Page 35 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Riven

T he sound of water lapping gently against porcelain drifts through the open doorway.

The scent of the lavender oils soaking into her bare skin coils through the air and I breathe it in, suddenly jealous of oil.

Pretending that everything about her doesn’t affect me has become an exercise in futility.

Almost three full days. That’s all it’s been since she arrived, and somehow it feels like I’ve been living lifetimes within them.

Every hour stretched thin with restraint.

Every night a lesson in self-denial as I lie beside her, pretending her breath against my neck doesn’t stir something primal within me.

Pretending I don’t feel the soft press of her body fitting against mine like she was made to belong there.

We train during the day. I push her hard–harder than I should, perhaps–but she rises to every challenge with the kind of tenacity that leaves me reeling.

Her body moves like it’s rediscovering itself, every motion growing more fluid, more instinctive, as if some buried part of her remembers exactly how to fight.

I correct her form and adjust her stance, letting my hands linger a breath too long under the guise of discipline.

Her skin, slick with sweat, glows in the golden light of the training hall each session.

Every time her pulse jumps at my touch beneath the curve of her throat, I have to look away before the hunger overwhelms me.

It’s not just a desire, it’s a need that’s becoming dangerous.

I haven’t fed since we discovered her naked and wide-eyed in the middle of that battlefield. I decided in that moment, foolishly or not, that if I couldn’t have her blood, I wouldn’t take another’s.

No donors. No substitutes. Nothing to dilute what I crave.

Yet the decision has begun to cost me. The ache is constant now, burning under my skin, whispering through every muscle and nerve. My reflexes are slowing and my focus slips when it shouldn’t.

All at a time where I need to be at my peak.

Wren doesn’t know that the formal challenge was delivered to me the second night she was here.

Waylen has made it official, probably unable to take the hit to his ego that Kresselia and Wren delivered through their words in the training facility.

The fight for the Crimson Crown is tomorrow, and by the end of the day, one of us will be dead and the other will be leading our faction into our first attack on the humans in just two days.

I should have told her by now, but I didn’t want to watch that shadow of worry settle in her eyes.

I couldn’t have her progress stalling because she feared for me due to my self-imposed deterioration.

So, I kept it to myself. A selfish choice, perhaps, but I’ve grown used to carrying burdens alone in the nearly five-hundred years I’ve roamed this earth.

Another faint splash echoes from the adjoining room, and I tilt my head toward the sound, eyes drawn instinctively to the cracked door.

Steam spills into our bed chamber, curling through the small opening.

Her heartbeat is steady but soft, and something about it grounds me, slowing the chaos in my mind, if only for a moment.

When she joins me in bed, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep pretending that the slow unravel of my control is nothing to worry about.

She finally emerges in silence, the door creaking open just enough to release a heavier wave of steam and warmth through the room.

For a heartbeat, I allow myself to just watch her.

She’s wrapped in one of my cotton shirts that is too large for her frame, the hem grazing her thighs.

I thought nothing could be more enticing than her in the silk pajamas I ordered for her, but seeing her in my clothes out of her own choosing…

it’s damn near the final straw for my unraveling.

Her damp hair clings to her collarbone in dark ribbons, and droplets of water trail slowly along the curve of her neck before disappearing into the fabric.

Her cheeks carry the flush of heat–the type I imagine would be even more stunning when laid out beneath me with parted lips and gasping breaths.

While I’ve stolen more kisses since our time in the bayou, each taste of her only furthers my desire.

I lift my arm in invitation when she slips under the covers. Without hesitation she scoots close enough to press her cheek against my chest as we have each night, and the tension lingering in my body softens into something almost bearable.

It’s unnerving the way she makes me feel like I could carry the weight of the world as long as she remains safe.

Even through my shirt, her slow exhale of breath is warm against my sternum.. “You’re quiet.”

I don’t answer right away, instead sliding my fingers through the damp strands of her hair. I could brush it off and let the moment pass, but I’ve already waited too long to tell her the truth.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” My voice comes out low, roughened more by guilt than by need. “Waylen’s official challenge was delivered the other night. The fight is set for tomorrow.”

Her body tenses beside me before she pushes up onto one elbow, looking down at me with eyes that swirl with a golden and green mix in the low light.

“You waited until now to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to distract you,” I say evenly, though the weight of it sits bitterly in my mouth. “You’ve been making progress, and–”

“Progress doesn’t matter if you die.”

Her words are sharp and I let them pierce, because they carry a sentimental weight that matters.

“I’m not planning to die,” I murmur, offering her the closest thing I can to comfort.

She is quiet for a few moments as she searches my expression, trying to read what I won’t say aloud. Her brows draw together, voice softer now. “Do you feel ready?”

I hesitate a breath too long and instantly she sees the crack in my confidence.

“Riven,” she whispers, this time with more fear than frustration. “Have you still not fed?”

The moment stretches and I shake my head once, slowly. “I told you I’ve been on a cleanse, darling.”

She blinks, frowning down at me. The silence that follows is dense and aching. She bites her lip, her thoughts clearly racing behind her eyes. “You need to be at full strength for this kind of fight, Riven.”

“I know.”

“And you’d still go into it like this?” she retorts with a sass that makes my cock twitch.

Ever since I invaded the wraith’s castle to seek her out, her banter and wit all but sealed my infatuation with her. She’s never been afraid to challenge me and show her own grit, even when she knew nothing about herself.

“If the alternative is drinking the blood of someone I don’t want…” I trail off. “Then yes.”

Her narrowed gaze flicks down to my mouth, then to my chest, and then back up again–like she’s trying to make sense of something she doesn’t quite have words for yet. The pulse in her neck flutters, and I feel it like a drumbeat in my veins.

“You need blood,” she says softly, more statement than question.

“I need you,” I answer before I can stop myself. Then quieter and more measured, I tack on, “But yes, blood would help.”

Her jaw tightens before asking, “What blood did you drink before? Do you drink from each other?”

“We trade with those outside of our faction,” I answer.

“Most of the time, we buy blood from donors of the magical factions. Fae blood is the most coveted since elemental magic carries a charge that makes it addictive to some. Shifter blood is the most unfiltered with toxins, given how they live directly off the lands. Wraith blood is satiating, but some fledging vampires find their minds dazed while drinking it, as if the owner of the blood’s shadows entered them. ”

Her brows draw together, lips parting slightly. “What about humans? Was there ever an exchange there?”

I hum in memory of our most fruitful relationship.

“We had contracts through the human government. Regulated blood donation programs–voluntary, monitored, and compensated. It was one of the terms negotiated in the original treaties and worked out well for both parties as they needed money to build their new, independent lives.”

Her head tilts sideways as she mutters, “And that ended when…”

I reach up to brush a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. “When the rebellion overtook the government, the supply lines dried up.”

Her throat works as she swallows. Her hand lifts between us and turns her wrist palm-up, extending it toward me. “I want you to take mine.”

My body coils tightly as I fight the predator inside of me that sees a thumping vein offered willingly. While I’d love nothing more, I didn’t tell her all of this for her pity.

“Wren,” I manage, my voice low, scraping against the last thread of control I possess. “Don’t do this because you feel obligated. This isn’t a casual thing to me. Feeding from you, it’s not just about blood, it's about a bond I want to nurture and respect.”

She watches me, unflinching. “I know.”

“You don’t ,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

I exhale, trying to temper the hunger into something that won’t frighten her.

“You don’t know what it will feel like and what a direct bite does to people.

It’s why our donations are typically done through a blood draw, with bags shipped to us, not from the source itself. ”

“Then tell me.” Her voice is quiet, but firm, so unafraid despite everything I try to tell her.

Her wrist stays extended, suspended between us like there’s nothing I could say that would change her mind.

I lift my gaze to hers and let her see all of it–no mask, no pretense, no softened version of the predator within me.