Page 9 of The Unweaver (Unwoven Fates #1)

C ora didn’t know where Bane had gotten a literal bathtub full of goat milk, and she didn’t ask. She simply poured bucket after bucket into the “crucible,” a clawfoot tub made out of a king’s ransom in gold.

Candlelight spilled across the mosaic tile floor and midnight blue brocaded walls. Bane’s bathroom brimmed with potted ferns and curling tendrils of ivy. The sweet fragrance of hothouse blossoms kissed her nose. Vials and jars lined the vanity shelves, and floating inside a glass orb was something that watched Cora back as she poured more milk into the golden tub.

While Bane had spent several hours out of the house attending to “none of your fuckin’ business,” she’d hefted buckets and brewed the damn Damnation Elixir. Her back was sore, and her nostrils burned from the foul ingredients she’d ground with mortar and pestle in his well-stocked magical storeroom.

If this was any indication of their working relationship, Cora was far from thrilled.

She was grabbing the final bucket when something furry brushed her calf. Screaming, she dropped the handle. Milk splashed everywhere. The creature loosed an angry yowl and streaked under the vanity. A Persian cat, with milk dripping from its long orange fur, glared at her with a put-out look on its snub-nosed face.

Was that a telltale amber glow in its unblinking eyes?

Panic bolted through her. It had to be one of Mother’s pets. Her gaze not leaving the feline, she backed toward the door and yelped when she hit something solid. Whirling, she saw Bane regarding her with raised brows.

“It’s one of Mother’s spies,” she hissed. “How’d the cat get in your house?”

“Oh, that’s just Caoimhin.”

“...Kevin?”

“ Caoimhin . He’s lived here for years. Since Dublin.”

“You… have a cat?”

He shrugged. “He showed up on the doorstep one day. Never bothered to get rid of him.”

Mother’s pets might have traveled as far as Ireland. Florence, the Siamese cat Bestiamancer, had infiltrated 10 Downing Street; why not Bane’s unfindable house?

“You’re sure he’s not a Bestiamancer?”

“I would’ve noticed a strange naked man in my house by now.”

Bestiamancers couldn’t retain their animal forms without a steady diet of hearts, and long-term transformations drained their magic. Those facts brought little comfort as the cat’s yellow eyes remained fixed on her.

“Bugger off, Caoimhin.”

Perhaps the most shocking part of this encounter was that the cat complied. Shaking his drenched fur with indignation, he strutted out of the bathroom.

Bane brushed back his tousled hair. Somehow, his suit was even more charred and bloodied than after the parley disaster.

“How’s the, er, war going?”

“Grand,” he said. “I left some body parts in the icebox for you to commune with later.”

“Oh, grand. I thought I’d have to ask for that.”

His lips twitched. He handed her the vile concoction she’d spent hours brewing. “ Sláinte .”

She gagged. The viscous Damnation Elixir tasted worse than it smelled. With great effort, she swallowed it down. And nearly choked it back up when Bane began undressing.

“The ritual logistics are straightforward.” He tossed his bloodstained coat over the vanity chair, followed by his waistcoat and tie. “You’ll direct us towards the Death Realm and I’ll stop us short in Purgatory. We should have a few minutes to search.” He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off.

Her thoughts scattered at the waltz of shadows and kiss of candlelight on his lean, sculpted body. On his pale skin, his life was mapped out in scars—new and old, shallow and deep—and archaic runes tattooed in iridescent ink shimmering like sunlight under waves. Dark copper hair covered the broad expanse of his chest, descending in a trail down the hard planes of his abdomen and disappearing into his waistband.

“Don’t do anything fuckin’ stupid while we’re there. Need I remind you of our Binding Agreement? Kill me, kill yourself.” He unbuttoned his trousers.

A strangled sound emerged from the back of her throat. “Er, what are you doing?”

“The less to traverse into Purgatory, the better.” He removed his trousers, and a glimpse of powerful thighs arrested her attention. Muscles bunched as he kicked off his shorts.

Malachy Bane stood before her, gloriously nude.

Reason deserted her. Blood pounded and heat suffused. That trail of dark hair drew her gaze down to his long, thick—

She tore her eyes away, looking anywhere but at the naked man sliding into the clawfoot tub. He settled back, legs bent and arms slung over the rim. The devil in repose.

She released a held breath. His unabashed nudity had merely caught her unawares. That was all. She’d seen plenty of naked men. Admittedly, many had been deceased at the time. Yet something about Bane’s hard, scarred body quickened her pulse and ignited a heat low in her belly.

Some thing , all right. Of course the bastard had a magnificent cock. No wonder he was so bloody arrogant.

“I’m not doing this for my fuckin’ health. Come on. Get in.”

She swallowed. “Naked?”

“Jesus, yes .”

Cheeks ablaze, she shucked her boots and peeled off her stockings. “This is one of the strangest things I have ever done,” she muttered, fumbling with the buttons on her ruined dress.

“I doubt that, Unweaver.”

His gaze was tangible as she stripped down to her chemise, embarrassingly threadbare with age. She kept it and her gloves on.

Milk sloshed onto the mosaic tiles as she climbed into the tub with less grace than she’d hoped for. She sank down across from him, the bath creamy and cool on her flushed skin.

It was impossible not to touch, no matter how hard she tried. Skin slid against skin in an eruption of awareness as she wriggled to fit in the tub with his very close, very naked body. Each glide of limbs was an awakening. A riot of exhilaration. An unbearable intimacy. Her blood hummed everywhere they touched. He merely sat back and watched her struggle not to self-combust.

Settling her legs between his, she grazed a firm ridge, eliciting a low groan from his throat.

Was the self-combustion mutual?

She risked a glance. While she willed her eyes not to stray downwards, his heated gaze was on her breasts. Cora had never been so aware of her nipples. Straining as they were against her now translucent chemise, she had no doubt Bane was in a similar state of awareness. She crossed her arms over her chest.

His gaze lifted. He smiled, slow and devastating. That smile, laced with sinful promises, transformed his features. Smoothing his sharp angles. Softening his obsidian eyes. Enticing her closer. Malachy Bane was darkly alluring when he smiled like that.

She banished the revelation to the catacombs of her mind. This was the Realmwalker. A cold-blooded murderer. And her new boss, whom she was embarking on a potentially one-way trip between Realms with.

Doubts crept in like shadows. What if Teddy isn’t there?

“Isn’t this a big risk?”

“A calculated risk.” He clasped her hands, palm to palm, and intertwined their fingers. “Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

She blew out a shaky breath. “Right.”

Gazes locked, he chanted in Latin and she echoed the words. Together, they traversed to Purgatory in a bathtub.

Eyes rolling back and necrotic veins spreading, she guided them near the black veil. The uncanny familiarity of death surged up to embrace them. The bathroom disintegrated. A void unhinged its jaws and swallowed them whole. Headfirst, they dove into the delirium.

Her stomach flipped, over and over, until she landed onto a ground both solid and not solid. Blinking away tears and swallowing down nausea, her gaze swept the barren plain of wandering spirits, marked for its absence. Absence of light, of sound, of substance. The unnaturalness seeped into her pores.

With straining effort, she took a step and the nothingness shifted along with her. It wasn’t a barren plain, but an impenetrable fog submerging her in the surreal. Cold steam chilled her to the marrow.

A hand squeezed hers. The fog beside her coalesced into a nude man. Bane, thankfully with the more distracting parts of his anatomy obscured by fog.

Call to him , his soundless voice resonated in her mind.

Teddy? Her wordless plea sounded like it came from somewhere else, from someone else.

Each step through the thick fog was arduous. The fog sensed their intrusion, forming a thousand hands of sinuous vapor dragging them back. They moved but didn’t move. Time passed and stood still. She sensed something just beyond, yet it eluded her.

Precious minutes ticked by.

Finally, from the fringes of her vision, emerged a vague figure.

Teddy!

Hope, breathtakingly fragile, bloomed in her chest. Crying out his name, she rushed forward.

Cora, wait . Bane held her back.

She faltered. Something was off about Teddy, shifting listlessly in the distance. Slack-jawed and hollow-eyed, he was drained of color, as if the fog had taken his nearly translucent shape. She hadn’t known what to expect from a spirit in Purgatory, but he seemed incomplete. A facsimile, too faint to be whole.

Hurry , Bane urged. I can’t keep us here much longer.

The wraith with the mirror image of her own face watched them approach with dull, glassy eyes. When Cora reached out, her hand passed through him. The chill in her bones spread like ice on a pond. The wraith stood motionless, watching her extract her arm from his torso without interest.

What happened to you, Teddy bear? She willed the words into whatever was left of his mind. Who did this to you?

The wraith’s head swung to Bane. His face contorted in sudden fury, then fell back into placidity. Her gaze shot between them. Bane’s expression gave away nothing.

Teddy, she pleaded. Teddy, what happened to you? Who cursed you? How can I get you back?

Solemn, the wraith shook his head and turned away.

Where is your body? She reached out and through him again. Help me find you. I will bring you back, Teddy. I swear to god I will. Where did they take your body?

An image flashed in her mind’s eye. A marble sepulcher, ravaged by time and piled with snow. Beyond the iron fence, a sprawling city belched black clouds.

Who did this to you, Teddy? Why —

We’re out of time. Bane’s hand tugged her back. We need to leave.

No, not yet! Teddy! Teddy, I love you. I will find y—

Fog swirled. Cora fell into vertiginous blackness, clawing at empty air as the ground rose up to meet her.

They landed in the clawfoot tub in a tangle of limbs and a tidal wave of milk. Slick skin grappled for purchase. Smoothness glided along exquisite hardness in a tumult of wriggling body parts, a conundrum of sensations.

Sucking in a breath, Bane grasped her hips and locked her in place, draped on top of him with her hands on his chest and her legs around his waist. Their bodies were flush together, their lips perilously close. Panting breaths mingled in the narrow space between them.

His black eyes, like portals to strange eternities, drew her in and under. Milk pearled on his long lashes, dripped from his hair, and streamed in rivulets down the muscles bunching beneath her. Cora became very aware of where every part of her touched every part of him. She sensed his unraveling composure and longed to wrap one of those fraying threads around her finger and tug.

Shifting, she slipped, crushing her breasts to his chest. He stifled a groan.

“I need you,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. “To stop fuckin’ moving.”

A hardening length pressed against her belly. Breathless, their gazes locked in a stunned moment of realization. She scrambled to her feet and almost pitched herself out of the tub. Milk cascaded down her body, plastering the sheer fabric of her chemise to her skin.

Drawn by his gaze, she made the mistake of looking down. His hooded eyes charted a searing path from the peaks of her breasts to the thatch of dark hair between her thighs.

She stumbled onto the slippery tiles and wrapped herself in a bathrobe that smelled like him, crisp and evergreen.

“Bl-bloody hell,” she said between chattering teeth. Purgatory’s bone-deep chill had followed her out, but her shiver wasn’t entirely due to the fog.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Bane reclined back in the tub and closed his eyes. Her gaze traced the shifting muscles on his chest and arms, the droplets beading off his chest hair.

Get a hold of yourself , she admonished. The reason that had deserted her came flooding back.

Teddy. Purgatory. Vengeance.

She recalled the snowy sepulcher. From her familiarity with the London graveyards, she recognized it as the Crossbones cemetery, an unconsecrated burial ground of paupers and prostitutes dating back to the Medieval ages. No destitute soul had been buried there in a century. Until now.

“T-Teddy showed me where his b-body is. He’s in the c-cemetery in Southwark.”

“A cemetery,” he huffed without opening his eyes. “Of course it’s a fuckin’ cemetery.”