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“I shouldn’t have come here,” he says. Cold. Detached. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
I flinch. It’s not just rejection. It’s a condemnation. Like what just happened—what we just were—meant nothing. Like I’m some reckless child who opened the wrong door, touched something I shouldn’t have.
I don’t speak again.
I can’t.
Because if I open my mouth now, I’ll scream. Or sob. Or beg.
And I won’t give him that.
So I turn my back on him, barely managing to stay upright on shaking legs as the water continues to pour down. Too hot. Too loud. The burn of it almost masking the tear sliding down my cheek.
I hear the door unlock.
Then open.
Then close.
Gone. He’s gone. I let out a breath, one hand bracing against the tile, and I lower myself to the floor. Slowly. Carefully. Because my knees won’t stop shaking and my chest won’t stop aching.
I sit under the stream of water, legs drawn up, arms around them, chin on my knees.
And then I break.
Not in a dramatic, gasping way.
Quietly. Like a crack that’s been spiderwebbing for too long. Tears mix with the shower, but I feel every one. Each one carved from something deeper than desire. Because this wasn’t just sex.
Not to me.
It felt like something else. Something real. And he threw it away like it was nothing. So I cry. I cry for the parts of myself I gave him. And for the pieces he didn’t want.
One second, I’m still curled on the tile floor, water battering down like it wants to drown what’s left of me.
The next, I’m airborne—lifted, cradled like something already broken. Riven’s grip is firm, one arm under my knees, the other braced around my back, and there’s no gentleness in the way he moves. Only certainty. Like he’s done this before—like I’ve shattered in his arms in another life and he’s memorized the angles of gathering me up.
The towel wraps around me. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t hesitate. Just folds the thick fabric over my chest with clinical precision, then carries me out of the steam and stone and memory.
The hall outside the bathing chamber is dim, all obsidian arches and flickering sconces. The walls here are older than the rest of Daemon—unchanged since the original academy was carved from Hollow-blessed rock. Magic seeps from the floor, the kind that pulses low and lazy, ancient and aware. It hums under Riven’s boots like it recognizes him. Like it remembers what he is.
My throat’s raw, lips cracked from salt and silence. My fingers curl against his shoulder, nails grazing the bare skin exposed by his half-buttoned shirt. He doesn’t react. Just keeps walking, each step a decree.
His room is on the eastern side, tucked behind one of the warped towers that doesn’t quite obey the laws of geometry anymore. The entrance is carved in a way that shouldn’t exist—like the stone was convinced to part for him, then never quite remembered how to seal again.
He kicks the door open.
Inside, it’s cold. Always. The hearth isn’t lit. The walls are lined with weapons and maps and books written in languages older than language. The bed is massive, draped in dark gray andcharcoal sheets that smell like iron and storm. He sets me down on it like I weigh nothing.
Then he steps back.
Only a pace.
But enough that I feel it.
The towel slips slightly at my shoulder, and I clutch it tighter—not out of modesty. Just… grounding. I keep my eyes on the bedding, not on him. If I look at him, I might fall apart again. And I’m already sick of being the girl who breaks.
He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t push. Just waits.