Maladaptive daydreams keep me sane

Commons Meeting Room, Basgiath – January 9

Sloane perches herself on the edge of the table, facing the doorway, as she waits.

She’s in one of the smaller communal meeting rooms, only big enough to seat maybe four of five people at a push. The furnishings are sparse; a simple meeting table, matching chairs, a bookcase in one corner and a large blackboard on the adjacent wall. She’s left the door ajar a sliver, watching through the gap as streams of cadets and fliers pass through the rotunda on their way from morning formation to Battle Brief.

Three days.

Three days Dain has been gone on rotation to one of the Midlands posts, and fuck if it hasn’t felt like the longest three days of Sloane’s life.

At Sloane’s request, Thoirt had woken her late last night to inform her of Cath’s safe return to their den, which essentially equated also to Dain’s safe return. The news had been a relief, easing a weight from Sloane’s shoulders that she hadn’t even realised she’d been carrying.

Dain hadn’t stopped by her room. Not that she’d expected him to, but the knowledge of his return had caused a longing ache to burgeon beneath her collarbones, and she’d spent the remainder of the night in a fitful sleep, yearning for the way his warm body had been curled around hers three nights prior as they’d slept.

“The wingleader is on his way.” Thoirt tells her.

Sloane smiles to herself.

Dragons don’t generally appreciate being used as messenger owls between their riders, but this hadn’t stopped Sloane from asking Thoirt two minutes ago to relay a message to Cath for Dain to meet her. Thoirt hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, Sloane had rather got the impression that her dragon had skipped away telepathically to deliver the message.

Sloane angles her head so she can peer through the gap in the doorway again. She immediately spots Dain approaching. He’s striding at pace across the rotunda, looking every bit the imposing wingleader. The sea of students parts respectfully around him as he advances, and she notices that Dain never fails to acknowledge those who look his way with a polite nod.

A blush warms her cheeks and fluttering anticipation erupts in her belly. She pats at her face with her winter-chilled fingers in an attempt to alleviate some of the burn, embarrassed by her own girlish excitement.

Six months ago, she would’ve glared and scoffed at him, hot with anger. She would’ve taken in his clean-cut appearance, his perfect posture, and branded it stick-up-the-ass arrogance. But now, she looks at him and she’s hot for an entirely different reason.

Amari, she’d been so wrong about him…

Now, she looks at the wide set of his shoulders and perceives the pride he takes in his hard work. She looks at the breadth of his chest and knows that the heart that beats within it holds only the best intentions for those around him. She looks at the well-postured arch of his spine and sees his courage, sees his strength of resolve to stand firm in what is right even beneath the crushing weight of his past. And when she looks at his tapered hips and the striding shift of his muscular thighs… Gods… Sloane’s thoughtful insights disintegrate and her cheeks burn anew.

“Those are some very profound observations, my dear. You were on such a roll until that last thought.” Thoirt teases in a pulse of shimmering strawberry.

“Shush you. It’s just- I’m just-”

“You are happy.” Thoirt trills, “I am glad for you. You deserve it. Enjoy your little reunion. I shall enjoy my Cath’s company too.”

Thoirt retreats just as Dain pokes his head around the door and the rest of him follows suit. He looks serious, all formal and business-like, like a wingleader addressing a first-year.

“Sloane. Is everything alright? Cath said you needed me. He said it was urgent.”

Sloane blinks in surprise. That’s not quite the message she’d told Thoirt to relay. She’d simply asked for Dain to meet her here if he could. Her cheeky dragon appears to have embellished her despatch. She directs a note of chiding down her pathway to Thoirt and gets a steaming cackle in response.

“Yes, I did ask to see you-”

Dain’s brow knits and his gaze immediately does a sweep of her from head to toe, assessing for injury, “Are you hurt? What happened? Did someone-”

“No, I’m fine,” Sloane immediately starts, then nods toward the door behind him, “Close the door.”

Dain complies, turning halfway around to push the door closed with his right hand.

The moment the door seats itself within its frame with an audible click, Sloane flings herself against him. She slings her arms around his torso, pressing her cheek to his shoulder in a tight squeeze. Dain’s breath gusts out of him on impact and Sloane pulls away with a gasp, loosening her hold.

“Shit, sorry! I didn’t even check if you were wounded!” Sloane splutters.

“I’m not. Cath and I didn’t see combat while we were away.” Dain reassures her with a small smile, cupping her elbows with his hands and tugging her towards him again, “I’m good. Not a scratch.”

Sloane curls herself around his upper body, grinning into the leather of his jacket when she feels him return her hug, strong arms enclosing her frame in a warm embrace. She murmurs softly, “I just wanted to say hi.”

Dain’s form softens around her, the rigid tension in his back dissipating as he realises she isn’t about to inform him of some imminent adversity. He presses two quick kisses to her temple, “Hi.”

Her answering laugh is charmed peal and her smile is bright when she beams up at him. Dain’s heart skips a beat. It’s the kind of smile he’d always seen on her, seen her direct at others, but never been the recipient of. Until now. Her smile is a beguiling thing; dangerous both in its beauty as well as in its ability to disarm, and Dain is its helpless victim.

Sloane’s cheeks ache with how wide she’s grinning. Gods, what is this feeling? It’s relief, happiness, and affection amalgamated into one, all at once squeezing and expanding in her chest until she feels like she might burst from the pressure. She leans up eagerly, touching the tip of her nose to his, and Dain seals his mouth over hers in response.

It wasn’t Sloane that left for the outposts, but kissing Dain now she feels as though she’s come home.

Their kisses never stay chaste for long. The soft mould of their mouths swiftly morphs into an open-mouthed tangle of lips and tongue, hungry and urgent. Sloane groans into the kiss and her fingernails score the back of Dain’s jacket as she tries to claw impossibly closer to him. Dain’s fingers clutch at the base of her skull, one arm crushing her to his front while his other hand palms at the round flesh of her bottom.

Sloane’s need for him simmers hot and liquescent between her thighs, and she knows she isn’t alone in her desire when Dain’s hips roll absently against her, pushing the swelling length of his erection into her lower belly.

An absolutely wicked thought occurs to her.

She trails her right hand downward over Dain’s left hip, smoothing her palm over the jut of his hipbone before cupping her hand over his hard length, squeezing him through the taut leather. He hisses out a sigh of pleasure. Emboldened, Sloane smirks against his mouth and wriggles her fingers behind the belted waistband of his pants to caress the hot skin of his pelvis.

Dain jerks back with a husky warning, “Sloane, we can’t. Battle Brief starts in less than ten minutes.”

“Oh, I know.” Sloane purrs, fingers deftly undoing the buckle of his belt.

She’d been saving this particular idea for the next time they were alone together in her bedroom, but with the taste of Dain fresh on her tongue and the sensation of his hard body beneath her fingertips, Sloane is impatient. She might’ve taken some inspiration from a couple of the raunchy magazines in Avalynn’s room and she’s eager to put her new learnings into practice.

Sloane succeeds in working his belt free and she pops the button of his pants open then slides the zipper down.

Dain’s hand stops hers and there is both regret and alarm in his expression when he hisses, “We’re not doing this now! There’s seven minutes, tops, before we have to be out of here! And I’m not willing to strip you down and rush-”

“Who said anything about me?” Sloane challenges with a lift of her chin, and her sky-blue eyes are full of daring determination, “I’m going to take care of you.”

Dain huffs out a sceptical laugh, “Seven minutes is a stretch. It’s not enough time.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sloane gives his cock a lazy couple of strokes, only the thin cotton of his undershorts separating his skin from hers.

Dain’s hips buck into her touch, but she can still see the battle waging between his body and his mind in his light brown eyes. She runs her left hand up beneath his shirt, languidly caressing the ridges of his abdomen as she brazenly pulls the waist of his undershorts down, freeing his erection.

“Sloane,” Dain grinds out, “We shouldn’t.”

“Live a little, Dain. And I do love a challenge.” Sloane whispers, tugging lightly on his earlobe with her teeth.

The next sound out of his mouth is a shuddering groan as Sloane curls her fist around his naked length and pumps. She chuckles when he lets her back him up several paces until his back is pressed to the closed door. She locks it with a twist of her wrist using lesser magic and then flicks up a sound shield.

Sloane plants a blazing kiss on his lips just as she squeezes up and over his cock with a twist of her wrist, swiping over the head of him with her thumb. Dain gives a wretched moan, letting his head fall back against the wooden door with a thud.

Sloane grins. Defeat has never looked and sounded so sweet.

But she has more adventurous plans than merely stroking him off.

Sloane doesn’t do anything by halves. If she sets her mind to something, she does her damned best to excel. They’ve got seven, no, six minutes now, and she’s going to put on a bloody show for him. Plus, she also wants to test a theory about his signet. If her understanding of it is right, her plan should work without a hitch.

She shifts, sinking to her knees in front of him.

Dain’s reaction is immediate and his hands fly to her wrists, “No, you don’t need to-”

Sloane eyes him coyly from her lower vantage point, tucking both sides of her hair out of the way behind her ears. It’s an uncanny role reversal of their encounter three nights ago and she insists, “I want to.”

She doesn’t give him any room to respond. Her hands quickly encircle him and she sucks a zealous kiss over the swollen head of him.

A strangled grunt punches out of Dain and his hands instinctively move to cup her cheeks on both sides. Conveniently, this puts them exactly where Sloane needs them to be for her little plot to work. This close to him, she’s a little intimidated by his size. He’s deliciously hot and hard in her grip, and she’ll need both her hands and mouth to do a good job. She doubles down on her determination. Show time.

“I want you to wield.” Sloane instructs. Brown eyes flash open to meet hers and he looks questioningly down at her. She nods, stroking his length, “Wield. Focus on me, last night, in my bedroom.”

Dain perceives the many questions he has swirling around in the back of his mind regarding Sloane’s request, but he’s too distracted by the burning throb of pleasure in his midsection to give a fuck right now. Sloane is on her knees before him, pleasuring him in the most intimate of ways, and every time she brushes her lips over his cock head or takes his swollen flesh into her mouth, Dain’s mind short-circuits completely. So, he does as he’s told.

Dain closes his eyes, focusing on the details Sloane has asked him to. Her memory is right there, perched on the cusp of her consciousness, waiting for him. He reaches for it and dives in.

Sloane is positioned before the standing mirror in her bedroom. He’s met with her reflection. She’s naked, every inch of her beautiful body bare and on display: the elegant column of her neck; her breasts, pink nipples peaked from the cold; toned thighs that frame the most sensual part of her…

Dain groans loudly at the vision.

She smiles at herself in the mirror and her expression is oddly self-conscious. She backpedals towards her bed, very deliberately keeping her eyes on her own reflection. She carefully sits back on her covers to lean against the mass of pillows she’s arranged behind her. A flush colours her cheeks and she covers her mouth, stifling a giggle. She takes a breath that raises the rounds of her breasts in the most delightful manner, and parts her legs wide.

Dain clicks, comprehension racing through him, at the same time that the vision of Sloane lowers a hand to touch herself while she continues to watch. She’d planned this little ruse. She’d been watching herself for him, so that he could see her like this, in his head. Saliva pools in the corners of his mouth and he swallows with a dark chuckle. His eyes remain closed and he’s utterly engrossed in the erotic memory playing out in the forefront of his mind.

“You clever girl.” Dain breathes aloud, head lolling a little against the door with a smile, before his face twists in pleasure as Sloane begin to bob her head over the upper half of his cock while her hands take care of the rest.

Sloane thrills at the praise.

She remembers Dain telling her that his signet works by allowing him to experience memories through the individual’s eyes. So it’d been crucial for her to keep her eyes open and on her reflection in order for Dain to see her in her memory. It’d proven a tricky effort, especially when she’d really begun to enjoy her own pleasure, and every instinct had been urging her to close her eyes. However, hearing Dain moan and gasp now is music to her ears, and has more than made the effort worth it.

It’s fascinating that Sloane can still watch him while he wields. It’s an intriguing duality where she still perceives the current reality her own eyes are seeing, yet she also knows simultaneously what part of her memory Dain is watching. She knows he’s watching her finger herself, watching as one of her hands fondles her breasts while the other has two fingers buried as deep as they’ll go inside her pussy, trying desperately to curl them the way he does.

Sloane refocuses on her task. She’s working against the clock after all.

She continues to stroke and suck rhythmically on his gorgeous cock, marvelling at how it throbs in pulses in waves as she works him. She adds in a swirl of her tongue against the underside of its head – she’d read this tip in one of the magazines – and is immediately rewarded with a harsh curse and a buck of Dain’s hips.

“Fucking hell, kitten… That feels so good… Oh, Gods… You look so good pleasuring yourself like that… Oh, good girl…”

She hums low in her throat, feeling her own sticky arousal coat her underwear as she watches Dain revel in the pleasure she’s giving him. Loial, he tastes amazing too… His flesh is firm, velvety smooth, and the little drops of his pre-cum that ooze out are sweet against her tastebuds. And the sight of Dain as Sloane peers up at him from her knees is exquisite.

The hem of his shirt is rucked up over his navel just below his lower ribs, giving Sloane a mouthwatering view of his sculpted abs. The shirt fabric is trapped between the sides of his jacket which are held in place by Dain’s forearms on either side of her face. She’s glad for it, thoroughly enjoying the way his abdomen ripples and curls with his pleasure as his hips jolt from time to time. His mouth is parted, panting lightly, and his eyes are scrunched shut in enjoyment while he watches the memory version of herself moan and writhe on her bedcovers while she tries to find her peak.

Dain’s breathing grows more and more ragged, increasing in pace as well as audibility, and he’s powerless to stop the uninhibited moans that are tumbling from his lips. He’s so damned close. Sloane is wreaking absolute ecstasy on his body with her mouth and the vision of her on the brink of orgasm in his mind is hurtling him swiftly towards his own completion. Pulses of charged pleasure grip his midsection and when it begins to burn white-hot in blissful warning, Dain grits his teeth, trying to prolong the moment just a little longer.

Sloane whimpers desperately, watching her reflection through half-lidded eyes. Her arm is curled inward, her fingers squelching obscenely in her sopping core as she approaches the edge of her desirous oblivion. A high-pitched moan leaves her and her breaths stutter, coming quick, gasping and choppy. She blinks, eyelids fluttering furiously as she tries to keep her eyes on her reflection, before they clamp tight shut and she surrenders to her orgasm with a sharp cry.

Dain only sees the darkness of her eyelids now, but the sounds of her climaxing spark off the inevitable chain of events in his body that he knows will conclude with his own orgasm. Everything in his pelvis tightens and he dangles for several torturous, heavenly seconds, balancing precariously on the precipice of no return.

“Sloane,” Dain’s voice is a tight croak, “I’m gonna come, fuck-”

Sloane hums in acknowledgement but ignores the way he’s frantically patting at one of her cheeks in an attempt to remove her mouth from him. Fuck that… She wants to taste all of him, in her mouth and down her throat. She grips the base of his cock then sucks him mercilessly all the day down, as far as she can take him.

Dain’s head rears backwards, thumping loudly against the door. A single breathy whimper escapes him before his entire body goes rigid, strung tight for several beats. And when the tension releases, he comes, his breath forcing from him in a shout as he ejaculates.

Sloane moans with him, relishing the warm splash of his cum at the back of her throat. It’s viscous and a little salty, but not unpleasant, and she swallows it all down with a smug sense of pride. She gently releases him, rising off him to sit back on her heels.

There is a light sheen of sweat across Dain’s forehead and he looks utterly ruined. Sloane commits the sight of him to memory as proud satisfaction curls its greedy fingers around the image, coveting it close and whispering tempting words to Sloane about ruining him like this again and again. She bites her lip. She thinks it could be a very addictive endeavour, unravelling him like this.

By the time present reality filters through to Dain’s consciousness, Sloane has already tucked him neatly back into his pants and righted the rest of his clothing too. Dain discovers that the cheeky little minx is perched on the edge of the table again, patting demurely at the corners of her mouth with the back of a hand, looking for all the world like she hasn’t just blown her wingleader, during curricular hours, on public college property.

“I’d say I accomplished my mission. I think we still have at least a minute to make it to Battle Brief too.” Sloane pronounces, only a little smug.

Dain licks his lips and quickly surveys his uniform, brushing his palms over himself to smooth out any creases. Once satisfied that there doesn’t seem to be any incriminating evidence of their actions, he pulls Sloane into a quick, passionate kiss.

“You’re going to be the death of me.” Dain breathes against her lips, “That’s quite the welcome back, cadet.”

“I decided I wanted a side of dessert after spotting you at breakfast.”

“Now I’ll have to wait for my dessert.”

Sloane stipples her fingers affectionately along his bearded jaw, “You know where to find me after curfew. I’ll be in my bedroom like the obedient little cadet I am.”

Dain snorts at her sarcasm. Someone yells out something unintelligible beyond the confines of the meeting room and it reminds him of their pressing circumstances.

He gestures at the door, “Now what? We’ll be seen. It’ll look odd, you and I just waltzing out of here calmly.”

Sloane grins, her twinkling eyes full of clever mischief, “I’ve already thought of that. Leave it with me.”

Dain lifts his brows, curious.

Sloane steps out of his arms and deactivates the sound shield. She unlocks the door and throws it open with a vehement bang that causes the trickle of students going past to startle.

“You can get fucked, Aetos!” Sloane hurls back at him as she exits, “I swear so much shit comes out of your mouth that there can’t possibly be any left to go out your fucking ass! Lay the fuck off me! I’ll turn in my report when I’m fucking done with it!”

Sloane storms off and Dain presses his lips together in attempt to curb his laughter. He feigns a weary sigh and steps out into the rotunda, ignoring the quizzical glances bystanders are aiming his way. He’s got to hand it to Sloane though. Her false display of another wingleader-subordinate argument between them was certainly convincing.

“Gods above, Aetos,” Lyell Stirling remarks, falling into step beside him. Dain hadn’t even seen the other wingleader come up behind him. Stirling carries on, “I’m glad that one’s not in my chain of command. Insubordination personified. Quite the filthy mouth she’s got on her too.”

Dain chokes then coughs to suppress his chuckle at the unwitting double entendre of Stirling’s words.

Stirling has no fucking idea…

***~~~***~~~***

Sloane’s bedroom, Basgiath – January 10

“Green. Bright green like the new shoots of spring grass.”

Dain’s voice is calm and composed above Sloane as his large hands soothe the aching muscles of her back with sweeping strokes of deep pressure from her tailbone to her shoulders. Her skin is supple and fragrant with sweet almond oil, and she gratefully muses to herself that it’s a good thing he’s massaging her now - after they’ve already tasted, touched and pleased each other - and not before.

There’s no way she would’ve just lain here on her front, blissed out and relaxed, if he’d started with this. His strong hands stroking over her skin would’ve wound her tighter and tighter, and she would’ve been squirming and begging for his touch elsewhere before long.

Sloane purrs contentedly, “My favourite colour is blue. Dark, like the midnight sky.”

Dain hums in response, but says no more. He’s been quieter than usual tonight, Sloane notes, though he was no less passionate when they’d enjoyed each other earlier as compared to the previous times. He’d still been hot, hard and urgent for her; all rumbling growls and burning kisses, and full of the most wicked talents when it came to undoing her with his tongue and fingers. But she can tell he’s preoccupied tonight. Something is bothering him.

“Feel better?” Dain asks, squeezing over her shoulders one last time.

“Mm, thank you. Imogen’s been a hard ass lately in the gym.” Sloane says, stretching and rolling onto her back when Dain moves off her to recline against her pillows.

Her body is entirely on display for him as she stretches, and she’s completely unbothered by the fact. Gods know he’s seen and tasted just about every inch of her by now. She smirks when she catches him looking at her breasts and crawls toward him, letting her hips sway lasciviously as she goes.

A corner of Dain’s lips lift, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts his arm to receive her when she settles herself against him. Sloane feels him pull the bedcovers up and over their waists to ward off the chill, and she snuggles in close, nestling her head into the crook of his neck while her palm finds his chest.

“You’re an excellent masseuse.” Sloane remarks, “Is this the kind of treatment you give to all the girls you’ve been with?”

“No. Just Violet.”

Sloane stills at the same time that Dain also stiffens beneath her.

Dain catches himself, tripping over his words as he quickly tries to explain, “No, I mean- That came out wrong. Violet is the only other person- But we’ve never been together like that. She just-” He pauses, and Sloane feels his arm squeeze tighter around her shoulders. His voice is measured when he continues, “Violet is easily injured because of her condition. So over the years, I’ve had to learn how to help her release muscle tension and ease aches. Obviously this was all before things changed with her.”

A tang of jealousy sours Sloane’s mouth and she tries to swallow it away, “No, I get it. I know you and Violet were close.”

“She was my best friend.”

Sloane doesn’t miss the melancholy in his statement. It causes another sharp sting of envy behind her sternum. She rubs Dain’s chest absently, “And you two never-?”

“No. We kissed after Threshing last year, but it was once and never again.”

“Did Xaden come along and ruin your plans for romance? Steal her away from you?”

Dain emits a humourless laugh, “You know, if you’d asked me this a year ago I would’ve said yes. I would’ve blamed Riorson. It was so easy to think of him as the wedge, but the truth is it was my own actions that pushed Violet away.”

“I don’t understand.” Sloane starts with a frown, “Violet tried to convince me months ago that what happened at Athebyne wasn’t your fault. Why would she say that to me and then keep her own distance from you?”

“It’s not that simple. There was more to it.” Dain’s chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, “I didn’t want her to be a rider, Sloane. All my life I’d known her and she’d wanted to be a scribe liker her father. I was terrified when she turned up in the Riders Quadrant at her mother’s orders. I was convinced she’d end up on the death roll if I didn’t find a way to get her out. I was blinded by my fear. Even when she got stronger, started succeeding against all odds, all I could see still was the risk of her dying. Then Riorson got involved and, before I knew the truth about all the shit happening beyond the wards, I just saw him as a signed death warrant for Violet. In my desperation to protect her I suffocated her and now she hates me for it.”

“Hate is a strong word. She’s speaking to you again now, isn’t she? She came to you for help researching.”

“She came to me out of necessity. She needs my translation skills and a fellow like-minded academic to bounce ideas off.” Dain quiets for a few beats, pensive, then he continues, “We did talk things through back in Aretia, but things will never be like they used to be between us. Too much shit has gone down and too much remained unsaid for too long. It feels irreparable now.”

Dain sounds so bitter, so hurt, that Sloane is torn between her own pain at his upset and the ugly jealousy that’s rearing its head at the reminder that Violet was such a centrepiece in his life. It’s stupid and irrational, but she can’t help the gnawing feeling.

“You did what you thought was right at the time.”

Dain scoffs, “Every time I’ve done what I thought was right, it’s blown up in my fucking face. Violet looks at me now as if I’m a stranger.”

A question springs to Sloane’s mind and she knows it’s impudent, knows it’s none of her business, knows she has no right to wonder, but it slips past her traitorous lips nonetheless, “Do you still love her?”

“I think there’s a part of me that will always love Violet.” Dain replies, and Sloane’s heart plummets, her next few heartbeats heavy and painfully sore. But he adds then, “But I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Sloane squeaks, her throat still tight despite the relief of his words.

The muscles of his chest bunch as Dain shifts and, for a sinking moment, Sloane thinks he’s getting up to leave. She raises her weight on an elbow to give him room to move away, but is pleasantly surprised when his arms close around her once more, hauling her tighter against him so that almost all of her upper half is draped across his. Her ear is pressed to the flat of his pectorals and the rhythmic beat of his heart thumps steadily beneath. She breathes in and settles, her own heart calming and slowing to match his.

One of Dain’s hands, warm and slightly calloused, caresses her upper arm and he starts up again with a weighty sigh, “It’s just- It’s so much more than just my friendship with Violet. Her family was my family too. I spent nearly all my time with the Sorrengails moving from station to station wherever my father’s and her mother’s work took us. Violet’s father taught me everything I know about history, about the different languages. He treated me like another one of his children. Brennan used to set up little treasure hunts for Violet and I when we were younger. Mira used to let me do her sparring drills with her when she was training to enter the quadrant. Hell, I used to braid Mira and Violet’s hair.” He breaks off with a nostalgic laugh then stills, “It was horrible when Asher died. And now after what’s happened with Violet… Now it feels like I’ve lost them all.”

Sloane aches at the vulnerability in Dain’s voice. She aches at the realisation of how estranged he must feel from the people he’s considered family since childhood.

Sloane’s blood-family might be dead, but she isn’t alone. She has her found family in Imogen, Bodhi, Xaden and Garrick. Dain’s circumstances are the reverse and yet he’s more alone than she’s ever been.

Sloane angles her head upward just enough that she can press a soft kiss to his throat, “I’m sorry, Dain.” He sniffs once and his larynx bobs with a hard swallow, and Sloane is suddenly desperate to change the subject.

“Don’t apologise.” Dain replies, his tone hard, “You of all people shouldn’t be feeling sorry for me. Your family was murdered under a tyrannical regime built on selfish deceit.”

“There’s no competition when it comes to loss. Loss is loss.” Sloane says, “You didn’t mention your mother earlier. I assume she’s passed on? So you’ve lost her too.”

The laugh that sputters from Dain is so rancorous that Sloane startles.

“My mother left when I was not even three.” Dain says bleakly, “I don’t remember anything of her. All I have is a crumpled photograph that’s so worn and faded that it’s barely visible anymore. My father says she left and never returned. He won’t speak of her. I don’t even know her name.”

“Dain, I’m-” Lost for words, Sloane almost apologises again but stops herself when Dain gives her arm a chastising squeeze.

“It’s turning out to be a pattern, it seems. People leave. My mother, Violet, and now my father too.”

Sloane’s blood boils hot with rage at the reminder of how Dain’s father had publicly disowned him last week in Battle Brief. Her loathing for the General bubbles to the surface and though she doesn’t wish to add to Dain’s list of losses, she very much wishes that man dead for his crimes.

Invigorated by her anger, Sloane props herself up on an elbow to look at Dain, “Well, you have me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be a pain in your ass for the rest of my life.”

Dain arcs an amused brow, “Is that supposed to make me feel better? It’ll be a bit hard for you to be a pain in my ass when I graduate in six months and you’re stuck here.”

“I’ll find a way. I’ll write you annoying letters full of my most creative insults. You know, I’ll tell you how great it is to finally be able to see past your fat head during morning formation; about how nice it is not to have your fat fingers and anally neat handwriting marking my reports-”

Sloane squeals with laughter as Dain tackles her, rolling her over and pinning her to the bed with a growl, “Oh I know you love my fat fingers, kitten.”

Dain kisses her, hard and deep, and Sloane clutches at his face, returning his kiss with equal fervour. Desire ignites like kindling flames low in her belly and she moans wantonly into his mouth. Gods… They’ve both been sated already tonight; once for Dain and thrice for Sloane because Dain stubbornly insists on being a diligent scholar even when it comes to learning her body. But Sloane is fast discovering that she doesn’t seem to have a cap on her craving for him.

In the end, it’s Dain that breaks away slowly, “I should go. I won’t stay tonight. I’ve got some things I need to sort through before I turn in and it’s already really late.”

The knit between his brows has returned, as has the troubled and brooding demeanour that she’s picked up on all evening.

“That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Whatever it is you need to sort out?” Sloane asks gently, “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

Dain fidgets, scratching the back of his neck, “Sorry, yeah. It’s complicated.”

Sloane shrugs. She strokes a finger over his cheek, “It’s ok. You don’t need to tell me about it. Fuck, you probably can’t anyway, but just know that I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to.”

She expects Dain to nod, smile, and carry on, to bid her goodnight and be on his way. However, he stalls.

Sloane blinks back her surprise, “What is it?”

Dain chews on the inside of his cheek, appearing to be contemplating whether or not to tell her before ultimately deciding to, “Violet has asked me to break into my father’s office to steal some of her father’s old research.”

Sloane’s eyeballs so badly want to roll in their sockets, but she uses every ounce of her willpower to curb the action.

Of course whatever’s bothering Dain has got something to do with Violet…

***~~~***~~~***

Professor Carr’s Signet Class, Basgiath – January 16th

The large iron orbs beneath her palms hum with zeal as Sloane concentrates on imbuing the flood of Thoirt’s power into them.

Made from solid cast iron and about the diameter of a dinner plate, the spherical orbs are imprinted with powerful containment runes, forming steel wells in which Sloane has been practising and testing the limits of her ability to imbue. The volume of power which the orbs can contain isn’t infinite, but she has yet to discover the boundary of their capacity.

This particular exercise is two-fold. Once Sloane has driven as much power as she can currently wield into the orbs, without burning out, she then has to reverse the cycle and siphon the power back into herself. Except, the containment runes present a challenge. Engraved into the iron to magically retain the imbued power inside the steel, Sloane has to unpick the meticulously woven strands of magic that embody the runes, essentially breaking them down, before she’s able to access the power within and summon it back again.

Professor Carr has made the runes stronger and more complex every time she’s completed this exercise, but she’s getting very adept at it. So much so that where the droning buzz of the other first-years working around her used to drive her to self-conscious distraction, the background noise doesn’t even phase her now. Even amid her concentration, her thoughts are still able to wander, and of course they wander to the secret little compartment in the depths of her psyche, where she keeps all her recent tempting and lurid recollections of Dain.

Thank fuck Carr’s class is for first-years who’ve already manifested a signet.

It wouldn’t be funny in the least if an intinnsic was to manifest right in front of Sloane and discover, or worse, broadcast to the class, the way she’s vividly daydreaming of the breathless little noise that her wingleader makes right before he comes.

Dain has been sent away to the Midlands far more often in the last couple of weeks than Sloane would’ve liked.

He’s gone again now on his third three-day rotation in two weeks, and needless to say, Thoirt isn’t thrilled about being separated from Cath either. Sloane has noticed that her dragon has been more subdued, her usual playful demeanour diminished. The occasional note of wistfulness trickles down their bond from time to time too, and Sloane knows without words that Thoirt misses Cath.

Hell, Sloane misses Dain too.

Sloane tells herself it’s Thoirt’s own emotions bleeding into hers, but the lie sits uncomfortably in her chest. She misses Dain keenly. She feels his absence like a hollow ache behind her ribs that won’t ease.

Gods, it’s only been two weeks since they’d started seeing each other like this. Whatever the hell this is…

No guarantees. No strings. Those had been her words, and yet Sloane feels helplessly strung up and tangled in the captivating web that is Dain Aetos. Every spare moment they’ve found has been spent tangled up in each other; tangled fingers, tangled tongues, and tangled limbs in her sheets. And Sloane has spent every moment in-between fixated on finding a way to see him again.

She’s in way over her head.

The realisation is a double-edged blade: Razor-sharp with the yearning she feels on one side, and serrated on the other with her ever-increasing alarm at how far she’s already fallen. Because that’s what’s happening. She’s falling for him.

Her palms burn and the tightening ache in her wrists, like a muscle cramp, signals the approach of her power’s limit. Sloane inhales and halts the flow of power into the orbs. She retracts her hands, stretching and curling her fingers to release the tension in her joints. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Carr approach, winding his way through the other desks and students towards her.

It’s fine if Carr wants to observe. She’s confident enough with this exercise now not to mind his scrutiny.

“Cadet Mairi,” Professor Carr greets, his voice roughened with age, “You’ll have your focus session with me this morning.”

Sloane tenses.

Every lesson, Carr sets tasks for all the students to work on then takes one of them into his office out the back to have a one-on-one session with. This isn’t the first session she’s had alone with Carr, but a session with him usually means he’s going to push her signet by trying something new.

Anxiety crawls up her spine. She doesn’t like new.

Carr beckons her along with a wave of his hand and Sloane reluctantly follows.

The smell of Carr’s office has always struck her as peculiar. It’s astringent with something that makes her wrinkle her nose, not quite chemical or herbal, but unpleasant nonetheless. The smell sets all her nerves on edge. If danger had a scent, Sloane thinks this would be it. And Carr is dangerous. She’s heard the stories and witnessed hints of his ruthless brutality; cadets pushed to near-death under his instruction; cadets executed by his hand. Old he may be, but Carr’s wizened appearance isn’t fooling anyone.

To Sloane’s surprise, she finds that Carr’s office isn’t empty when she rounds a stone pillar towards the professor’s desk.

“Bodhi?” Her surprise is so acute that she forgets entirely to address him by his formal rank.

Carr purses his lips, unimpressed, “Section Leader Durran has agreed to assist me with your session this morning.”

Bodhi shoots her a reassuring grin when Carr turns his back and starts pacing.

The feeling of foreboding that’s beginning to cramp in her gut prevents Sloane from returning his smile. She doesn’t have a good feeling about this. She’s content to train her signet with things. Inanimate objects. Runes. Bodhi’s appearance this morning isn’t comforting.

“What will we be doing today?” Sloane asks, trying her best to keep her tone neutral to hide her apprehension.

Carr’s piercing eyes pin her to the spot, “You will work on your siphoning this morning.”

“Oh, well you stopped me earlier with the orbs when I was just about to begin the second phase of undoing the runes to siphon the power back. I can go back and show you-”

“No need.” Carr interjects, “I know you’re proficient with that exercise. I’ve observed you enough there. Your ability to siphon from stagnant power sources is sound, Cadet Mairi. We’re going to attempt to expand your siphoning ability to live power sources today.”

Carr’s eyes flick once to Bodhi and Sloane gulps.

Fuck. No. Carr wants her to try siphoning from Bodhi…

“I’m not ready.” Sloane blurts, taking several steps back.

Carr clicks his tongue and the action is more condescending than conciliating, “You will never be ready. No one is ever ready to face their challenges, but such is the nature of learning. Discomfort is part and parcel of growth. Struggle breeds strength, cadet.”

Distress sinks its sharp talons into Sloane’s sternum, clawing its way up her throat in a burning sting of bile. The memory of Lilith Sorrengail resurfaces, the haunting image and sensation of her lifeforce fading away under Sloane’s fingers keenly acute and nauseating.

“I won’t do it!” Sloane snarls, half fear and half fury, “I haven’t got the control. It’s too dangerous!”

Carr smacks the length of his cane firmly against the side of his wooden desk and the sound cracks loudly in the space, “And you will never gain the control if you don’t try! You will become a danger to yourself and to others if you continue refusing to train your signet!”

“I have been wielding and training it! I do so every time I come to your class!”

“You are barely brushing the surface of your abilities.” Carr growls impatiently, “Your dragon is a powerful red, and your signet needs to be stretched, honed. Not merely placated by the playground basics!”

Thoirt sends a wave of heartening encouragement in an amber glow down their bond, but says nothing. They’ve already had their own heated debates about her reluctance around her signet. Thoirt won’t add to her current distress, but her presence is a reminder to Sloane that her dragon is with her, supporting her.

Bodhi steps towards Sloane, hands open and outstretched, “Come on, Cadet Mairi. You need to start somewhere. You’re not in danger of hurting me. My signet protects me. I’m the safest person you can try this with.”

Sloane’s gaze fixes itself on Bodhi. His signet gives him the ability to counteract other riders’ signets. He could stop her, in theory, if she were to lose control. But what if she’s too destructive? What if she takes too much, too quickly, and he can’t stop her? She meets his warm hazel eyes.

Bodhi is her brother in all respects except blood.

Sloane swallows hard. She won’t do it. She can’t risk it.

“No. I’m not doing this.” She hisses with a vehement glare at Carr, “You can’t just spring this on me without warning, Professor. I’m not prepared.”

Bodhi sighs in exasperation, “You can try. You will try, cadet. That’s an order.” He reaches for Sloane’s hands but she slaps them away, outraged that he’s pulling rank on her.

“No, Bodhi! I’m not siphoning from you!”

“Sloane, you need to start training your signet or else-”

“Is siphoning always such a noisy affair?” A deep and unfamiliar drawl interrupts from the shadowed doorway of Carr’s office, “Or is this racket particular to Cadet Mairi?”

Bodhi’s head snaps up and Sloane sees him immediately tense. Carr leans to the side to peer around Bodhi’s frame, raising an uninspired grey brow at the newcomer’s appearance.

Boot heels click, ominous and unhurried, across the stone floor and Sloane turns around just as the face and form of the Commanding General comes into the light.

“General Aetos.” Bodhi straightens with an automatic acknowledgement of the commanding general, pairing it with a single respectful dip of his chin.

Sloane is vaguely aware of her lips murmuring a similar acknowledgement, but her eyes are transfixed by the intruder.

Aetos is customarily dressed in form-fitting rider black from top to toe, with shined boots, a shortsword at one hip, dagger at the other, and his black leather doublet gleams with an array of polished honours pinned neatly in two lines from shoulder to collarbone. He hasn’t stopped moving since entering the room and he cuts an imposing figure, stalking leisurely around the space, taking the environment in and watching its occupants like a panther on the prowl.

“I wasn’t expecting you this morning, General.” Carr remarks frostily.

“Don’t mind me, Professor Carr. Be as you were.” Aetos gives a nonchalant cock of his head and stops a few paces from Sloane, “I just saw in your lesson schedules for the week that you planned to hold a session with Cadet Mairi this morning and thought I’d stop by to observe.” He fixes his light-brown eyes on Sloane, “After all, she is the siphon who saved Basgiath.”

The General’s final words aren’t delivered like a compliment.

A prickling itch slithers up Sloane’s spine and she suppresses a shudder. Gods, her imagination is working overtime today... She can practically feel the weight of the man’s stare like a tangible contact beneath her clothing. She holds her ground, refusing to look away from Aetos’ gaze, as if doing so would render her the loser in this unwitting match of glares.

So many of his features are disconcertingly familiar. He has the same eyes as Dain, the same strong browbone, same full lips and square jaw. He’s all at once so much like Dain yet also nothing like him.

Dain is warmth, compassion, and safety. His father is cold, taciturn, and hostile.

“We were just in the process of convincing Cadet Mairi to try siphoning from Cadet Durran here.” Carr says, waving a hand at Bodhi, “But, as you can see, there is some resistance on her part towards the training of her signet.”

Aetos frowns at Sloane, “Is that so? How peculiar. One would assume after your recent heroic efforts that you’d be eager to continue refining such a skill?”

Sloane’s breakfast threatens to make a reappearance, “There was nothing heroic about what I did. General Sorrengail’s sacrifice is what saved us. I merely helped.”

A tick ripples on the General’s jawline and his annoyance at her backtalk is clear, “Nevertheless, your signet is a potent asset, and I’d like to see it in action.” A sharp retort is poised on the tip of Sloane’s tongue, but Aetos is quick to curb it. He barks, “That wasn’t a request, cadet.”

Sloane’s jaw snaps shut.

Bodhi gives a deliberate clear of his throat and extends his hands toward her. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his tanned forearms. His jaw is tight and he looks uncomfortable. There’s a hint of pleading in his hazel eyes. He gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. Sloane recognises the look: Don’t make a scene. Not here. Not now.

“I’ve got you. I’ll stop you if I need to.” Bodhi states with a conviction that Sloane wishes she feels too.

Sloane’s gaze darts to the General, whose attention hasn’t wavered from her. His eyes are stony, but there’s a gleam of mischief in their brown depths, almost as if he’s daring her to disobey him. That gives her pause. It’s one thing to rebel and spit in the face of student leadership, but to defy a direct order from the Commanding General treads a hair’s breadth too close to gambling with her life.

“Place your hand on Durran’s wrist, Mairi.” Carr instructs, sounding almost bored.

The joints in Sloane’s neck crackle and pop as she stretches her neck on one side and then the other. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself against the rising tide of her panic. She can try.

She reaches for Bodhi, curling shaking fingers around his wrist just over the place where the swirls of his rebellion relic begin. The warmth of his skin registers first against her palm. Then beneath it she feels his magic, thrumming with vitality. It instantly whets the interest of her signet and Thoirt’s power rises within her. It wants to reach, to taste, to draw from the vibrancy it senses flowing in Bodhi’s veins, and the hunger that Sloane feels frightens her.

“Focus now, cadet. Feel the signature of his magic, find its individual strands.” Carr continues, “And when you’ve isolated one, slowly pull from it.”

It’s so different to what she’s done in the past with Felix’s conduits or Carr’s iron orbs. The power she’s been working with previously has been her own. Now, it’s as if her signet recognises the difference.

Bodhi’s magic is unfamiliar, alien, and where Sloane had easily been able to identify the neat strands of her own magic, Bodhi’s appears now as a jumbling mess. And when she probes, attempting to locate an access point to a strand, his magic protests. The jumbling mess transforms into an unreceptive barbed cord, pulsing in warning and rebelling against her signet.

Sloane feels Bodhi stiffen and she grimaces, “I can’t. It’s fighting me. I’m stopping.” She attempts to let go, only to feel Bodhi clamp his other hand over the back of hers, keeping her there.

“I’m fine. Keep going. Concentrate.” Bodhi says.

Sloane probes again and the cord of his power flares aggressively, “No. It doesn’t want me to draw from it!”

Carr scoffs as if her observation was obvious, “Of course it doesn’t. It senses a foreign presence. This is part of honing your ability, learning to seamlessly unwind and access the power of others before drawing it into yourself.”

Bodhi squeezes the back of her hand encouragingly, “Breathe and relax into it. Let your signet’s instinct guide you.”

Her signet is eager to be unleashed. It’s urging Sloane to reach out fully and sink into it instead of probing gently, to let the gates holding Thoirt’s power swing wide open, but she’s too afraid. Letting all that power swarm could be catastrophic. She could harm Bodhi, even kill him. So she resolutely keeps to her hesitant probing, trying desperately now to coax and isolate a cooperative strand from the protesting cord of Bodhi’s magic. She squeezes her eyes tight shut in concentration.

A lone filament of magic protrudes then and Sloane latches onto it frantically. She pulls with her magic, yanking hard to draw it back.

Bodhi cries out in pain and Sloane wrenches away from him with a horrified cry of her own.

Bodhi is rubbing at his wrist and Sloane yelps, “Bodhi? Did I hurt you? I’m sorry!”

“I’m ok.” Bodhi replies, “That burned a bit, but I’m fine. I didn’t even stop you. You did.”

Sloane peers at his wrist, looking for a mark, but his skin is unblemished. She shakes her head, “I was trying to be gentle, to probe slowly-”

“You were trying too hard.” Carr interjects, tapping his cane rhythmically against the side of his desk in an irritatingly unruffled manner. “Try again.”

“No!” Sloane shouts, “I’ll hurt him!”

“It won’t hurt once you eventually master the skill. Now try again and try not to be so tense this time.” Carr growls.

“I said no!”

“Sloane, I’m fine! It surprised me before but I know what to expect now-” Bodhi insists.

“Fuck. Off. Bodhi.” Sloane hisses through gritted teeth.

A deep chortle slices through the taut tension of the room and all eyes turn to the General.

“Your reputation precedes you, Cadet Mairi. Quite the firecracker, aren’t you?” Aetos pronounces with a smirk.

Sloane frowns warily at him, equal parts unsure as to what to make of his amusement, as well as uncomfortable with it. The back of her neck prickles, the itchy feeling slithering down her back unpleasantly. She scratches at the nape of her neck, attempting to dispel the sensation.

Carr emits an incensed groan as he looks from her to Bodhi, “I see my decision to have Durran assist hasn’t panned out the way I’d intended. It appears the familiarity the both of you share is a hindrance to your progress, Mairi.”

“Yes. You’ll need to find a participant Cadet Mairi is less attached to.” Aetos adds casually.

The unnerving weight of his stare settles on Sloane again and when she meets his eyes he smiles at her. There’s no warmth in it. It’s a cool and calculating leer backed again by that glint of mischief she saw earlier, as if he’s privy to something she’s not.

“I’ll have to find someone experienced. Someone with good composure, and not someone from your squad, Mairi, or we’ll run into the same issue. Impartiality is key. Someone you won’t mind inadvertently causing some discomfort to while you learn.” Carr muses aloud.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Aetos proffers.

A look of mild irritation flits across Carr’s face, “Yes, General?”

The General regards Sloane with a curious expression that makes her gut clench with unease. The itch crawling across her back intensifies suddenly, spreading over her entire torso, creeping up her neck, and over her scalp. It’s so intense that it feels as though it’s burrowing beneath her skin.

Aetos licks his lips, “Her wingleader, perhaps?”

Sloane’s stomach drops and she only just manages to stifle her gasp. Gods, no… That’s as bad as if it was Bodhi, if not worse. Not Dain… She won’t siphon from Dain… She doesn’t want to hurt him… Not her Dain…

Any hint of Aetos’ previous smile vanishes, as does the gleam of amused mischief. His brown gaze hardens and his lips thin into a flat, unforgiving line. Sloane shivers and pointed alarm shoots through her consciousness. The creeping itch is inside her now. It’s writhing around in her head, worming away beneath her shields…

“Stop!” Thoirt’s exclamation reverberates inside her mind, “You must go now, Spitfire! Get away from this room!”

Sloane’s heart breaks into a gallop and she stammers, “E-Excuse me, I have to go.”