Chapter 12 Oh #2
By the time they had reached her room, the dust slowly settling and crunching under every step, Alina was utterly worked up and wrecked by nerves.
She seemed to have forgotten how to speak, her stomach a tangled knot of anxiety.
At her door, they stopped. A few meters down the corridor, the heap of stones and broken wood spoke of the near-catastrophe that had happened only minutes ago.
They both ignored it. Slowly, Kael turned to her, bracing one hand against the frame.
He was so close, his presence filled the space, making the air seem suddenly too tight for breath.
Oh.
So she was not the only one whose thoughts had strayed back to those heated moments in her room.
That was a relief. But now she was nervous for a whole different reason.
The ball in her stomach turned liquid and oozed down, where it settled as a slow burning fire.
With her back to the closed door she looked up at him, half afraid of what she might find there, half hoping.
He was so near, she could smell his scent—it was like a drug, and she wanted more.
“How are you?” he asked, searching her face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, mhm,” she said, voice a little shaky.
“Do you think, or do you know?” he asked. “That’s an important distinction.” His deep voice flowed over her skin like a caress. A short pause. “I think I need to check.” He leaned a little closer.
Oh, again.
His index finger touched her cheek and traced down her face. “Seems fine,” he said, voice velvety dark, so low it was almost a whisper. His gaze caught hers, gold-flecked and so painfully alive she couldn’t look away. She stared into his eyes as if spellbound, body unnaturally still.
His finger slid down her throat, and still he was holding her gaze.
“Also fine.” He traced her collarbone. “Seems good to me.” Alina exhaled, a shuddering, shaky breath.
He took the one remaining step, slow as sleep, until the heat of his body closed the gap between them.
His chest brushed hers, barely a whisper of contact, and she felt the jolt of it everywhere.
His arm dropped from the door frame and his hands found her arms, holding them with just the right amount of pressure, slowly sliding up to her shoulders and down to her elbows.
It made her feel safe in a way she had never felt before.
“Goodnight, Alina,” he said, the words nearly lost in the hush of the moment.
His gaze wandered slowly from her eyes to her mouth.
She needed him to kiss her, now, or else she feared she would go up in flames and burn to cinders.
The need pulsed through her, sharper than fear, sharper than anything she’d ever known.
Her heart beat so wildly against her chest that he surely had to feel it.
And then he took her face in his hands, and he did kiss her, languidly, dreamily, and very tenderly.
The fire in her belly exploded, her bones dissolving.
His taste was indescribable, intoxicating, addictive.
She never could have imagined a kiss unraveling her so entirely, not in her wildest dreams. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, his body gradually leaning closer and closer until they were both slanted against the door, his weight heavy and solid on her.
Slowly, he ended the kiss and sighed. He pushed himself off of her and smiled.
“Dream of me,” he murmured, before turning down the corridor, a creature of the night in his own graceful way.
Alina stood in her doorway, undone to the core and barely able to breathe, her whole body still vibrating with the afterimage of him. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the wild rhythm beneath, and wondered if she’d ever know peace again.
But even as Kael’s footsteps faded, the heat of him stayed behind, seared into her skin.
She closed the door softly, and for the first time in weeks, did not feel alone.
Morning broke cruel and blue, every shadow a dagger of cold.
Alina wrapped herself in two layers, but it did nothing to blunt the bite as she crept from her sleeping quarters, boots slipping on hoarfrost as she made her way to the clearing where Elara liked to train.
The witch—for she surely was one—had taken over her training from Tamsin.
Why her, and why now? Nobody cared to tell Alina.
She hadn’t asked either, it would have felt small and insecure to do so.
But wasn’t not asking despite wanting to know just because of what the others would think of her the exact definition of insecure?
Why couldn’t she ever stop overthinking everything? She really needed to get a grip.
The world beyond the Caves was silver, lit by a sun that never warmed. The trees around the clearing arched in on themselves, forming a kind of living arena, the ground underfoot still dusted white by a thin layer of snow.
The events of the night felt dreamlike, not entirely real—and yet a solid piece of joy had settled in her chest, making the hardships of the here and now not as important as they had seemed only yesterday.
Alina found Elara waiting, as always, with not a hair out of place, her violet eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.
“You’re late,” Elara said, though Alina was certain she wasn’t.
“I—” she started, but the witch cut her off.
“Excuses are for children. We have work to do.”
The lesson began. If Kael’s instruction had been a hand guiding her steady and Tamsin’s a cold scalpel dissecting away her weaknesses, then Elara’s was a relentless wind, stripping her down to nerve and bone.
There was no warning, no preparatory warm-up; Elara simply started and Alina was expected to keep pace, or be dashed like driftwood against the rocks.
Elara set the tempo with clipped, cool commands, each word like a snap of frost: “Brace.” “Center.” “Channel.”
Alina obeyed—or tried to, at least. Although she had gained muscle and strength since coming here and was no longer the fragile palace flower by any means, the stance Elara forced her into made her legs tremble and her lower back scream.
She was to square her shoulders as if they might bear the weight of the sun, lock her arms in a position calculated to maximize fatigue, and then channel her Gift with a precision she’d never before attempted.
Elara’s hands, when they touched her, were sharp and clinical, correcting her posture with a surgeon’s economy of movement.
There was no coddling, no soft encouragement—only the expectation of immediate, absolute compliance.
Alina’s first failure came before she’d even managed to invoke a spark. She tried to gather her focus, but the effort slipped off her like water on wax. Elara snorted in contempt.
“Again,” Elara said, as if the attempt had been a personal affront. “You’re moving like a puppet with half its strings cut. Do you even remember your own body from last night, or did you leave it behind in your dreams?”
The barb stung, but it was almost a relief.
The routine was clear: Alina would try, she would fail, and Elara would supply a cutting remark to sand down the last layer of her pride.
She could handle that. What she couldn’t handle, and what she hadn’t prepared for, was how much her mind kept slipping away from the lesson, back to the memory of Kael.
The night before had left her brittle and bright.
She could still feel the echo of his hands at her waist, the slow, deliberate possessiveness of his touch.
Her mind had decided to replay the scene with Kael at her door on endless repeat, including the full audio experience and occasionally adding one alternative ending or another.
The press of his body was imprinted on hers and the memory of his breath on her skin made her shiver, goosebumps prickling.
In between stole a memory of their encounter of before the cave-in and her focus slipped again and again.
Every time Elara corrected her stance, it summoned a phantom memory of Kael’s much gentler touch.
The comparison was disarming. Worse, it made her crave the steadiness of Kael’s presence, longing for his easy confidence and the gold-flecked eyes that made her feel like she was the only point of light in the room.
Elara, of course, noticed instantly. “Are you listening?” she snapped when Alina’s gaze drifted from the frozen tree line to a point somewhere inside herself.
“Yes, I—” Alina tried, but Elara rolled her eyes and cut her off.
“Please leave your sexual frustration in your bed. If you want to go on dreaming of Kael, say so. Otherwise, again.”
Elara’s frank words hit like a bucket of ice.
The woman could read her like a book—or could she in fact read her mind?
It was uncanny. After a stunned moment, Alina gathered her attention, ignored her flaming cheeks and repeated the focus gesture.
She drew her hands through the air, as prescribed, trying to reach for the invisible thread of power that supposedly ran through every Gifted.
She could sense it, could just feel the subtle pressure behind her eyes, a migraine aura waiting to detonate, but every time she grasped at it, the sensation eluded her, retreating like a shadow at noon.
By the third repetition, sweat pooled at her temples and her breathing soured, ragged and shallow. Elara didn’t let up, didn’t even blink at the signs of exhaustion. If anything, she seemed invigorated by Alina’s struggle.
“Again,” the witch said, her voice a lash. “Stop thinking. Start doing.”
“I’m trying,” she snapped, and forced her limbs to obey.