Chapter 7
Seven
When I finally get to my door, I have trouble with the lock for a second. My hands are shaking. Probably adrenaline. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t stopped moving or thinking or fighting since this morning. Or yesterday. I can’t even remember. When was the last time I slept?
Inside, the room is exactly as I left it. But everything feels so different now, like time has been divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’. I drop the food on my desk, shed my hoodie, and just stand there for a minute, in silence, before I realize my hands still haven’t stopped trembling.
I can still feel Helena’s blade at my throat.
I need to take a shower. I need to get clean. I need to feel like myself, or at least a human being, for five minutes.
My clothes are chucked in the direction of the corner of the room, but the state of my floor is the least of my problems. I walk to the bathroom and then stand there for a second, staring at my reflection in the mirror above the sink.
I look like hell. There’s dried blood on my cheek, and the mark on my arm is an angry red.
My eyes are barely half-open, with dark shadows under them.
The water takes a few seconds to warm up, but once it does, I turn the tap all the way hot and step in.
Steam fills the room instantly, fogging the mirror as the water scalds my skin.
I stand under the spray, letting it hit my shoulders, my back, my face.
I scrub until my skin is red and raw, until I can’t feel the day anymore.
I wash my hair twice, then just stand there, eyes closed, listening to the water rush down on me.
I try not to think, but of course that’s impossible.
My brain replays everything. Helena’s hand in my hair, the knife at my throat, the look on Jasmine’s face as she snapped her sister’s neck like it was nothing.
Soren’s voice, Lucien’s hands, the way Drake glitched in and out like he was dying in front of me.
I want to scream, but I don’t. I just keep standing there, letting the water wash it all away.
Eventually, reluctantly, I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and walk back into my room. I dig through my drawers for the oversized t-shirt I arrived at the academy wearing, soft and worn and a reminder of my life before all of this. I pull it over my head and collapse onto the bed.
The room is quiet except for the wind outside rattling the window. I turn off the lights, crawl under the covers, and try to will myself to sleep.
No luck.
I toss and turn. I check the time. Count sheep. Nothing works. My body is exhausted, but my brain refuses to shut down. I miss Hank, though I’m glad he’s not here right now. But eventually sleep sneaks up on me.
I dream of Jasmine.
She’s standing at the foot of my bed, silver hair moving around her like snakes, eyes glowing an unnatural yellow. She’s humming the same creepy tune from the Hall earlier. She glides closer, and my body refuses to move, as if I’m paralyzed.
She puts her hand on my chest, right over my heart. I can feel something warm being tugged out of me, and it pours upward in a twisting column of light, like the sea being sucked into a tornado. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
Jasmine leans in, her mouth at my ear. She speaks, but in the dream I can’t make out what she is saying.
The world spins, and I’m falling.
With a jolt, I wake up, gasping, my heart pounding.
3:00 a.m.
The witching hour.
For a second, I just lie there, trying to get my bearings.
The dream lingers, and my heart is still not under control.
My whole body is tense, like I’m about to be attacked any second.
Then I notice my hands. My fingers are sparking.
Tiny threads of golden light dancing from my skin, lighting up in the dark.
I sit up, staring. I can feel the magic. Not the weak, watered-down drip I’m used to, but a full-on current, just beneath the surface, like someone turned on the tap.
Ash. He must have loosened the grip on my magic. Maybe Helena’s actions and Jasmine’s arrival broke his focus, or maybe he’s finally letting me have some slack on my leash. Either way, it’s more power than I’ve felt in months.
I’m so caught up in staring at my hands that I almost miss the familiar, cold-tinged sensation that means I’m not alone.
Drake.
He’s in the room with me. I can’t see him, but I know he’s here. I can feel his presence, like a cold breeze through an open window.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
I just lift the blanket, slide over, and make room for him in the bed. The invitation is clear.
There’s a shimmer at the edge of the mattress, and then Drake is there, more solid than he has been able to be. Maybe the surge in my magic is helping him anchor himself.
He doesn’t hesitate. He slips in next to me, wearing clothes from a century ago, but they vanish as he slides under the covers, and suddenly it’s just skin, his against mine, nothing between us but my thin t-shirt and a hundred things we’re not saying.
For a second, we just look at each other.
He reaches out, brushes his fingers over my cheek, gently. I lean into his touch, needing it more than I can tell him.
Then I pull him in, kissing him hard.
He responds swiftly, mouth hungry and a little rough, like he’s afraid this will be our last chance.
His hands slide under my shirt, skimming up my thighs, over my hips, until he finds my breasts.
He cups them, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I shiver, so happy I can actually feel him, every inch of him.
Every part of my body is awake, alive, on fire with magic and need.
Drake breaks the kiss for a second. “Rose. Are you okay? After what happened—”
I kiss him again, shutting him up. “Later,” I whisper. “I don’t want to talk. Please.”
His hands are everywhere now, roaming over my skin, finding every curve. He moves slowly at first, like he’s afraid to hurt me, but when I dig my nails into his back, he groans and deepens the kiss, pressing me back into the mattress.
I arch against him, wanting more, wanting to drown out everything else. For the first time since last night, I’m not thinking about Jasmine or Helena or my cursed fate. I’m not thinking at all.
I’m just feeling.
Drake’s mouth traces down my neck, teeth nipping lightly at my skin. His hands push my shirt up, exposing the softness of my stomach, then my breasts. He pauses, hand splayed over my heart, grounding me. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m not leaving you.”
I believe him.
He slides down, lips finding my nipple, sucking gently. My back curves, pushing my breasts towards him instinctively. I gasp, grabbing his hair, needing him closer.
Drake’s hands are steady, sure. For once, there’s no glitch, no fade, and he feels real, solid, like he belongs here. With me.
He kisses his way lower. My thighs are already parted, and when he skims his lips just above where I want him, I gasp, bucking up to meet his mouth.
He lingers, tasting me slowly at first, then building. My hands play in his soft hair, and for a second I feel like the exact opposite of the girl who spent all night being powerless.
I want this. I want him. I want to feel anything except fear and dread and the aftertaste of trauma.
He glances up at me, blue eyes almost clear.
Then he goes harder, more insistent, and it’s overstimulating, but I ride it, letting my hips meet his mouth.
The magic surging in me makes it all brighter, and I can feel the orgasm building inside me, winding tighter and tighter, begging to be released.
When he finally slides between my legs, I cry out. I’m wet, aching, desperate for him.
He strokes me, slow and carefully, and I lose myself in the sensation. In him.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”
He doesn’t.
We move together, breathless and urgent. There’s nothing else—no witches, no covens, no damned fate. Just us.
When I come, it’s like a dam breaking. Magic surges through me, lighting up the room for a split second. Drake groans, holding me tight, as if I’m the one who might float away.
We lie there after, and he strokes my hair, murmurs my name, over and over.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think.
I just want to stay here, safe, with him.
And I’m not going to think about the fact that he might not be here when I wake up. He’s here.
At least for now.