#ceton

She broke into a grin before she could stop herself, as he swam towards her and rested his chin on her knees.

She grinned. “There you are.”

“Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

He hummed, pleased, fingers drifting in his nervous habit to the piercing beneath his lip. The coral at his throat knocked softly against her leg.

She looked him over, slow. He was wearing something completely different from any clothes she had ever seen. A loose net draped around his shoulders like a poncho, cords made out of seaweed embroidered with shark teeth, pearls, and bits of coral, all woven together in messy, organic patterns that refused to be orderly. Much like him. Beneath it hung a simple tunic, a long strip of fabric slung over one shoulder and tied at the waist, shifting with the water.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to.

He noticed. His smile faltered just a bit, nervous energy creeping in as he fiddled with his piercing again.

She softened immediately, reaching down to run her fingers gently over his scalp, along the base of the fin. These were the clothes he grew up with, and they were beautiful. But so were her old dresses that she'd wear to Paris' parties. Her hand carressing him made him still.

With one hand bracing against the dock, the other searched through the cords and fabric draped across his body.

He found what he was looking for.

“Happy birthday, Eliana.”

She leaned down to kiss him, more teeth than lips as she felt him smile against her mouth. When she pulled back, he pressed something into her hand.

A coral necklace.

Her breath caught. It was nearly identical to the one he always wore. She nearly launched herself into the water to hug him, but he caught her wrist gently.

“Wait,” he said. “Put it on.”

She did. The magic stirred almost at once, looking for a hook to sink into.

“This is magic?” she asked, head tilting.

“Yeah,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “It was a pain in the ass to steal.”

She laughed. “From Messina?”

He shrugged. “Nobody needs to use it. Figured it’d look better on you.”

"Oh, absolutely!" She settled the enchantment with magic of her own, feeling it lock into place. “And what does it do?”

He swam backward, still holding her gaze, that familiar mischievous smirk curling across his face. “Come and see.”

Then he dove.

She didn’t hesitate. Eliana jumped into the sea after him, opening her eyes as she swam deeper to him. He took her hands in his.

“Breathe,” he told her. His voice came from all around her, carried almost eagerly by the water.

She cocked her head, skeptical, and he laughed—bubbles escaping his mouth.

“Breathe.”

Against her better judgment, she did. And the water didn’t burn her lungs. It didn’t fight her at all. She inhaled again, astonished, the magic humming gently against her chest. She laughed, the sound swallowed by the sea.

“Oh,” she ventured speaking. “Oh, that’s amazing."

“Told you.” Ceton continued, softly now, still holding her hands, “I guess I wanted you to see my world too. As shitty as it is.”

She looked around—at the way the light fractured through the water, at the slow sway of sea plants, at him, glowing faintly in the blue.

“Well,” she said, smiling at him, “it’s very pretty.”

They hovered there for a moment, close enough that she could feel the movement of the water between them. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and soft, before pulling back with a grin.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her hand. “I want to show you something.”

They swam deeper, light thinning into soft blue ribbons. Fish scattered as they passed, quick flashes of silver and yellow. He guided her around a rocky outcrop and into a narrow channel where the current slowed.

“This way,” he said. "Don’t kick too hard.”

“Why?”

“You’ll scare them.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Scare who?”

He smiled wide, she could see all his youth in that smile, she could almost see hers too.

They slipped out of the channel and into open water. Below them, the sea floor sloped into a broad, sandy stretch broken by stone shelves. He slowed, drawing her in close.

“Stay here,” he murmured. “And don’t flail.”

“I never flail.”

“You'll absolutely want to flail.”

She swatted at him, and he laughed, bubbles streaming up as he pointed downward.

At first she saw nothing.

Then movement.

A shadow passed beneath the sand shelf. Then another. Long, smooth bodies gliding just above the sea floor.

Eliana’s breath caught.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Ceton.”

Three sharks cruised lazily through the basin, unhurried, graceful, gentle. One turned, revealing a pale underside before disappearing into the blue again.

“I used to sneak out to come here,” he said, quieter now. “When I was a kid. Now I only visit sometimes."

She looked at him, then back at the sharks.

“They’re not scared of you,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “They know me.”

He reached into a pouch tied at his waist and let pieces of fish drift from his hand.

The sharks turned almost immediately.

They circled closer this time, curious rather than cautious. One passed close enough that Eliana could see the faint scars along its side.

“You fed them,” she said.

“I still do,” he replied. “When I can.”

She pressed closer to him as one shark swept past, close enough that she could feel the water shift.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

“They are,” he agreed. “Everyone back home said they were monsters.”

He shrugged, eyes following their movement. “I never believed that.”

She turned toward him and cupped his face, pressing her forehead to his. She enjoyed being taller than him, but here, floating eye to eye felt oddly nice too.

“I’m glad you showed me,” she said.

He swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stayed there until the sharks drifted away, disappearing back into the blue. When they finally surfaced later, farther down the coast, the sun was still high.

Eliana sprawled on the warm rocks as the water dried on her skin. Ceton lingered in the shallows, then joined her, lying on his side.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “So. What else do you have hidden down there?”

He smirked. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Surely. She’d been doing this for–what–eight years now? Somewhere along the way, the appropriate age must have caught up with her.

She shook the thought away.

Ceton was waiting by the stairwell, leaning against the wall. Curiosity and weariness both clear in his expression. He was a terrible actor. Always too honest, even when that honesty landed him in trouble. But that honesty made her feel safe. And if things turned ugly, he was good in a fight. And if he wasn’t good enough, she was more than capable of dragging him out herself.

She gave him a strained smile, still honest. Then she touched his elbow and nudged him toward the stairs.

She didn’t talk as they climbed. Her teeth bit her lower lip, and her fingers kept tugging at her braid. She was trying to put her memories in order. They refused. They came at her foggy, but somehow still solid enough to bruise when she ran into them. They made her feel small. Too small. She knew she had grown in that decade. But she still couldn’t picture herself older than the girl Paris had found. She stopped biting her lips.

She forced herself to glance into the dim corners of the stairwell, scanning without wanting to be obvious. Trying to make sure.

There was only Ceton. It was too late for the other guests. And Paris was far, far away.

She let herself chew her lip again.

It wasn’t sexy. It was only worrying.

She opened the attic door–her room–and stepped inside. Ceton closed it behind them. He didn’t sit on the bed. Instead, he grabbed a few pillows and dropped them onto the floor.

She wondered if it was deliberate. He read her frighteningly well. He’d seen the scars. He’d seen the way her body went rigid sometimes, maybe he’d figured the bed wasn’t the right place for this conversation.

The thought made the tension on her chest loosen a fraction.

She sat opposite to him on the floor, turning the bottle slowly in her hands.

Where the fuck do you even start?

“Eliana.”

She wasn’t sure if it was his voice or the gentle nudge of his foot that pulled her out of her spiral.

“You don’t have to do this–”

“I want to.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just–say it however you need to. You don’t have to make it into… I don’t know. A story.”

She sighed. A small, pained smile tugged at her mouth. He always knew what to say. Maybe he even knew what she needed to say, this once.

“…Where would you start?” she asked.

He didn’t tear his eyes off of her. His brow furrowed, worry settling deep, but he blinked, thinking deep.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. A dry, helpless little laugh. “I don’t know anything. But… maybe where it all started?”

She nodded. Right.

She considered handing him the bottle to open–while she organised her thoughts–but decided against it. It felt like implicating him on something a bit uglier than what she remembered. These past three years she had gotten drunk, sure. But it was only ever following the crowd, without much thought put into it, laughing and dancing with the world.

Tonight, she was getting drunk on purpose. To pry the words out from her throat without drowning in them.

She twisted the cap herself, and took a swig.

“A few things started it,” she said. “I guess it’s always like that. But… everything would’ve been fine, in the end, if my father hadn’t died.”

She paused.

“My mother wasn’t in the picture. She left me as a baby for my father to find me. Whatever.” That familiar irritation crept in immediately. She was not what this was about. Whoever she was. This was about her and her dad.

She swallowed.

“He was a miner. There was an accident. At least it wasn’t a disease like black lung–I think it was quick.” Her fingers tightened on the bottle. “We were already poor. Everyone in that village was. People helped me, but… feeding another kid was hard. Especially that year.”

She’d had thirteen years to think about it now. The gaunt faces of the adults. The careful portions. It hadn’t quite been a famine–dogs still had rats to hunt, chickens still laid eggs–but the possibility still hovered like a beast ready to pounce.

Her braid had turned into a mess under her hands. She let it fall loose, using the motion to try and ground herself, the weight of her hair familiar against her shoulders. She still didn’t look at him yet.

“One day…” Her voice wavered, the air leaving her lungs all at once, like it was trying to keep any more words from escaping and solidifying, making it all more real. She stared at her hands. Grabbed the bottle again, drank and hid behind the curtain of her hair.

“One day a dog attacked me. I killed it. And he was there. Waiting.”

Her fingers dug into her thighs.

“I think he set it on me.”

She braced herself for a comforting touch, a hand on her shoulder, maybe her leg.

It didn’t come.

Relief washed through her so sharply it almost hurt. He’d put the pillows there on purpose. He knew. He knew she couldn’t handle being touched yet. And couldn’t carry his pity on top of her own.

She wanted it, of course. She wanted him to pull her close, coo at her, to murmur how awful all of it was, how much she’d suffered.

But first she needed to get it out. Pity would break her open into loud, ugly sobs, lasting the whole night through. It was already a miracle she’d found the nerve to start. She couldn’t risk losing it now.

He deserved to know.

And maybe she wanted someone knowing. Someone caring.

“Paris,” she said. The name made bile rise in her throat. “He took me to his estate. Promised I wouldn’t be hungry. That no one else would have to be hungry for me to eat. I just had to lend him my strength. I didn't know what that meant."

She took a deep breath.

“As I got older, I understood it better. He turned me into a bard. My father taught me music–Paris tainted that.” Her voice cracked, rough with a sob. But her eyes were still dry. “He was a noble. Chief of Justice of Stronghelm. He threw parties to keep an eye on things. I sat at his feet. Something between a–”

Her fists clenched. She looked up.

Ceton was tense, shoulders to his ears, braced for impact. His nose twisted in disgust and his hands were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale.

He was always angrier than she was.

The corners of her mouth lifted up. He was so angry for her. And his anger warmed her, settled something frantic in her chest. She could feel herself flushing.

“…something between a slave and a bride.”

The words landed hard. She kept herself focused on his fury and kept going.

“He paraded me. Made me flirt with guests he picked. Rivals. Allies. I never knew what he gained from it, exactly. They…” Bile rose up her throat again. She washed it down with the whiskey. Ceton took a swig of his own.

“They touched me–my hair, my shoulders, my hips.” She swallowed hard. “It never went too far. At first, because they knew I was his property. Later…”

“How old were you?” Ceton asked.

She almost flinched. She didn’t blame him. That same hungry morbid curiosity that had made her look at the mangled dog she had killed, and many more other bodies.

But as she kept looking at him, she started to understand. It wasn’t curiosity. He needed the answer.

His jaw was clenched so hard she was scared he’d chip a tooth. He didn’t look away either. He was staring at her waiting for the blow, like he wanted it to hurt.

He needed the answer because she had lived with it. He needed to see the whole wound, opened, bloody and ugly, with pus and larvae, because it was hers.

“Eleven when he found me. Fourteen or fifteen when the parties started.”

He nodded, taking another swig. She could see him getting sick.

“But… well. There was a reason he trained me as a bard. Or–“ she swallowed her irritation down. He was so proud of his little army, but why? What had he done, exactly, that granted him so much reason to boast? “–found me mentors to do it. It’d be stupid if he’d done it for no reason. I could have just killed him. I should’ve–“

The words came out in a sharp crescendo, and immediately, her stomach turned to ice.

She should have. She knew that. She had been strong enough back then. With the training he forced on her, killing him would’ve been easy–laughably so.

But thinking it didn’t make it come true. Paris never felt like a man. He felt like a hand around her throat.

Even now–years later, a continent away, with Ceton’s presence anchoring her–just saying it out loud made her feel so small again. Like her strength didn’t matter and the air she breathed belonged to him. With a flick of his fingers, she’d be choking on his poison.

And even if she had done it… even if she’d managed to run him through her blades, she would’ve been sea before the body hit the floor.

Paris had guards. Paris had others like her. She couldn’t have fought them all.

She sighed hard, as if she was trying to disperse those thoughts like smoke. “I don’t know how much this is known,” she forced herself on, “but in Harvescresh there’s an arena. For gladiators. It was only finished when I was seventeen, but I was trained for it long before. It was for the nobility–and whoever else was rich enough to buy tickets. They’d take bets on us. And whichever noble house the survivor belonged to, they’d take a cut of the bets. Mine was Paris’. House Merevan.”

She licked her cheeks. Explaining it so casually made her mouth taste rotten. How many people had died there? How many had she killed?

“Paris had other gladiators, they all lived in the estate,” her voice thinned as she went on. “All the shiniest, most exotic species he could find for his collection”

Her voice came out choked, “and there was Aster. And Silas. If it wasn’t for them I would’ve…”

She reached for the bottle mostly out of instinct, as her eyes glossed over and guilt emptied her out. Along with the memory of something dark. That old urge to stop fighting, to stop being. She had left that behind after she died. After she understood what that truly meant.

“I would have…”

She didn’t want to remember that.

“I left them. I didn’t even think of them when I…”

She looked at Ceton. There was nothing he could say. He seemed to know it too. He stayed quiet, thumb worrying the bead beneath his lip.

“So I fought in the arena. I went to the parties.” Her jaw tightened. “Paris… I don’t know what changed. He was always the hoarding type. Maybe sharing me too much made him jealous. He knew he was turning me into a killing machine, but he started coming into my room. When I bathed. When I tried to sleep. Always closer. Never far enough that I would kill him.”

She took the bottle to her lips, Ceton followed.

“It started before the arena. It just kept getting worse. Aster and Silas made it all feel survivable. They were the only ones my age. We’d sneak out… do what we needed to do to make it feel… worth it.”

She smiled despite herself, thinking of them. Even now, years later, when she woke from a nightmare with her heart clawing at her ribs, she still reached for them before she remembered. She still tried listening for their breathing in the dark, expecting, in that first confused second, to find them there.

Even as Ceton held her–as warm and steady as he was, his comfort already so familiar–they still crept on her mind, in that burrow they’d made their home.

Her eyes were red and stinging now. Guilt pooled heavy on her belly, the way it always did when she let herself remember them too clearly. Because she had left them behind. Because she had escaped and they hadn’t. Because she had survived and she prayed each day they had too.

And no matter how much she wanted to believe she deserved softness now, there was still a part of her that felt she didn’t. Not after that. There was nothing she could do that would ever make her worthy of the comfort they used to give her again.

“I got out,” she said, then faltered. “I–”

She looked at him again. How the fuck was she supposed to say this out loud? How was he supposed to believe her?

No–she didn’t need him to believe it yet. She just needed to get the words out. She could explain later. He would ask her questions, help her carry this once it was finally in the open.

“I don’t know why the King did it,” she said, voice rough. “Maybe he didn’t like that people liked me. That Paris had something the nobles cheered so much for. I don’t know. But he challenged him.”

She swallowed, throat tight. The words were starting to tumble out.

“And Paris accepted. Of course he did. He–“ ‘knows he’s untouchable’, she almost said. “He was overconfident. He thought I’d win. He thought I was this perfect weapon.”

Her laugh came out all wrong, sharp and choked out. “I mean… I wouldn’t even be able to take out even one. But he still threw me into it like it was nothing, like they–“

Her lungs tightened, like something was being poured into them. The air in the attic thickened and curdled, and suddenly it wasn’t air at all. It was earth, packed down, shovelful after shovelful, the way it must have filled her father’s chest when the mine collapsed. The thought hit like a fist. She couldn’t get enough in. She couldn’t get enough out.

Breathing felt like fire, too–heat crawling up her throat, burning from the inside.

She had to open her mouth. Had to. But it only made it worse.

She was gasping–ugly gulps that didn’t do anything, like her body had forgotten how breathing was supposed to work like. Her vision shimmered at the edges, the room bending in a slow, sick sway.

She could vaguely remember a horse in Harvescresh, once. In the street. Screaming without sound, eyes rolling white, froth bubbling at its mouth, legs kicking at nothing like it was drowning on the dry sandstone. A snake had spooked it. Or something had. She couldn’t even remember if anyone had helped it.

She just remembered the look in its eyes.

The frantic, helpless terror.

That’s me, some distant part of her observed, cold and detached.

Ceton was on her before she even realized she’d started to fold in on herself.

A hand cupped her cheek, gently. The other caught her shoulder, firmly, not letting her slip away.

“Baby, baby–hey.” His voice cut through the roar between her ears. “I’m right here.”

He pressed his thumb lightly at her jaw, coaxing her mouth shut.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. “Try and follow me.”

She tried. Gods, she tried.

But she could feel the scars on her chest opening. It was as if claws were dragging through her again, tearing her apart, wet warmth spilling down her ribs, sticky, impossible to staunch.

She looked down, frantic, because she had to check.

There was no blood. No torn skin.

But she could feel it anyway. She could feel it running, she could feel it soaking through her clothes.

Her back burned. Blistering, raw, too hot to touch–fire heat bursting under her skin.

If she’d had enough air in her lungs, she would’ve screamed.

Instead she made this thin, broken sound, and her nails dug into him without meaning to. Ceton only took her hand, careful, and pressed it flat against his chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice shaking just a little, like he was holding himself together for her. “Please, baby.”

She forced her eyes up.

His face was close, his expression wrecked with worry, but steady–so steady, like he’d decided she wasn’t allowed to drown in this.

“I’m here, you’re here with me. You’re safe. You’re so far away from them.”

She collapsed into him, the whiskey bottle clattering uselessly to the floor. It felt like diving into cold ocean water, safe.

Time blurred until her breathing matched his. He kept rocking her long after she’d steadied, murmuring low, constant reassurances.

He didn’t rush her. Even once her breathing had steadied, even once the shaking had eased, he stayed with his arms firm around her.

After a while, once quiet had settled down in the room, he asked quietly, “Are you sure you want to keep going?”

She nodded against him, cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her voice barely there. “Yeah.”

He hesitated before the next question. “Is this about the scars?” He had never sounded so careful.

The question grounded her. She swallowed, then nodded again. “The bigger ones…”

She stayed tucked into him as she spoke, bracing herself, his arms wrapped around her so completely it felt like being folded into a cocoon. She knew she was taller than him–she did–but right now she felt so small, so young, held together only by his presence in a way she hadn’t let herself need in a long time.

“They were dragons,” she said. “Two of them.”

She felt it immediately. The way his body went still, the sharp intake of breath he tried and failed to hide. His surprise pressed against her through the embrace. He didn’t want the words to slip out, she could tell–but they did anyway, rough like him.

“How the fuck did you survive–”

She pulled back then. Slowly, reluctantly, peeling herself out of his arms even though every part of her wanted to stay there. She needed to see his face. Needed him to see hers

“I didn’t.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all. The words seemed to echo in his head, looping in there until he was certain he’d heard her right.

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

She caught his hands in hers, holding them tight.

“They killed me,” she said.

Her breathing started to pick up again at the memory. She fought it, forced herself to stay present and not let the memory swallow her whole.

“I don’t know how long it lasted,” she went on, the words coming faster now. “I don’t know how much they burned me, how deep they clawed. I just know I bled through my funeral shroud. I saw the Raven Queen, Ceton.”

His eyes were wide, searching her face desperately–looking for a crack, a twitch, anything that would tell him this was some kind of a cruel joke.

There was nothing. She was telling the truth.

“I begged Her to send me back,” Eliana whispered. “But I didn’t even need to. She sent me back anyway. She needs me–for something I don’t understand yet. She wiped my tears away. She took my wounds. She must have hidden me while I ran from his house.”

Her grip tightened on his hands.

“But Paris,” she said. “And Alekto–the king–they killed me.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then he closed the distance between them. He pulled her into him again. One arm around her shoulders, and the other on her back, his fingers caressing her.

“Oh, Eli,” he murmured.

She buried herself into the embrace.

He held her like she was breakable, like she was something so precious, that had been broken and put back together one too many times. He rocked her slightly, slow and steady, the way one would soothe a child after a nightmare.

“You shouldn’t have had to live through any of that,” he said quietly. “None of it. Not the hunger. Not him. Not the fighting. Not dying.” His voice caught on the last word, anger threading through the gentleness. “It was wrong. All of it was so fucking wrong.”

Her chest tightened. This time she didn’t fight it. She curled further into him, forehead pressing against his collarbone, fingers fisting into his shirt like she might lose him if she let go. The tears came then, the heavy and messy ones she had been fighting against all night. And he just held her tighter, one hand running up and down her back, again and again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry they did this to you.”

She let herself cry, let her breath hitch and her shoulders shake. The pity she’d been bracing herself against finally washed over her. It was so warm.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her hair. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

She believed him.

Her fingers danced over the strings of the oud. Sweat formed between her shoulder blades, sliding over the raised lines of burn scars that tightened when she twisted in a tight spin. The room was full of life–bodies swaying, conversations halting just to catch a refrain, feet tapping even from those too tired or drunk to move. Her voice carried through it all, fed by every smile and every cheer.

Whatever she had been born for, surely this was part of it. Hours passed and her voice still steady and vibrant, she could keep playing until dawn.

Her attention then shifted to the sudden creak of the inn’s door. At this hour, newcomers were rare—and her old habits of paranoia always made her look.

But paranoia wasn’t what caught her breath.

A triton stepped inside.

She’d glimpsed some by the docks—silhouettes through her window on an early morning she hadn’t slept through—but never one this close. She heard the townsfolk talk of a settlement of them beneath the waves near town, often trading with locals.

The regulars reacted immediately: some greeting him warmly, others looking away with curled lips. Polarizing, then. Deliciously so. She felt a sly smile tug at her mouth.

He knew exactly the effect he had—swagger rolling off him. His head and eyebrows were shaved clean, black piercings punctuating his nose bridge, beneath his lip, glinting on his finned ears. His skin was mint-green, his eyes stark: black sclera with pale, nearly yellow irises that almost seemed to glow.

Her mouth practically watered.

She tore her gaze away and launched into another song. Then another. And another. Eventually she let her eyes drift toward him again.

He was already looking at her.

Unblinking. Steady. Drinking her in with the same attention he gave his drink.

Her eyes met his– solid sunset orange, impossible to read. Impossible to know what she truly looked at. He held the stare anyway, cocksure, and his mouth curved into a slow, slow smile.

The crowd thinned, drifting out into the quiet streets or up to their rented beds. But he stayed. Patient. Waiting.

Someone passed her water; she drained it dry, slung the oud on her back, and stepped off the stage. Heat coiled low in her belly as she approached him, each step tightening the dizziness that had been building since he’d walked in.

“Heard people talking about the singer playing here,” he said as she reached him. His voice was low and rough, a mumble like the rumble of a sea storm. “Had to check it out.”

“The people doing me justice?” she asked, leaning her elbows onto his table.

“They try damn hard.” His eyes roamed—slow, deliberate, hungry. He was teasing, savoring, letting anticipation do its work.

She laughed. Up close, she towered over his seated frame, but the confidence he radiated erased any difference.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “But are these compliments from your friends or the other group?”

“You’ve charmed just about everyone.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me.” A dangerous, lovely smile curved his mouth at her words, “You’ll have to show me how you push those buttons.”

“It’s dangerous stuff.”

He didn’t even pretend seriousness. She laughed again, and the way he watched her—starving—nearly made her grab him by the jaw right there.

She let her hand slide to his thigh, her thumb brushing perilously close to the center. He shivered.

“Want to come upstairs?” she murmured.

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

She took his hand and led him out of the bar. The door to inn's quarters shut behind them, and the narrow staircase to the upper floors rose directly ahead.

She didn’t make it past the first turn.

Halfway up the stairs, he tugged lightly at her hip, stopping her. She barely had time to glance down before his mouth slammed into hers.

The kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder.

It was rough—bitten lips, scraping teeth, his nails dragging lightly along the scars on her sides, her fingers threading into the back of his neck. His mouth tasted like ale and ocean salt, something cool beneath the heat of him. She crowded him back into the wall, her height pressing him firmly in place, his breath hitching against her lips.

Her eyes opened just a sliver, and he couldn’t know whether she was looking at his mouth or his throat or his soul, and the uncertainty made him shiver against her.

She smiled against his mouth.

He exhaled sharply, and she swallowed the sound with another kiss, deeper and hungrier. His hands roamed—over her waist, over the raised lines of her burns. He paused only long enough to trace one gently, reverently, before gripping her again, firmer now, desire outweighing hesitation.

“Careful,” he murmured against her jaw, voice low and ragged. “You keep doing that and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Who says I don’t?” she breathed, nipping his lower lip.

His fingers tightened on her hips.

They moved again—barely breaking the kiss—climbing the rest of the stairs in a messy, breathless path to the top floor. The old wood creaked under their feet, lanterns casting long shadows against the walls. By the time they reached the third floor landing, he was panting softly, and she felt thunder under her skin.

She unlocked her door, pushed it open, and the moment they were inside, he caught her again—this time pulling her down to meet his height, pressing his mouth to hers with a kind of hungry relief.

She kissed him back, guiding him toward her narrow attic bed. When the back of his legs hit the frame, he dropped onto it with a soft grunt, looking up at her like she was something holy and dangerous.

She stood over him, tall and shadowed in the faint lantern light. Her braid slid over her shoulder and down her hip as she stepped forward.

His gaze traveled up her body, slow and reverent. When it landed on her eyes his breath caught.

“…You’re incredible,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “I know.”

He laughed—breathy, undone—as she climbed onto the bed and over him, kissing him until he melted beneath her touch and pulled her down against him.