Chapter 74: The Unraveling
The journey back to their dorm room was a slow, weaving ballet. Elara, propped between them, her wings occasionally snagging on doorframes or brushing against walls, hummed a tuneless song. Every few steps she’d stop, turn her head, and press a drunken, appreciative kiss to Rowan’s jaw or Lysander’s shoulder.
“You’re both so warm,” she mumbled into Rowan’s shirt. “Different warms. You’re a blanket warm. Lys is a cooker warm.”
“Cooker?” Lysander laughed, adjusting his grip on her. “Like an oven?”
“A nice oven. For pastries.”
Rowan shouldered their door open. The room was a controlled chaos of their shared life: books stacked haphazardly, Lysander’s collection of crystalline fire-starters gleaming on a shelf, Rowan’s dark, simple bedding a stark contrast to the vibrant throws Lysander had added. The air smelled of parchment, sandalwood, and the faint, clean scent of ozone that always clung to Rowan.
Elara stumbled inside, her wings flaring for balance. They were breathtaking, even in the dim light of the single glow-orb Lysander ignited with a snap of his fingers. The iridescence painted soft colour on the walls. She turned, her back to Rowan’s desk, and looked at them with heavy-lidded, unwavering focus.
“Here,” she announced, as if they’d reached a summit. She tugged at the delicate lace of her blouse. “This… needs to go. It’s scratchy now. And these.” She fumbled with the fastening of her trousers.
Lysander’s breath hitched. He took an involuntary step forward, heat radiating from his skin in a visible shimmer. Rowan was faster. A tendril of living shadow, cool and firm, coiled gently around Elara’s wrist, stopping her hands.
“Elara.” Rowan’s voice was low, a bedrock beneath the flickering energy in the room.
She frowned at the shadow binding her wrist, more curious than afraid. “You said I didn’t have to hide.”
“You don’t.” He took a step closer. “But the wine is doing the talking, not you.”
“It’s me,” she insisted, her lower lip jutting out in a petulant slouch that was entirely new. She pulled against the shadow. It held, unyielding but soft. “I want to feel… everything. I want you to see everything. Please?”
The raw need in her voice made Lysander ache. He wanted to give her anything she asked for. He saw the way her wings trembled, not with fear, but with a desperate, liberated tension. He took another step, his hand rising, drawn to the shimmer of her left wing.
Rowan’s gaze snapped to him. “Lys.”
“I know,” Lysander murmured. He knew that tone. It was Rowan’s line-in-the-sand tone. He let his hand fall, but the fire in his veins was a live wire.
Elara watched the exchange, her drunken mind parsing it slowly. “You’re saying no.”
“I’m saying not tonight,” Rowan corrected. He approached her, the shadow around her wrist dissolving. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “When you ask me tomorrow, or next week, sober and sure, that’s a different conversation. I’m not letting the wine make choices for you.”
A confusion of emotions flitted across her face: frustration, longing, and dawning, heartbreaking understanding. The bravado leaked away, leaving her looking young and exposed. Her wings gave a feeble flap and settled, draping partly around her like a defeated cloak.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Lysander couldn’t stand the defeated slump of her shoulders. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her, ignoring the way her wingtips brushed his arms. “Hey. What he’s trying to say, in his stupid, noble way, is that we want you. So much it fucking hurts. But we want you. Not drunk-you.”
Elara looked from his earnest face to Rowan’s steadfast one. The last of her resistance broke. “But I still want to kiss. I remember that. I asked for that. That was me.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Rowan’s face. “That,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a rough murmur, “you definitely did.”
He closed the final distance, his hands sliding from her face to cradle the base of her skull, his fingers tangling in her hair. His kiss was nothing like the performative ones in the Seance Chamber. This was slow. Deliberate. A deep, searching pressure that asked a question her mouth answered immediately, opening for him with a soft sigh. The taste of blackberries and wine was on her tongue, but beneath it was just her.
Elara made a small, broken sound and rose onto her toes, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt. Her wings rustled, lifting slightly, the membranes trembling.
Lysander watched, the fire in his blood settling into a warm, steady glow. He saw the way Rowan held her—completely, but with a reverence that kept his hands from roaming. He saw Elara melt into it, all her anxious edges softening. When Rowan finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, both of them were breathing unevenly.
Elara’s gaze, clouded with desire and drink, found Lysander. “Your turn.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He stood, and Rowan shifted back, giving him space. Lysander’s approach was different. Where Rowan was a claiming tide, Lysander was a spark. He framed her face with hands that radiated gentle warmth, letting her feel the heat of him before his lips touched hers. His kiss was brighter, sweeter, full of smiling promise. He felt her smile against his mouth, and it was the best thing he’d felt all night.
She pulled back, giggling. “You taste like cinnamon.”
“Fire magic side effect,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the tip of her nose.
She sighed, leaning into him, her body going pliant. The adrenaline and wine were finally crashing, leaving a deep exhaustion in their wake. Her wings sagged, the brilliant colour dimming as they drooped toward the floor.
Rowan saw it. “Bed. Now. Just sleep.”
She didn’t protest. Between them, they guided her to the large bed. She tumbled onto it, onto Rowan’s side, her wings sprawling awkwardly. She frowned, trying to fold them, but the muscles didn’t obey her drunken commands.
“Here,” Rowan murmured. He sat beside her, his hands—so big, just as she’d noted—slid carefully under the main joint of one wing. “Relax. Let me.”
His touch was clinical and gentle, a practiced folding of an impossibly delicate appendage. He guided the wing to lie flat against her back. He repeated the process with the other, arranging them so she could lie on her side without crushing them. A profound, trusting stillness settled over her as he handled her most vulnerable part with such unthinking care.
Lysander slid in on her other side, pulling a blanket over the three of them. Elara lay between them, a sliver of cool shadow and a line of soothing heat. Her eyes were already closed.
“You were right,” she slurred into the pillow, her voice thick with impending sleep.
“About what?” Rowan asked, his arm draping over her waist, his hand coming to rest on Lysander’s hip.
“About wanting you tomorrow,” she whispered. “I already do.”
Then she was asleep, her breathing deepening into soft, even rhythms. The bonds were gone. The illusion was down. And she was safe, held in the space between their promises.
Lysander met Rowan’s gaze over the top of her head. In the dark, Rowan’s eyes were unreadable, but the hand on his hip squeezed, tight and sure.
“We’re in so much trouble,” Lysander mouthed silently, a grin tugging at his lips.
Rowan’s answer was just a slow blink, a slight nod, and the press of his forehead against Lysander’s. The quiet in the room was no longer empty. It was full of the sound of her breathing, and the weight of the morning to come.