Chapter 58: The Unraveling
The first thing she became aware of was warmth. A deep, solid heat at her back, and a lighter, flickering one along her front. The second was weight. A pleasant, heavy anchor across her waist, and fingers loosely tangled with hers.
Elara opened her eyes to the soft, grey-gold light of pre-dawn bleeding into the Astronomy Tower. The stars had faded to ghosts. She was on her side, curled, but not tightly. Her wings, stiff and sore but gloriously free, were spread not on cold stone but over and around living bodies.
Rowan was behind her. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breath against the nape of her neck, the hard plane of his chest against her spine. His arm was the weight across her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her ribcage. In front of her, Lysander faced her, his head tucked under her chin, wild dark hair tickling her skin. One of his legs was thrown over hers, his free hand holding hers against his own chest, where a slow, steady heartbeat thumped against her knuckles.
Her wings. They were draped over both of them like some kind of iridescent blanket, the delicate membranes covering Rowan’s shoulder and Lysander’s back. The sight, the feel of it—the intimate, unconscious entanglement—stole the air from her lungs.
She had never been held. Not like this. Not where she was the one encompassing, as much as she was encompassed. The fear from the night before was a distant echo. In its place was a bewildering, terrifying tranquility.
She lay perfectly still, memorizing them. The fan of Lysander’s absurdly long eyelashes against his cheek. The stark contrast of Rowan’s dark hair against the pale skin of his wrist, which rested near her face. The utter peace on both their faces in sleep, the usual chaotic energy and brooding intensity smoothed away. They were just… boys. Beautiful, solid, warm boys who had, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, decided to keep her.
The thought sent a different kind of panic, soft and fluttering, through her. This was too much. It was a loaned sweater she needed to give back before she got it dirty, a sacred text she was afraid to crease. She had to move before they woke and the spell broke, before they realized the awkward, broken thing they’d caged between them.
Carefully, so carefully, she tried to extract her hand from Lysander’s. His fingers tightened in sleep. A soft, protesting murmur escaped him, and he nuzzled closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Okay. New plan. She’d slide out from under Rowan’s arm. She shifted her hips back an inch, trying to create space.
The shadows around her waist, which she hadn’t even realized were still there—a faint, cool band just like the night before—cinched tight. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding. Rowan let out a low, sleepy sound, a grumbly vibration against her back, and pulled her flush against him again, his nose pressing into her hair.
Trapped. Gently, wonderfully trapped.
She took a steadying breath. One more try. Using a bit more force, she tried to roll onto her back to create an exit route.
It initiated a chain reaction.
Lysander, disturbed by the movement, clutched her hand harder and threw his leg more squarely over her thighs, pinning her. “Nuh-uh,” he slurred, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Mom.”
Rowan’s shadows coiled another lazy loop. His voice was a sleep-roughened murmur directly in her ear. “Going somewhere?”
“I… I just…” Her own voice was a raspy whisper. “It’s morning. I should…”
“Should what?” Lysander blinked his eyes open, amber irises hazy with sleep. A slow, dazzling smile spread across his face as he focused on her. “Oh. Hey. You’re still here.” As if he’d expected her to vanish at dawn.
“I was trying to…”
“Escape?” Rowan finished, his tone dryer. He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand flexed against her ribs. “Rude.”
“It’s not escape,” she protested weakly, a flush heating her neck and cheeks. “It’s just… you’re both… and I’m…”
“Comfy?” Lysander supplied, shifting and wincing. “Okay, my arm’s asleep. But otherwise, comfy.” He didn’t let go. Instead, he used his grip on her hand to tug her toward him a little.
The motion pulled her partially from Rowan’s embrace. The shadows tightened instantly, a gentle but insistent counter-force, drawing her back.
“Hey,” Rowan muttered, finally opening one dark eye. “Mine.”
“She was on my side first,” Lysander argued, playful but stubborn, tugging again.
“Your side of what? The tower? I found her.”
“I smelled her first!”
Elara was now the subject of a very lazy, very sleepy tug-of-war, stretched ever so slightly between them. Her wings fluttered in mild distress. “Guys…”
They both stopped, looked at her blushing, flustered face, and then at each other over her head. A silent communication passed between them.
Simultaneously, they relaxed their pulls. But they didn’t let go. Rowan’s shadows loosened to a soft embrace, and his arm draped over her again. Lysander released her hand only to slide his arm around her shoulders, tucking her back into the space between them, but this time she was more on her back, looking up at the lightening stone ceiling, with them bracketing her sides.
“You don’t have to run,” Rowan said, his voice low. “There’s nowhere you need to be that’s better than here.”
Lysander propped his head on his hand, looking down at her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “He’s right, for once. This is… nice. You’re nice to have in the middle. You fit.”
The simplicity of it, the sheer normalcy with which they stated these world-altering facts, left her speechless. The last of her resistance melted, seeped into the stone beneath her. She was a blushing, warm, confused mess, but she was their mess.
She managed a tiny nod.
Lysander’s grin returned. He leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to her forehead. “Good. Now, someone’s gotta be the big spoon and someone’s gotta be the little spoon, and I call not being in the middle this time. My back’s cold.”
Rowan snorted. “Your back is covered in her wing, you drama queen.” But he was already moving, shifting Elara with effortless strength until she was curled against his chest again, his front to her back. Lysander immediately plastered himself against Rowan’s back, slinging an arm over both of them with a contented sigh.
“See?” Lysander’s voice was muffled against Rowan’s shoulder. “Perfect.”
Enclosed, surrounded, buried in their warmth and their casual, unquestioning acceptance, Elara let her eyes close. The future she never dared to imagine wasn’t some distant, shimmering fantasy. It was here, in the tower, in the ache of her free wings, in the steady heartbeat against her back and the warm breath on her neck. It was heavy, and real, and it held on tight.
She decided, just for now, to hold on back.