Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The rain that had begun in Karanes seemed to have followed them all the way to Trost, or maybe it was just that kind of autumn. A month of damp wool, misty mornings, and the perpetual smell of wet stone. Sage’s side ached when the barometric pressure dropped, a deep, bony throb where the rib was still knitting. It was a daily reminder, as if she needed one.
She stood at the central bulletin board in the main hall of Trost Headquarters, a stale roll forgotten in her hand. The cavernous space echoed with the bootsteps of soldiers, the murmur of morning briefings, the smell of ink and damp leather. Her eyes scanned the duty rosters, the mission schedules, the bland administrative notices. Her name was there, finally. Renn, S. – Active Duty. Light Assignments. Report to Quartermaster for gear inspection.
Light assignments. A polite term for bench-warming. Gear inspection was make-work, something for cadets.
A familiar, crisp footfall sounded behind her, too deliberate to be anyone else. She didn’t need to turn.
“You’re blocking the view,” Levi said, his voice flat.
She sidestepped, her shoulder brushing the cold stone wall. He moved forward, his eyes scanning the same board, missing nothing. He wore his standard uniform, immaculate as ever, but she’d learned to read the finer details in the last month. The slight tightness around his eyes that spoke of a late night reviewing reports. The precise way he held his left arm, a hair’s breadth stiffer, where an old injury acted up in the damp.
“Light assignments,” she said, tapping the paper with her roll. “Thrilling.”
“It’s what you’re cleared for.” He didn’t look at her. “The bone’s healed. The muscle isn’t. You favor your right side when you think no one’s watching. You’ll get someone killed trying to prove a point.”
The blunt assessment should have stung. A month ago, it would have. Now it just felt factual. He’d seen her through the worst of it; he knew the architecture of her weakness better than she did.
“So, gear inspection,” she said, her tone drier than the roll. “Any pro tips? Should I polish the buckles clockwise or counter-clockwise?”
“Counter-clockwise. It’s more efficient.” The deadpan was absolute. A flicker of something—amusement?—ghosted across his features and was gone. He finally glanced at her. “You’re breathing without thinking about it. That’s progress.”
It was. The phantom memory of the tube, the screaming physio, the rule of ‘wait’—it was receding. The kiss on her head in the rain-swept infirmary felt like a dream from another life. They hadn’t spoken of it. Their interactions since had been a series of clipped exchanges, chance meetings in hallways, his silent presence at the back of the training yard while she ran agonizingly slow laps. He was a witness to her recovery, a detached auditor of her progress. It was infuriating. It was the only thing that felt solid.
“Progress feels a lot like boredom,” she muttered.
“Boredom is a luxury.” He turned from the board, his gaze sweeping over the hall. “It means the walls are still standing. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
He began to walk away, his path taking him towards the officers’ wing.
“Captain.”
He stopped, half-turned.
Sage took a breath. This was the other thing she’d been practicing. Not just breathing. Talking to him without her voice trying to climb into a defiant octave. “The… the rule. ‘Wait.’ It works. Off the cot, too.”
He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes unreadable. The noise of the hall seemed to fade around them. “It’s a tool. Use it or don’t.” He paused. “Your first inspection is at 0900. Don’t be late. The Quartermaster hates tardiness almost as much as he hates poorly maintained gear.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the stream of green cloaks.
Gear inspection was as tedious as she’d imagined. A cramped, dusty room smelling of oil and old canvas. The Quartermaster, a grizzled man with one milky eye, ran a critical finger over every strap, tested every buckle on her harness, grumbling under his breath about the “shoddy post-expedition maintenance.” She stood at attention, her side throbbing in protest from the prolonged stillness.
“Blade housings are gritty,” he barked, tapping the triggers on her ODM gear. “You get grit in the mechanisms mid-swing, you’re a rock. A messy, splattered rock. Clean them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this…” He lifted the leather strap of her vertical maneuvering harness, the one that crossed over her chest. His thick finger pointed to a faint, dark stain she’d scrubbed at but never fully removed. “What is this?”
Her mouth went dry. She knew what it was. It was older than Karanes. It was from the forest, from before Levi’s knife. A spray of something that hadn’t been hers. “Dirt, sir. From the 57th Expedition.”
The milky eye seemed to see right through her. “It’s blood. Deep-set. Leather’s porous. You can’t just scrub the top layer and call it clean. You need to treat it. Condition it. Draw the stain out.” He dropped the strap with a dismissive snort. “Sentimental attachment to grime gets people killed. Get it sorted. Dismissed.”
She gathered her gear, her face hot. The harness felt heavier in her arms.
The hallway outside was quiet, a stone-flagged passage leading to the barracks. The sound of her own boots was too loud. Sentimental attachment to grime. The words stuck in her craw. It wasn’t sentiment. It was… evidence. A receipt for survival. Scrubbing it away felt like erasure.
“You look like you just failed a psychological evaluation.”
Levi was leaning against the wall next to a leaded glass window, arms crossed. He’d changed locations, but not his expression. He’d probably been there the whole time.
“The Quartermaster is a poet,” Sage said, hefting the gear. “He didn’t like my stains.”
Levi pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her without a word. They walked in silence for a dozen paces. The only sound was the distant clang from the mess hall.
“He’s right,” Levi said finally. “You can’t fight the past if you’re carrying it on your shoulders. It throws off your balance.”
“It’s just a stain.”
“It’s a distraction. Every time you put that harness on, you’ll see it. You’ll remember the moment it happened. In a fight, a half-second of memory is a lifetime. A lifetime you don’t have.” His tone wasn’t cruel. It was analytical, the same way he’d assessed her breathing. “You need to be present. Not past.”
They reached the junction where the hallway split towards the women’s barracks. Sage stopped. “So what, I just… condition it out? Pretend it never happened?”
“No.” He took the harness from her arms, his movements efficient. He examined the stained strap, his thumb brushing over the dark spot. “You acknowledge it happened. You learn from it. Then you maintain your equipment so it doesn’t happen again. That’s how you respect the dead. Not by wearing their blood as a decoration.”
He held the gear out for her to take back. “My quarters. 1900 hours. Bring your cleaning kit.”
She blinked. “Your quarters?”
“You think the barracks are a fit place for proper leather care? It’s a pigsty. My space is controlled. We’ll deal with the stain. Consider it part of your light duties.” He was already turning to leave. “Don’t be late. And for fuck’s sake, don’t track mud.”
His quarters were exactly what she expected, and nothing like she imagined. A small, square room in the officers’ wing. Spartan. A single bed, perfectly made, corners sharp enough to cut paper. A wooden desk with reports stacked in pristine, parallel lines. A single shelf with a few books, arranged by height. The floorboards gleamed in the low light of a single oil lamp. The air smelled of soap, lemon oil, and the faint, clean scent of black tea.
There was no dust. Anywhere. It was mildly terrifying.
“Shoes off,” Levi said from where he knelt by a small, low table he’d placed in the center of the room. He’d laid out a clean, white cloth, a bowl of warm water, a bar of saddle soap, a bottle of neatsfoot oil, and several soft rags, each folded into precise squares.
She toed off her boots, placing them neatly by the door. She approached, feeling like a bull in a china shop, her cleaning kit feeling crude and childish in her hands.
“Sit.” He nodded to the other side of the table.
She sat, cross-legged, placing her harness between them. The stained strap seemed to glare up from the white cloth.
Levi didn’t touch it. He began to demonstrate on a spare strap of his own. “Warm water. Not hot. Wring the cloth until it’s damp, not wet.” His hands moved with a surgeon’s precision, moistening the cloth, working up a thin lather with the soap. “Circular motion. Gentle. You’re drawing the grime out, not scouring a pot.”
She watched, mesmerized by the focused economy of his movements. This wasn’t a chore. It was a ritual.
“Your turn.”
She picked up her own cloth, mimicking his actions. The water was warm. The soap lathered easily. She began to work on the stained strap, the circular motions slow and careful. For minutes, the only sounds were the soft rasp of cloth on leather, the crackle of the lamp, and their own breathing.
“You push too hard,” he observed, not looking up from his own work. “You’re trying to force it. It’s a conversation, not an interrogation.”
She eased the pressure. The leather began to darken with the moisture, the stain seeming to bloom, not fade.
“It’s getting worse,” she said, a thread of panic in her voice.
“It’s coming to the surface. That’s the point.” He reached over, his fingers briefly guiding her wrist, adjusting the angle of her hand. His touch was cool and dry. “Let the soap do the work. You just provide the patience.”
She settled into the rhythm. The repetitive motion was hypnotic. The tension in her shoulders, the constant low-grade anger she’d carried since the forest, began to soften, worn down by the simple, mindful task. The world narrowed to the circle of lamplight, the scent of soap, the quiet man across from her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly, not stopping her work. The question was different this time. Softer.
He didn’t answer immediately. He finished conditioning his strap, wiping away the excess oil with a fresh rag. “The Corps runs on discipline. Most people think that means saluting and following orders. It’s deeper than that. It’s the discipline to care for the tool that keeps you alive. The discipline to clean the space you live in, so your mind stays clear. The discipline to confront a stain instead of hiding from it.” He set his strap aside. “You lack discipline. But you have tenacity. The tenacity is worthless without the discipline to direct it.”
It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him give. She looked up from her work. In the warm, low light, the harsh lines of his face were softened. He was watching her hands, not her face.
“Is that what you were doing in the infirmary?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Teaching me discipline?”
“I was keeping you from breaking.” His eyes met hers then. The grey was liquid in the lamplight, unguarded. “There’s a difference.”
She held his gaze. The memory of his lips against her hair was suddenly a physical presence in the room, a third heartbeat between them. She saw him remember it too, a slight tightening at the corner of his jaw.
She looked back down at the strap. The stain was lifting. Not gone, but fainter, transformed from a stark black blotch to a muted, shadowy patch in the grain of the leather. It would always be there, a part of the material’s history, but it was clean now. Cared for.
“It’s not gone,” she said.
“It won’t ever be,” he replied. He picked up the bottle of neatsfoot oil. “Now you condition it. To keep it supple. To protect it from the next stain.”
He poured a small amount of oil into her palm. His fingers brushed her skin. This time, the contact wasn’t clinical. It was deliberate. A current, sharp and clear, arced up her arm.
Their eyes locked again. The air in the clean, quiet room grew thick. The hum of headquarters faded away. There was only the lamp, the leather, and the charged silence stretching between them.
Levi’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. A fracture appeared in his impeccable control, a raw, hungry uncertainty that made him look younger, older, utterly real. He started to pull his hand back, to retreat behind the wall of rules and discipline.
Sage didn’t let him. She turned her hand, her oil-slick fingers catching his, holding them there against her palm.
He went very still. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He didn’t pull away.
“Wait,” she breathed, echoing the old rule, twisting it into a new question.
He exhaled, a slow, controlled release of breath. Then, with a finality that felt like surrender and victory all at once, he turned his hand, lacing his fingers through hers. The oil made their grip slippery, intimate.
“I am waiting,” he said, his voice rough.
The words hung, a taut wire between them. Sage’s heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic echo of the pain she’d learned to breathe through. His fingers, still slick with oil, tightened on hers. It wasn't an answer. It was a catalyst.
She moved first, surging up from the floor, upsetting the neat arrangement of rags. The harness clattered to the side, forgotten. She went for his mouth, a messy, desperate collision. He met her with a low groan, his free hand coming up to cup the back of her head, his control fracturing into something ravenous. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and shared breath, the taste of leather soap and his unique, clean scent. It was a fight without violence, a claiming without words.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. “This is a fucking terrible idea,” he growled against her lips, even as his hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him.
“I know,” she gasped, arching into him, feeling the hard line of his body through their clothes. “Your rules are shit.”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh, a dark, choked thing. Then he was moving, walking her backwards until her knees hit the edge of his perfectly made bed. He pushed her down, his weight following, a solid press of muscle and intent. His mouth found her neck, biting, sucking, marking a path over her pounding pulse. His hands tugged at the practical fabric of her shirt, dragging it up, his palms scraping over her ribs.
She flinched.
He froze instantly. His head lifted, his eyes searching hers in the lamplight. His gaze dropped to the side of her torso, to the angry, pink scar tissue visible above her waistband. A reminder of his knife, his hands, the forest floor.
“Does it hurt?” His voice was gravel.
“Yes.” She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him back down. “Don’t you dare stop.”
A fierce, possessive light flared in his eyes. He obeyed, but his touch changed. Where his hands moved over the scar, they were different. Not clinical, but reverent. Acknowledging. He unsnapped her trousers with ruthless efficiency, yanking them down her hips along with her smalls. The cool air of the room hit her skin, followed by the searing heat of his palm cupping her.
“You’re wet,” he muttered, his fingers sliding through her, a blunt, delicious pressure. “Soaked for me.”
She cried out, bucking against his hand. “Levi—”
“Say it again.”
“Levi, please—”
“Not ‘please.’” He pushed a finger inside her, curling it, and her vision whited out. “My name. Just my name.”
She chanted it, a broken mantra, as he added a second finger, stretching her, his thumb circling her clit with a relentless, focused rhythm. It was too much, too soon, a direct assault on her senses. The coil in her belly wound tight, spurred by the filthy, approving sounds he made against her skin.
“That’s it. Come on my hand, Sage. Let me feel it.”
The command, raw and explicit, shattered her. She came with a sharp cry, her body clenching around his fingers, waves of pleasure burning through the persistent ache in her side. He worked her through it, his movements slowing only when her tremors subsided.
Before she could catch her breath, he was shifting, wrenching his own clothes open. She saw him, hard and thick, freed from his trousers. He wasn't gentle. He hooked her legs over his elbows, spreading her wide, and drove into her in one deep, brutal stroke.
The fullness was shocking. She gasped, her nails digging into the starched linen of his sheets. He didn’t move, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath shuddering.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word strained. “You’re tight. So fucking tight.”
Then he began to move. There was no tender rhythm. It was a punishing, precise pace, each thrust punching a ragged moan from her lungs. He angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made her see stars. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, their mingled grunts and gasps filled the sterile room, polluting its clean silence.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice guttural.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his stormy gaze. His control was a thin veneer now, sweat beading on his temple, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back.
“This is what you wanted,” he hissed, pistoning into her. “This mess. This sweat. My cock fucking you raw in my clean bed.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. “God, yes. Harder. Don’t you fucking hold back.”
A snarl ripped from his throat. He released her legs, wrapping one arm around her waist, hauling her up into his thrusts. The new angle was devastating. She could feel every inch of him, the brutal friction pushing her toward another cliff. His other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat to his teeth.
“Come for me again,” he ordered, his pace becoming erratic, brutal. “I want to feel you come on my cock before I fill you up.”
The crude words, the overwhelming sensation, the sheer Levi-ness of him—it tipped her over. She shattered, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed around him, milking him, pulling his own release from him with a harsh, choked groan.
He spilled deep inside her, his hips stuttering, his whole body tensing like a bowstring before collapsing over her, his weight a welcome anchor. The smell of sex and sweat and leather oil hung heavy in the air.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowing. The lamp flickered.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of her. He didn’t leave the bed. He rolled onto his side, facing her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of her scar through the cooling sweat on her skin.
She watched him, the aftermath settling in her bones. There were no soft words. No promises. Just the reality of his skin against hers, the wet heat between her thighs, the ghost of his command in her ears.
He finally spoke, his voice wrecked. “The sheets are ruined.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, hoarse and unexpected. “I thought discipline meant being prepared.”
He stared at her. Then, a faint, real smile touched his mouth, gone as quickly as it came. “Next time,” he said, the words a low vow, “the floor.”