Page 48 of Beasts of Shadows #1

I slip through a half-cracked ward, take the back stairwell two at a time. My head’s spinning, but I tell myself it’s the stairs. Not the memory of Nikolai and Ta?sse.

If I wasn’t so full of want, this wouldn’t even be a problem.

What I need is to be alone right now. Otherwise, I’ll do something really, totally stupid.

The common room’s usually deserted during Bonfire Moon. Everyone’s out hunting or hooking up or hexing their enemies in the moonlight.

Except this time, the door isn’t just open—it’s wide.

And it’s definitely not empty.

At first, I think someone’s dropped a coat on the floor.

Then the coat moves.

No. Not a coat.

Picca.

On her knees.

Geneir’s head is thrown back, one hand braced on the sofa, the other tangled in her braid. His shirt’s half undone. His mouth is parted. She says something I don’t quite catch, but it ends in a low, pleased hum.

I freeze like a kicked cat. Just—limbs lock, brain static, soul gone to lunch.

“Don’t…stop,” Geneir gasps.

I was ready to scream at Nikolai. But this—this is worse. This is real. Gods, why am I still standing here?

My legs won’t move. My brain is short-circuiting.

I finally manage a stutter-step backward, slamming straight into someone solid.

Reema .

Because of course it’s Reema.

“You can’t—,” I begin, only to have Reema peer over my shoulder with a frown.

She makes a noise—somewhere between a gasp and a strangled laugh. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

I don’t even know if they’ve seen us yet. I don’t want to know.

Reema doesn’t say anything.

She just stands there.

Her face is blank—too blank. Like someone wiped the board clean a little too hard and cracked the surface underneath.

She’s not crying. Reema doesn’t cry. But something’s gone flat in her. Like the structure’s still there, but the lights are off.

Her hands hang at her sides, fingers twitching. They don’t know what to do without a book to hold or a spell to cast.

She looks…

Not hurt. Not angry.

Broken .

In that quiet, sinking kind of way. The kind that doesn’t scream or throw things or slam doors. The kind that just… folds inward. Neat and silent, like a letter no one ever opened.

Her mouth parts, like maybe she’s about to say something.

But nothing comes out.

Just air.

As I scramble to get Reema away from the scene of the crime, Geneir glances over.

And immediately blanches, pushing Picca away.

“Reema!” He stumbles into his pants.

Reema’s feet finally work, and she turns away. He tries to follow behind, but I grip his shirt so he can’t go after her. “Reems!”

“You blew it, buck-o.”

On the couch, Picca is languorously drawing the straps of her top back over her shoulders. She gives her hair a little tousle, meeting my eye.

She looks only slightly perturbed, although not nearly as much as she should, given what she’s done.

“Let me through,” Geneir grunts, finishing the buckle on his pants and trying to get around me. There’s guilt in his face. Not just the oh-gods-I-got-caught kind. The kind that knows something good just shattered.

“Give her some space,” I warn, before he can get far. “You messed up.”

Genier shoots a dirty look at Picca, and then at me, before slipping out into the hall to—I assume—follow Reema.

I place my hands on my hips.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” I snap, already on edge because of Nikolai and Ta?sse.

“I wanted him,” Picca purrs, pulling out a mirror and getting to work on fixing her makeup.

I don’t know if this was revenge, or boredom, or just Picca being Picca. But whatever it was, it worked.

I toss my hands, sexually and emotionally frustrated, and knowing I’ll have to track Reema down before Geneir gets to her and mucks this up even more.

Not to mention what might happen if someone else gets their claws into her.

#

Needless to say, I’m not in the best mood when I arrive in the freshmen dorms, hoping that Reema has just gone to Cat.

The sight of Ravi lounging with a book by the fireplace of the common room draws me to a stop.

Gods, this is exactly the look that drew me to him. The broody, artistic bad boy.

I cross my arms over my chest and stroll forward.

He’s dressed like a nineteen-thirties columnist in simple brown brogues, a white-collared shirt rolled up to his elbows, and neat black suspenders, of all things.

Even his shoes are polished. A fine leather messenger bag rests beside the chair.

The tattoo at his wrist is prominently displayed.

Fealltoir . It’s not one of the tats he had as Ravi, and I wonder if it’s new, or something that appeared once he got his god body back.

I feel like a hot mess next to his neatly structured ensemble. Holes riddle my oversized, tie-dye D.A.R.E. tee. Paint stains my jeans from when we re-did Azalea’s room over a year ago. I’ve done nothing with my hair, and it hangs in limp curls just past my shoulder.

On top of all that, I’m still feeling out of it from my aching desire to be with Nikolai (which is still clawing at my belly), and then catching Geneir cheating.

I shuffle in my Jordans, holding my chin defensively.

“Good evening, Mutt.”

He snaps the book closed and grins. The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Figures.

There’s little warmth in those pearly whites. He doesn’t respond. As the seconds tick, I shift with inexplicable paranoia.

His eyes travel slowly down. Then back up, till he finally meets my eyes.

“Well. There’s an epidemic this evening, it seems.” He lies back, draping his arms over the back of the chair. “Tantalus pomegranate.”

“Tantalus pomegranate,” I repeat. “And that would be?”

Ravi’s grin deepens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It rarely does these days.

“Fruit of longing. Named after the cursed king who spent eternity thirsting for water that always receded and hungering for fruit that always pulled just out of reach.”

He lifts a hand and gestures lazily through the firelight. “The juice is psycho-reactive. Binds to desire. Amplifies it. Twists it into hunger.” He pauses, eyes on mine. “Not just for anything. For someone. Whoever your mind already reaches for when you’re weak, tired, or aching.”

I swallow.

“Sexual?” I ask, too dryly.

His smile sharpens. “Profoundly.”

He leans forward, voice lowering just enough to make my skin itch.

“It doesn’t fabricate lust, Nari. It just strips the brakes off. Think of it like kindling thrown onto whatever fire was already burning in your belly.” His gaze lingers, heavy, like he knows. “That craving you can’t shake? The one still clawing at you? That wasn’t the fruit’s fault.”

I fold my arms tighter.

He tilts his head.

“Tantalus pomegranate doesn’t invent anything,” he finishes, soft. “It just reminds you of what you already want. And makes you starve for it.”

He chuckles, but the sound is bitter. Nearing on angry.

“Fate has always hated me,” he muses.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

“You were somewhere else before you came here, weren’t you?”

I don’t answer. How can I? After what he said about Nikolai’s adopted family, and how he reacted to my mark, there’s no way I can confess to wanting him. Even if it’s just for sex.

“I’m looking for Reema,” I say at last, peering around the common room. “She caught Geneir and Picca... You’re not surprised.”

“Should I be?” Ravi counters, twisting the little ribbon book mark. “Picca’s the one who slipped it into your smoothies. Called it an experiment.”

I cross my arms over my chest. While Ravi has always shown an interest in chaos, being complicit in something like this is dark, even for him.

“You let her?” I say, more accusation than question.

“I didn’t let her do anything,” he replies coolly. “I’m not her handler. She asked how the fruit might work for psychological warfare. I didn’t think she’d dose half the freshmen dorms and a dozen spectral creatures for kicks on Bonfire Moon, of all nights.”

For fuck’s sake.

I pace a few steps away, like distance will clear the fog gathering at the edges of my thoughts. My skin still prickles, remembering Nikolai’s name in my mouth. Like it’s mourning the touch I didn’t get.

“You’re really not surprised about Geneir?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s the most surprising revelation of the night,” he says, matter-of-fact. His look is pointed, and I flush. Is this about me going to Nikolai, instead of coming here? “Least of all boys who play at loyalty until they’re offered easier flesh.”

My stomach turns.

I think of Reema’s face after she saw them. The blankness. The silence. The kind of quiet that screams.

“You should go find her,” he adds.

I narrow my eyes. “I was trying to—until I found you sitting here like…” I falter, frustrated by my lack of comeback.

He gives a soft laugh. Then he unfolds from the chair like something deliberate. Like the god he is waking up in a body too small for him.

“You said the fruit doesn’t create desire,” I whisper. “It just amplifies it.”

He nods.

“And what if I didn’t want anything?”

“You did.” His voice is velvet and violence. “You do. That’s the part you hate the most.”

Something tears inside me.

The shame. The heat. The sick realization that he’s not wrong.

He’s never wrong when it comes to me.

But it’s not just lust gnawing at me, now. It’s nostalgia. Grief. That helpless ache for something I had once and ruined. Something familiar.

I want him to fix it.

I want him to fix me—just for a night. Like he used to.

Like he’s done before, with a kiss pressed to my shoulder and a hand on the small of my back, and that low voice in the dark whispering promises I desperately wanted him to keep. Gods, I’d take even the lie if it meant I could feel something warm again. Something familiar.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I admit, voice splintering. “Like I’m unraveling.”

He steps closer. Slow. Careful. His expression unreadable.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I say again, but it’s weaker this time. Already unraveling.

“No. You shouldn’t.”

A beat.

Then, I walk toward him, the weight in my chest finally snapping loose.

He opens his arms. I sink into them.

And gods—it feels so right. How instantly my body remembers him. The heat of his chest through his shirt, the sharp inhale he takes when I press my face into the crook of his neck. Like we never broke. Like I never betrayed him. Like this was inevitable.

So I make a decision.

Not because I’m tricked.

Not because I’m weak.

But because I want him to touch me like he used to—like I meant something.

Like I still could.

I don’t want to think about Nikolai anymore.

And if it bothers me that this is the second time I’ve gone to Ravi to chase away Nikolai, well, that will be my secret to bear.

He kisses me like he’s angry. About our history? About my attraction to Nikolai? About how our love is always left wanting. In every timeline.

Who knows?

His mouth brushes mine, once, twice—then shatters into hunger. He crushes me against him with a noise that’s all frustration and want. His hand tangles in my curls. My fingers hook his belt and pull, desperate.

The kiss is open-mouthed, consuming, messy.

Teeth. Tongue. Breath.

It’s not a kiss, it’s a war.

And we’ve already lost.

My back hits the wall. Then the carpet by the hearth.

“I missed you,” Ravi murmurs, following me down. His hands drift beneath my shirt, yanking it over my head with no ceremony. His mouth doesn’t leave mine. I can barely breathe and I don’t care.

I want to feel him.

All of him.

Everywhere.

“I hate you and I miss you.”

“Yes,” I agree, his cheeks in my palms as I kiss his forehead, nose, chin.

He strips me like undressing me is something he’s owed. And maybe I want it to hurt a little. Maybe I want to be punished.

He deserves it, after all.

His hands are everywhere—hot and steady and too much and not enough. Sliding up my ribs, over my chest, gripping my hips like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. Like if he lets go, I’ll disappear again.

“Fuck,” he breathes into my neck. “You always—.”

He doesn’t finish. Just groans against my throat, presses his palm to my belly like he’s trying to memorize the shape.

I gasp as he bites my collarbone, as he pushes my legs open with his knee and settles between them like he never left.

There’s nothing hesitant in him now.

He knows me. Knows this body. And I let him take it like it’s his.

I hook my legs around his waist. Arch up into him, shameless. Desperate. I don’t want slow. I don’t want sweet. I want to burn.

We grind against each other, every movement more frantic than the last. His name escapes my mouth in pieces.

Half a curse.

Half a plea.

He groans like the sound undoes him.

“Say it again,” he pants. “Say my name.”

“Ravi,” I gasp.

Again and again.

I’m clawing at his shoulders, nails dragging down his spine. His teeth graze the underside of my breast. His hand slips between my thighs—.

I cry out.

“Please,” I whisper. “Gods, please—.”

He answers with his body.

Thrusts deep and hard and real.

My back arches. My vision whites out.

We don’t move gently. We don’t move carefully.

We take.

We unmake.

It’s not soft.

It’s not loving.

It’s raw and shattering and long overdue.

I chase his rhythm like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. Like if I lose it, I’ll fall apart.

He kisses me through it—hot and breathless and hungry; trying to swallow every sound I make. Like he needs my pleasure to forgive us both.

I come with a cry against his lips, breaking like glass beneath him.

He follows with a low, rough moan—my name gritted through clenched teeth.

Afterward, we stay tangled on the floor, breathless. His caramel skin is slick. My heart is still sprinting.

Ravi brushes my hip with his knuckles.

“I still remember the way you used to fall asleep,” he murmurs. “Like you were bracing for battle.”

“Maybe I was,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “Maybe I still am.”

Outside, the screams of Bonfire Moon echo through the night.

And for just this one moment, I let myself forget the rest.