Chapter 75: The Morning Light
The first thing she became aware of was the pain. It was a solid, rhythmic thudding behind her eyes, a hot pressure that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The second thing was the weight. A delicious, anchoring warmth along her back and another along her front, pinning her gently in place.
Memory returned not as a flood, but in jagged, embarrassing shards.
The Seance Chamber. The stolen bottle. Laughing. The feeling of her wings, free, catching air in the dark. Pulling them into an alcove. The look on Rowan’s face when she’d demanded… everything.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no.
Her eyes flew open. She was facing Rowan. His features in sleep were softer, the usual sharpness relaxed. Dark lashes fanned against his cheek. One of his arms was a heavy band across her ribs, his hand splayed possessively against her back, his fingers resting just below the sensitive joint where her left wing met her spine. Behind her, Lysander was a furnace, his breath warm on her neck, his legs tangled with hers, a hand curled loosely around her waist.
And her wings. They were loose. Unbound. Sprawled across the bed and partially draped over both of them, shimmering faintly in the thin morning light filtering through the window.
A wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the wine rolled through her. She’d shown them. She’d asked them. She’d been drunk and desperate and…
Rowan’s breathing hitched. His eyes opened. Dark, unreadable, instantly aware. He looked at her, saw the panic tightening her face. He didn’t move his arm.
“How’s your head?” he asked, his voice a sleep-roughened murmur.
Elara couldn’t speak. She tried to shrink, to disappear into the mattress, but she was trapped by their warmth. She managed a tiny, frantic shake of her head.
The movement stirred Lysander behind her. He made a soft, grumbling noise and nuzzled into the curve of her neck, his hand tightening on her waist. “S’too early,” he slurred into her skin. “Sun’s a dick.”
The casual, ridiculous statement broke her paralysis for a second. A strangled sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped her. She flinched at the sound of it.
Rowan’s thumb began to move, a slow, deliberate stroke against the thin fabric of her top, just beside her wing joint. It was calming. Territorial. “Breathe, Elara.”
“I… I need to…” She needed to bind her wings. She needed to put up her illusion. She needed to be small and hidden and not this exposed, aching creature in their bed.
“You need water and a pain tonic,” Rowan stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shifted, finally lifting his arm. The cool air where his warmth had been felt like a loss. He sat up, the blanket falling to his waist.
The movement jostled Lysander fully awake. “Wha—?” He blinked, then his lavender eyes focused on Elara’s profile. A brilliant, sleepy grin spread across his face. “Hey, you.” His hand slid from her waist to her stomach, a warm, flat palm. “You look like you got into a fight with a distillation vat and lost.”
“I feel like it,” she whispered, her voice gravelly. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She stared at the tattoo on Rowan’s shoulder blade as he reached for a pitcher and glass on the bedside table.
“Here.” Rowan turned back, holding a glass of water and a small violet potion vial. “Drink the water first. Slowly.”
She pushed herself up on trembling elbows, painfully aware of her wings rustling and settling around her. She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. She drank, the water shocking and perfect on her dry throat. Lysander sat up too, his blond hair a chaotic mess, watching her with open, soft concern.
She handed the empty glass back and took the vial. The pain tonic was bitter, but the effect was nearly instantaneous. The pounding behind her eyes receded to a dull echo. The clarity it brought, however, was worse.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.
Elara pulled her knees to her chest, trying to make herself smaller. Her wings instinctively curved forward, a shimmering, iridescent shield between her and them. “I’m so sorry,” she said to her knees.
“For what?” Lysander asked, genuine confusion in his voice. “The hangover? We’ve all been there. Rowan once got so wasted on Lunar Gin he tried to challenge a statue to a duel.”
“Not for the hangover,” she said, the words barely audible. “For last night. For… demanding things. For being… like that.” She risked a glance at Rowan. “You must think I’m… pathetic. Or reckless.”
Rowan’s expression didn’t change. He set the glass down. “I think you were drunk and finally feeling brave enough to ask for what you wanted.”
“But I shouldn’t have wanted—” she cut herself off, shame heating her cheeks.
“Why not?” Lysander asked, leaning forward. He didn’t touch her, but his warmth was a tangible force. “We wanted you. We want you. That was the whole fucking point of us stopping, Elara. Because it wasn’t a ‘no.’ It was a ‘not yet.’” His voice softened. “Do you… regret the kissing?”
The memory of it—Rowan’s deep, claiming pressure, Lysander’s sweet, fiery spark—flashed through her. Her face burned hotter. “No.”
“Good.” Lysander said it like it settled everything.
“It doesn’t scare you?” The question was aimed at both of them, but her eyes were locked on Rowan. “How fast I… unraveled?”
A shadow of something like pain crossed Rowan’s face. He reached out, his fingers hovering near the leading edge of her wing. A question. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
He let his fingers trail down the sensitive membrane, a touch so light it was barely there. She shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with fear.
“You think after seeing those chains, after feeling how tight you kept them bound, that a little drunken honesty is what scares me?” he said, his voice low. “You didn’t unravel. You let go. For a few hours. There’s a difference.”
The truth of it unmoored her. She had let go. And they had held her together.
Lysander scooted closer, his shoulder pressing against her folded wing. “The only thing I’m scared of is you waking up and deciding this was a mistake. Deciding we were a mistake.”
She looked from one to the other. Rowan, steady as stone, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that promised shelter. Lysander, bright and open, his usual chaos tempered into unwavering focus. The hangover ache was a distant throb. The embarrassment was still there, a humiliating buzz under her skin, but it was being slowly smothered by a stronger, more terrifying feeling.
Hope.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” she whispered.
Lysander’s grin returned, explosive and relieved. “Thank fuck.”
Rowan just nodded, his hand still resting on her wing. “You should eat something.”
The normalcy of the statement was a lifeline. The world hadn’t ended. The sun was, as Lysander had eloquently stated, being a dick. They were in their rumpled bed, hungover, and talking about breakfast.
Elara took a deep, shaking breath. Then, moving slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Rowan’s shoulder, just over his tattoo. A sober kiss. A thank you. A promise.
She felt him go very still. Then his head bowed, his forehead touching her hair.
She turned, her wing brushing over Lysander as she did. She met his eager gaze, and with a courage that felt entirely her own, she leaned in and kissed him too. Soft, on the mouth. Chaste and certain.
When she pulled back, his eyes were wide. “Okay,” he breathed, a joyful laugh bubbling under the word. “Okay, yeah. Breakfast. I’m suddenly starving.”
As they untangled themselves from the sheets and each other, Elara let her wings stretch to their full span for a moment, feeling the delicious ache of unused muscles, casting rainbows over the messy, beautiful room. She didn’t reach for her binds. Not yet.
For now, she just followed them toward the smell of coffee, her bare feet quiet on the floor, her spectacular, unbound wings trailing behind her like a declaration.