Page 139 of The Blood Rites

“It will heal,” I say, trying to pull away. But he doesn’t let go.

“May I?” he asks, sliding his hands up to reposition my arms before adjusting my stance. He moves my hips next, then my shoulders and my fists. Every correction is a brush of skin on skin. Firm, deliberate touches that wake every nerve in me.

“Again”, he says, still behind me.

I do as he says. This time, the punch lands cleaner, the pain less jarring.

He makes a low sound of approval. “You move like you’re trying not to exist,” he whispers.

I repeat the punch. Again and again.

I switch hands, and he adjusts my stance again. I move how he wants me to.

After a while, he moves around to face me. His hair is damp, curling at the edges. He looks... unreal. His eyes shine like black glass, full of the night.

He takes my hand in his, inspecting the knuckles. He brings them to his mouth and kisses them, as though his lips are the ones healing the split skin and not the Mother Shard’s magic.

I shiver, and he smiles, slow and wicked.

“Better,” he says. “But you still fight like you expect to lose.”

I glare at him, my breathing ragged from training. “I don’t remember the last time I won.”

He tilts his head, studying me. Then, out of nowhere, he slams his fist into the dummy with such force that it splits down the seam. Sand spills out in a slow trickle.

He wipes his hand on his shirt. “Do you think you’re the only one who has something to lose?”

I look away, but he catches my chin between his fingers. His grip is tight at first, too tight, but he loosens it when I wince.

“Don’t look away from me,” he says, but it is a request, not a command.

I meet his gaze, and my anger evaporates. There is only two of us, suspended in a tension that is equal parts violence and longing.

He leans in, so close I can taste the cinnamon spice that lingers on him. He doesn't kiss me, not yet. Instead, he runs his hand down my jaw, thumb lingering on the corner of my mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper. My voice has gone ragged.

“Because I need this,” he says.

He presses his lips to mine, hard and urgent. I’m not prepared. My mind goes blank, so I kiss back with everything I have left. His hands are everywhere—my face, my back, pulling me closer, as if he’s trying to fuse us together.

That’s all I want. I don’t want to remember anything else.

For a second, nothing else exists. There is only his touch, his breath, and the pulse of our hearts. Too fast. Too close.

He breaks the kiss first. My lips are bruised, my hands still clawing at his shoulders, my knees trembling.

His eyes are wild, pupils blown.

His hand rests at my throat, not threatening, but steadying. “You’re not allowed to leave me.”

It’s a joke, I think, but the way he says it makes it sound like a promise. Another I can’t possibly keep.

I nod anyway, my hand over his. What’s one more?

I can feel him, hard beneath his trousers. It’s awkward and desperate, and I don’t care.

He lowers his hand, fingers tracing the length of my chest. He doesn't go further, but they linger. Like it means something. Like it shouldn’t.