Chapter 14: Shower Steam and Stolen Kisses
The kitchen had emptied out by degrees, the way a tide recedes—first Ben, who had to get to campus for an exam; then Mandy, who disappeared down the basement stairs to check on a server that had been running hot; then Stacy, who took a phone call from her future self on the back porch, her voice dropping to a murmur that didn't carry through the sliding glass door.
Rick stayed at the table, nursing the dregs of his coffee and pretending not to watch Felicity, who was still at the stove, scraping the last of the pancake batter onto the griddle.
Mai had finished the bacon and was now eating cold pancakes with her fingers, still naked, still unbothered.
Katrina stood by the counter, her coffee cup warm between her palms, and tried to remember how to breathe normally. The dream was still there, tucked behind her ribs like a splinter she couldn't dig out. Mark's hands on her skin. His voice in her ear.
She didn't know if she wanted it to be real or not.
The air shifted.
It was subtle—the kind of change that might have been a draft from the open window, or could have been something else entirely. The hair on Katrina's arms stood up.
She turned.
Huy stood in the doorway.
She hadn't heard her approach. She never did. The mummy moved like a thought, like a rumor, like something that had slipped through the cracks of the world and didn't quite belong to it anymore.
She wore a linen dress that fell to her ankles, the color of sand at dusk. Her dark hair was loose, spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes—those deep, ancient eyes—were fixed on the group with an intensity that made Katrina's chest tighten.
"We need to plan," Huy said. "To stop Shaw."
Her English was better than it had been. The words came slow, deliberate, as if she were translating each one from a language older than anyone in the room could imagine. But there was no hesitation in them. No question.
Mandy appeared at the top of the basement stairs, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Shaw? What does Shaw have to do with anything?"
Huy's gaze shifted to her. "Everything."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Mandy's expression hardened. She came the rest of the way up the stairs, her boots heavy on the wood. "We don't know that. We don't know anything yet. For all we know, this is about Aemelia. Or LeFaye. Or someone we haven't even thought of."
"Shaw is behind LeFaye," Huy said. "I have seen it."
"Seen it how?"
Huy didn't answer. She just looked at Mandy with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Katrina set her coffee cup down. The ceramic clinked against the counter, loud in the sudden silence.
"If Shaw is involved," she said slowly, "then we're in more danger than we thought."
"No shit," Mai muttered around a mouthful of pancake.
"But," Katrina continued, "that doesn't mean we ignore everything else. Mark—"
"Mark?" Huy's head turned toward her. There was something in her expression—curiosity, maybe. Or warning. "The man you are meeting."
"Yes." Katrina met her gaze. "He's—I don't know what he is. But he's something. Calista's wards didn't stop him. He appeared out of nowhere. He's too—"
"Perfect," Calista finished from the doorway.
She'd come in silently, barefoot, her silver hair still damp from the shower she hadn't taken yet. Her golden eyes were steady on Katrina.
"We need to keep an eye on him," Mandy said. "Before Katrina goes anywhere with him. It could be a trap."
"It could be nothing," Rick offered.
"It could be Shaw."
"It could be."
Huy made a sound—soft, almost impatient. "Shaw is more dangerous than one woman's potential date."
Mandy opened her mouth to argue.
Felicity cut her off.
"There are enough of us," she said, her voice quiet but firm. She'd turned off the griddle and was wiping her hands on a dish towel, her blue eyes sharp behind her glasses. "We can do both."
Everyone looked at her.
She shrugged, the gesture small and almost apologetic. "Rick, Calista, Beth, and Stacy can take the van. Follow Katrina to lunch. Keep an eye on Mark. Make sure he's not... whatever. And the rest of us—Mandy, me, Mai, Huy—stay here and plan. Figure out what Shaw's next move might be. Pool our resources."
The silence stretched.
Then Mandy nodded. Slow. Reluctant, but real. "Fine. That works."
"It does," Calista agreed.
Rick finished his coffee and stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'll get the van keys."
---
Katrina looked down at herself.
The dream hadn't faded. Neither had the feeling of Mark's hands on her skin, the weight of his body pressing her into the grass. She felt grimy—not from sweat or dirt, but from the residue of sleep, of wanting, of the slow crawl of anxiety that had been building since she'd woken.
"I need a shower," she said.
It wasn't a question.
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the tile, then the wood floor of the hallway. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The guest bathroom was small but clean. Sun-bleached wallpaper—flowers in faded pinks and yellows—curled at the corners like it had given up trying to stay attached to the wall. The mirror above the sink was cracked in one corner, a hairline fracture that caught the light and split it.
The shower was a simple stall, white tile, glass door. Katrina turned the knob. Water hissed out, cold at first, then warming. Steam began to rise, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of the room.
She peeled off her clothes.
The tank top came first, then the sleep shorts. She dropped them on the floor—she'd pick them up later. Her body was pale in the morning light, the dancer's physique she'd never actually earned, the one that had come from being frozen in time rather than from years of training.
She stepped into the shower.
The water hit her shoulders, her back, the curve of her spine. She closed her eyes and let it run over her, washing away the dream, the fear, the residue of wanting.
The door opened.
Katrina didn't turn. She knew the footsteps.
"You're supposed to be planning," she said.
"I delegated." Calista's voice was light, teasing. "Mandy's more than capable."
The glass door slid open. Steam billowed out, then in. Calista stepped into the shower beside her, her body long and lean, her skin paler than milk, her silver hair dark with water.
She didn't say anything. She just picked up the soap—lavender, the kind Felicity bought in bulk—and began to lather her hands.
Katrina watched her.
"Cal—"
"Shh."
Calista's hands found her shoulders. Soap-slick fingers slid down her arms, over the curve of her elbows, across the delicate bones of her wrists. She worked the lather into Katrina's skin with slow, deliberate pressure.
"You're tense," Calista murmured.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
Katrina closed her eyes. The water beat against her back, hot and steady. Calista's hands moved lower, over her ribs, her stomach, the soft curve of her hips.
"You're going on a date," Calista said. "Your first real date in thirty years. With a man you don't know, who might be dangerous, who might be working for the woman who wants to kill your family."
"That's not helping."
"I know." Calista's lips brushed her ear. "So let me help in a different way."
She pressed Katrina against the cool tile.
The shock of it—the sudden cold against her flushed skin—made Katrina gasp. Calista's body pinned her in place, one thigh sliding between her legs, one hand braced against the wall beside her head.
"I want to make you forget everything but my mouth," Calista whispered.
And then she dropped to her knees.
The tile was hard against her shins, but Calista didn't seem to notice. She looked up at Katrina through her lashes, water streaming down her face, her golden eyes dark with intent.
She spread Katrina's legs.
Katrina's breath caught. Her hands found Calista's shoulders, then her hair—wet silver strands tangling around her fingers.
Calista leaned in.
Her tongue slid through Katrina's folds—slow, deliberate, the flat of it pressing against her clit in a long, languid stroke. Katrina's hips jerked. A sound escaped her—something between a gasp and a moan.
Calista did it again.
Then again.
Her mouth was hot, hotter than the water, and she worked Katrina with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Licking. Sucking. Circling her clit with the tip of her tongue until Katrina's legs began to shake.
"Fuck," Katrina whispered.
Calista hummed—a vibration that traveled through her clit and up her spine. She sucked harder, pulling the sensitive bundle of nerves between her lips, and slid two fingers inside her at the same time.
Katrina screamed.
Not loud. Not loud enough to carry through the house, to reach the others in the kitchen, the porch, the basement. But loud enough. Loud enough for Calista to hear.
She curled her fingers.
Katrina came.
It crashed through her like a wave—her cunt clenching, her thighs trembling, her fingers twisting in Calista's hair. She rode it out against Calista's mouth, gasping, shuddering, her vision going white at the edges.
Calista didn't stop.
She kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept curling her fingers in that spot that made Katrina's nerves scream. The aftershocks hadn't even faded before she was building again, the pleasure cresting, breaking, crashing.
Katrina came a second time.
Then a third.
By the end, she was slumped against the tile, her legs barely holding her up, her chest heaving. Calista pulled back, her chin slick with Katrina's juices, her lips swollen and red.
She stood.
Her face was inches from Katrina's.
The kiss was deep—open-mouthed, messy, the taste of Katrina's cunt still on Calista's tongue. Katrina moaned into it, her hands fisting in Calista's wet hair, pulling her closer.
When they broke apart, Calista was smiling.
"Better?" she asked.
Katrina laughed. The sound was breathless, shaky, but real.
"Better."
Calista kissed her forehead. Then she reached for the soap again.
"Now," she said. "Let's find you something to wear."
---
They walked naked through the house.
The floor was cool under their feet. The air smelled like coffee and salt and the ghost of bacon. Voices drifted from the kitchen—Mandy and Huy, speaking low, Felicity interjecting occasionally with something that sounded like logistics.
Katrina's guest room was small, tidy, the bed still unmade from her restless night. She crossed to the suitcase she'd brought from Chicago—a battered thing, covered in stickers from places she'd never been—and unzipped it.
Inside: a collection of clothes that Calista had helped her buy. Jeans. T-shirts. A plain black dress that Calista had insisted she needed for "emergencies."
She flipped through the options.
Nothing felt right.
Nothing felt like something she'd want Mark to see her in.
"Not here," Calista said, reading her mind. "Try Mandy's room."
---
Mandy's room was a controlled disaster.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. A laptop sat open on the desk, surrounded by three empty coffee cups and a half-eaten granola bar. The walls were covered in posters—bands Katrina didn't recognize, schematics for things she didn't understand.
Calista headed straight for the closet.
"Too small," she muttered, flipping through hangers. "Too casual. Too—God, Mandy, why do you own this?"
Katrina watched from the doorway.
"Try Felicity's."
---
Felicity's room was the opposite of Mandy's.
Tidy. Organized. Books stacked neatly on the shelf, labeled with sticky notes. A desk with pens arranged by color. A bed made with military precision.
Her closet was a study in sensible fashion.
Cardigans. Blouses. Slacks.
"Too sensible," Calista said.
"Too boring," Katrina agreed.
They looked at each other.
"Mai's room," they said in unison.
---
Mai's room was chaos in a different way.
Clothes on the floor. On the bed. Draped over the chair. A sea of fabric—bright colors, bold patterns, things that looked like they belonged on a runway in Tokyo rather than a beach house in Miami.
Calista dug through the pile.
"This is just a bra," she said, holding up something that was mostly lace and straps.
"That's Mai."
"Ah." Calista dropped it. "Here."
She pulled out a dress.
It was red. Deep red, like blood, like wine, like the inside of a heart. It was small—tiny, actually, a slip of fabric that would barely cover anything. The neckline plunged. The back was cut low. The hem was... questionable.
Katrina stared at it.
"I can't wear that."
"You can."
"It's—that's not a dress. That's a napkin."
"It's a statement."
"It's obscene."
Mai appeared in the doorway.
She was still naked, still eating a pancake, still completely unbothered by the fact that she'd been wandering around the house like that all morning. She looked at the dress, then at Katrina, then back at the dress.
"I bought that for a lunch date," she said.
Katrina blinked. "You wore that to lunch?"
"I wore less." Mai took another bite of pancake. "Try it on."
"I—"
"Try. It.
Katrina looked at Calista. Calista shrugged.
So Katrina took the dress.
She stepped out of the shorts and tank top she'd thrown on after the shower. She pulled the red fabric over her head, wiggling into it, adjusting the straps.
Then she looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back at her wasn't the woman she'd seen that morning.
The dress clung to her curves like a second skin. The red brought out the undertones in her skin, warmed her storm-grey eyes into something almost silver. Her hair was still damp, dark and sleek against her shoulders. Her legs looked longer. Her waist looked narrower. Her breasts—
"Stunning," Calista whispered.
Mai nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You look like you could eat him alive."
Katrina turned, looking at herself from different angles. The back dipped low, baring the curve of her spine. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs.
She'd never worn anything like this. Not even before the void. Not even when she'd been young and hopeful and dancing through life like nothing could touch her.
But the woman in the mirror was not that girl.
She was older. Wiser. Crueler in some ways, kinder in others.
She was dangerous.
And she liked it.
"I can't wear this," she said.
"You can," Calista said.
"To a lunch date?"
"Especially to a lunch date." Mai walked over, still naked, and stood beside her in the mirror. "You're not just having lunch. You're putting on armor. This dress is your breastplate. Your sword."
"It's shorts and a tank top."
"Exactly." Mai grinned. "Shorts and a tank top that make you feel like a goddess."
Katrina looked at herself again.
She took a breath.
"I need shoes," she said.
Mai's grin widened.
Mai's grin widened.
"Now we're getting somewhere." She spun on her heel—still gloriously naked, still holding that half-eaten pancake like it was a scepter—and began rummaging through the pile of clothes on her floor. "Shoes. Shoes. We need shoes."
Calista moved to the other side of the room, dropping to her knees to dig through a heap of fabric that might have been shirts or might have been scarves. Water still clung to her silver hair, dripping onto her shoulders, her collarbone, the small of her back. She didn't seem to notice.
Katrina stood in front of the mirror, the red dress hugging her like it had been made for her. She turned slightly, watching the way the fabric shifted, the way it caught the light. She felt exposed. She felt powerful.
She felt like someone else entirely.
"These," Mai announced, holding up a pair of heels. They were black, strappy, the kind of shoes that demanded confidence and punished hesitation. "Size seven. That's you, yeah?"
"How do you know my shoe size?"
"Lucky guess." Mai winked. "Or I looked at your feet when you weren't paying attention. Take your pick."
Katrina took the shoes.
She sat on the edge of Mai's bed—the mattress sagged under her weight, springs groaning—and slid her feet into the heels. The straps wrapped around her ankles, thin and delicate. She stood.
The extra height changed everything. Her posture straightened. Her legs looked endless. The dress rode up just a fraction, exposing more thigh.
"Fuck me," Calista breathed.
"That's the idea," Mai said.
Katrina shot her a look. "It's a lunch date."
"For sandwiches," Mai agreed. "Which is exactly why you need to look like that. You show up in this dress, with those shoes, and he's not going to give a shit about sandwiches."
"I'm not trying to—"
"To what? To get laid?" Mai raised an eyebrow. "Because that's what's happening here. You're going on a date with a mysterious man who walked through magical wards like they were nothing, and you're wearing a dress that makes your tits look fantastic. That's not an accident."
Katrina felt heat rise to her cheeks.
"I'm not—this isn't—"
"This is the most interesting thing that's happened all week," Mai interrupted cheerfully. "And I'm including the time Felicity accidentally summoned that minor demon in the basement."
"That was not a demon," Calista said. "It was a very confused raccoon."
"It had glowing eyes!"
"It had reflections."
Mai waved a dismissive hand. She turned back to the pile of clothes, bending at the waist to dig deeper, her bare ass pointed directly at Katrina. She didn't seem to notice or care.
Katrina noticed.
She looked away. Then looked back. Then made herself stop looking altogether.
"Here," Mai said, emerging with a small clutch purse. Black, simple, just big enough for a phone and a credit card. "You'll need this."
"I don't have a credit card."
"You have cash?"
"Some."
"Then you have enough." Mai handed her the purse. "And if he tries anything weird, you stab him with those heels."
"They're not—"
"Stilettos. They'll work."
Calista rose from her pile of fabric, holding a thin silver bracelet. "Wear this."
Katrina took it. The metal was cool against her skin, surprisingly heavy for its size. She turned it over in her palm.
"What is it?"
"A charm. Modest protection." Calista's golden eyes met hers. "It won't stop anyone like Shaw. But it'll give you a little warning if someone's using magic around you. A tingle. Low-grade."
"You didn't tell me you had things like this."
"I didn't want you to feel like you needed them." Calista shrugged, a small, almost apologetic gesture. "But you're going on a date with a man who bypassed my wards. I'd rather you have it."
Katrina slid the bracelet onto her wrist. It settled against her pulse point, warm now, almost alive.
"Thank you."
Calista smiled. "You're welcome."
Mai had returned to watching her, head tilted, eyes traveling from the heels to the dress to Katrina's face. Her expression was thoughtful. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
"You know," Mai said slowly, "I'm actually getting a little turned on."
Katrina blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Seeing you in my clothes." Mai gestured vaguely at the dress, the shoes, the whole ensemble. "It's doing something for me. I'm not going to lie about it."
"You're naked."
"I'm usually naked. That's not the point." Mai took a step closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. "The point is you look like a goddess, and I'm a little jealous of whoever gets to peel that dress off you."
"No one is peeling anything off."
"Yet."
"There is no 'yet.'"
Mai's smile was slow and knowing. "There's always a 'yet.'"
Katrina crossed her arms. The movement pushed her breasts together, straining the fabric of the dress. She realized what she'd done and immediately dropped her arms.
"I'm going to lunch," she said. "To eat sandwiches. With a man I barely know. That's all."
"That's what you think."
"That's what's happening."
Mai laughed—a bright, uncomplicated sound. "Attitudes like that will never get you laid."
Calista snorted from the corner.
Katrina turned to her. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side." Calista crossed the room, still naked, still dripping, still utterly unselfconscious. She stopped beside Mai, the two of them standing side by side like a matched set—silver and shadow, elf and adventurer, both of them looking at Katrina like she was something worth looking at. "But Mai has a point. You're allowed to want this."
"I don't—"
"You spent thirty years alone." Calista's voice was gentle. "No touch. No warmth. No one to hold you. And now you're here, and you're alive, and there's a man who looks at you like you're the only woman in the world. It's okay to want that."
Katrina's throat tightened.
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
She didn't have an answer.
Calista reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from Katrina's face. The touch was light, careful, the kind of touch that asked for nothing in return.
"Since we rescued you from the void," Calista continued, her voice low, "you've been with me. With Dad. With Mom. With pretty much everyone in this house right now. You've been learning what it means to be touched again. And it hasn't exactly been a problem for you, has it? Getting what you need?"
Katrina felt her face heat.
"No," she admitted.
"Exactly." Calista's hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezing once before pulling away. "So go have lunch. Let him look at you. Let yourself look back. And if he turns out to be something dangerous—"
"I'll stab him with the stilettos," Katrina finished.
"Good."
Mai clapped her hands together. "Now that that's settled, can I get that dress back after you're done with it? Because I have a livestream tomorrow and I want to—"
"No," Calista and Katrina said in unison.
Mai pouted.
Katrina checked her reflection one more time. The woman in the mirror still looked like a stranger—confident, dangerous, the kind of woman who walked into restaurants and made people stop talking. She wasn't sure she deserved to be her.
But she was going to try.
Her phone buzzed on the bed. She picked it up.
Mark: Still on for lunch? I found a little place on the water. Great sandwiches. Better view.
She stared at the message. The casual punctuation. The easy confidence. The little thrill that ran down her spine at the sight of his name.
"Everything okay?" Calista asked.
Katrina typed her response.
Katrina: Yes. See you at noon.
She hit send. Then she looked up at Calista and Mai, both of them watching her, both of them waiting.
"I need to go," she said.
"We'll be right behind you," Calista promised.
"Not too close."
"Not too close."
Katrina took a breath. Then she turned and walked out of the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Behind her, she heard Mai's voice, low and amused.
"She's going to eat him alive."
"We can only hope," Calista replied.
Katrina didn't stop walking.
She had a date with a man she didn't trust.
And she was going to enjoy every minute of it.