed. I should have a sarcastic comment ready about how this is a very unconventional way to handle medical first aid. But the humor won't come. I'm too full, too quiet, too here.
"She's still there," Soren says softly, his voice muffled by my skin. "The woman in the corner. But she's not weeping anymore. She's just... waiting."
I close my eyes, feeling the steady, heavy beat of Ira's heart against my back. "Next time, we finish it. I'm going to break that chain for good."
"Next time, we plan better," Ira says, voice low and protective. "I'm not letting you act as a lightning rod for anything again without a shield."
"Next time," Cain murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, "you don't do it alone. You're the center, Aven. But you're not the only one holding the weight."