Chapter 48: Bloodied Sheets
The silence in Crow’s quarters was a living thing, thick and humid, carrying the scent of sex, smoke, and salt-dried skin. Angel lay with her head on his chest, her fingertip idly tracing the raised lines of an old blade wound that cut across the tattoo of the crow over his heart. He held a cigarette between two fingers, the ash growing long, its tip glowing like a tiny hell in the dim green light.
“You reconnected with Maria,” she said, the words not quite a question. Her voice was hoarse.
He took a slow drag, the smoke leaving his lips in a grey plume that coiled toward the ceiling. “I spoke with her. That’s all. After you walked out of the lecture.” He let his head fall back against the wall behind the bed. “She was… a distraction. A concept. Something to focus on that wasn’t you. We never did anything.”
Angel lifted her head, her amber eyes searching his face in the gloom. The hurt was still there, a fresh bruise beneath the skin, but it was mingled with something fiercer now. Possession. Her hand slid down from his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, and wrapped around his cock. It was already hardening again under her touch, a thick, heavy weight in her palm.
“A distraction,” she echoed, her voice dropping to a whisper as she shifted her weight.
In one fluid motion, she straddled his hips, her bare, wet pussy hovering just above him. The heat of her was magnetic. She ground herself against the length of him, a slow, deliberate friction that made his jaw clench. The cigarette was forgotten, crushed in the ashtray on the floor.
“I need you inside me again,” she breathed, leaning forward so her lips brushed his ear. Her curly hair curtained their faces. “Deeper this time. I want you to only think about me, Kaelen. Only me.”
She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance, and sank down onto him in one slow, devastating slide. A sharp, shared gasp filled the air. She was still swollen and slick from their first round, and he filled her completely, a perfect, stretching fit. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and helped her set a rhythm. She rose and fell, taking him deep, grinding against his pubic bone on each descent, chasing that exquisite internal friction.
“Fuck, Angel,” he groaned, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out. “This pussy… it’s mine. Your heart is mine. Fuck the rules. I’m yours. Only yours.”
The admission, raw and torn from him, unleashed something in her. She moved faster, her breasts bouncing, her breaths coming in sharp little cries. But it wasn’t enough for him. With a growl, he flipped them over, rolling her onto her stomach with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. He didn’t give her a second to adjust. He drove into her from behind, his weight pinning her to the mattress, the new angle impossibly deep. Each thrust was a hard, animal punctuation.
But his hands softened even as his hips pistoned. He kissed the knobs of her spine, licked the sweat from the back of her neck, a shocking contrast to the brutal, fucking rhythm. He wrapped a hand in her curls and pulled her head back gently, forcing her to look over her shoulder at him. Her glasses were askew on the nightstand. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her eyes glazed.
“Who do you belong to?” His voice was a dark caress.
“I belong to Kaelen Drusus,” she moaned, the words shattering on a particularly deep stroke.
He released her hair, and his hand came down on her ass in a sharp, stinging slap. The sound was loud in the room, the bloom of heat immediate. She cried out, clenching around him.
“I’m going to fucking brand my name on your perfect ass,” he swore, thrusting harder, faster, the bed slamming against the stone. “So that anyone who even fucking glances at you knows who you belong to.”
It was rough, possessive, a claiming. Yet every harsh word was undercut by the tender kisses he pressed to her shoulder blades, the way his other hand slid beneath her to cup her breast, his thumb rolling her swollen, sensitive nipple. The duality of it—the animal and the adoring—drove her to the edge faster than she thought possible. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsive wave that milked him relentlessly.
He followed, burying himself to the hilt with a final, grinding thrust. He came with a choked-off roar, pumping his release deep into her, soaking her insides until she felt it leaking out between her thighs. He collapsed on top of her, then rolled them to their sides, holding her tightly against him as they both fought for air.
They lay panting and exhausted in a damp tangle of limbs, her back fitted to his front. He nuzzled her hair, his breathing slowly steadying. This was the quiet. This was the peace he’d spent centuries without.
Then came the knock.
A firm, authoritative rap on the heavy door.
Crow went still. Angel’s breath hitched. He tightened his arm around her, a silent command to wait.
The knock came again, harder.
“Crow. I know you’re in there.” The voice from the hallway was raspy, familiar, and laced with an impatient edge. Kilson. “Let me in. We need to talk.”
Angel scrambled. Panic electrified her exhausted muscles. She slithered out from under his arm, eyes wide with terror, searching frantically for her clothes. Crow moved with a lethal calm. He sat up, caught her face in his hands, and placed a single finger against her lips. His silver eyes held hers, steadying her. Then he kissed her, soft and firm.
He gestured with his chin toward the massive, ancient desk on the other side of the room. It was angled in such a way that the high-backed chair and the bulk of the carved wood created a hidden alcove beneath it, invisible from the door.
Angel understood. She snatched up her polo and pants, not bothering with her underwear, and darted across the cool stone floor on bare feet. She crammed herself into the footwell space, hugging her knees to her chest, making herself small. The dark, enclosed space smelled of old wood and Crow’s boot polish.
She heard the soft rasp of his zipper, the click of his belt buckle. He pulled on his jeans, leaving them unbuttoned, and strode to the door. He took one deep, centering breath, and opened it.
“Kilson.”
“Took you long enough.” Kilson Delacroix shouldered his way inside without invitation. He was a mountain of a man, muscular, with a careless handsomeness that seemed at odds with the keen intensity in his eyes. His gaze swept the room—the unmade bed, the two discarded cups, the general disarray—and landed back on Crow. “Cozy.”
“What do you want?” Crow’s voice was flat, a teacher’s bored impatience. He leaned against the wall by the door, crossing his arms over his bare, scarred chest, a picture of insolent relaxation.
Kilson paced a few steps into the room, his hands in his pockets. He stopped near the center, close enough to the desk that Angel, from her hiding spot, could see the scuffed toes of his boots. She held her breath, pressing her forehead to her knees.
“I want to talk about my daughter,” Kilson said, his rasp deceptively casual. “You’ve both been avoiding me since that night I saw you two walking out of her room together. Don’t bother denying it. I’ve got eyes everywhere.”
From under the desk, Angel’s blood ran cold.
Crow didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I escorted a distressed student back to her quarters after a campus incident. It’s called duty of care.”
Kilson barked a laugh, a short, humorless sound. “Duty of care. Right. And the fact that she hasn’t looked me in the eye for a week, and you’ve been jumpier than a cat in a room full of rockers? That’s just professional concern?”
“She’s a student struggling with resonance. I’m her assigned instructor. It’s complicated.” Crow’s tone offered no quarter. “Your personal anxieties aren’t my problem, Kilson. If you’re looking for father-daughter bonding tips, I’m the wrong fucking demon to ask.”
Kilson was silent for a long moment. The air thickened. Angel could almost feel his wavelength, a slow, powerful burn like a dormant forge, probing the room.
“Just stay away from her, Crow,” Kilson said finally, his voice low and deadly serious. “I’m not just her fuck-up father. I’m the Death Scythe for this academy. I see things. I feel things. There’s a storm coming, and she’s in the middle of it. I won’t have you—with your particular… madness… making it worse. Keep it professional. Or I will make it my problem.”
Crow pushed off the wall, standing to his full height. The two powerful men stared each other down in the dim light.
“Your warnings are noted,” Crow said, his voice colder than the stone beneath their feet. “Now get out of my quarters.”
Kilson held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned and walked out. The door shut with a solid, final thud.
Crow didn’t move. He stood there, listening to the retreating footsteps fade. Only when the silence was absolute did he walk to the desk and crouch down.
Angel was shaking, her eyes huge in the shadows. He reached for her, pulling her out and into his arms.
“It’s alright,” he murmured into her hair, but his own body was wire-tight. “He’s gone.”
She clung to him, the fear a sour taste in her mouth. Kilson knew. Or he suspected enough to issue a threat. The fragile peace was shattered. The storm her father had mentioned was already here, rattling the windows.
Crow held her, his mind already racing through contingencies, lies, and exit strategies. His denial hung in the air, a thin shield against the coming confrontation. It wouldn’t hold. They both knew it.
They both knew it.
The silence after Kilson’s departure was brittle, glass about to crack. Angel’s shivering wasn’t from the cold stone floor. It was the aftershock of a threat that had slipped through the keyhole and now coiled around the room. Crow’s hand on her back was the only solid point in a tilting world.
“He knows,” she whispered into his skin, the words muffled.
“He suspects,” Crow corrected, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His fingers traced the notches of her spine. “There’s a difference. But he’s not wrong about the storm.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The memory of Marjorie’ invasive red threads, the haunting pull of a familial claim, was a fresh burn on both their minds.
She clung to him still, and she felt her soul connecting to his, an internal resonance, like they always did when they had sex, but they weren’t having sex. He was just holding her. She felt like someone who had been starving for so long was finally being rejuvenated. She kept her legs wrapped around him during the embrace, feeling like a child, but he hugged her like he needed it just as much as she did, if not more.
The distant, melodic chime of the academy bell sliced through the silence. It was the end of the class period. Time, which had stopped in this room, began its relentless march forward.
He sighed, the breath stirring her hair. Reluctantly, he unwound her limbs from his body and set her down on her feet. She wobbled, her legs feeling liquid and used. He steadied her with a hand on her elbow, his touch firm and fleeting. He retrieved her glasses from the nightstand and gently hooked them over her ears, his knuckles brushing her temples.
He looked at her arms, at the landscape of raised, angry lines. His silver eyes clouded with a pain so profound it made her stomach clench. He tucked a strand of her curly, tangled hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her cheek.
“Can you heal these?” he asked, his voice rough. “I will always accept you, no matter what. Every mark. But these… these ones you gave yourself… they remind me of how much I hurt you. I see them and I want to burn this fucking academy down.”
She swallowed, looking from his tormented face to her own scarred skin. She nodded, a tiny movement. She closed her eyes, pushing past the exhaustion. She looked into herself, into the well of chaotic, untrained power that was her soul, and sought the frequency of mending, not breaking.
A soft, honey-gold light emanated from her palms. It wasn’t the harsh white of a sterile hospital, but the warm glow of a sunrise. She felt recharged, tethered by his presence beside her. She focused the light onto her arms, then her thighs. The energy sank into her skin, a soothing, cellular buzz.
The most recent, superficial wounds sealed over, fading from ragged red lines to smooth, pink skin. The deeper, older scars softened, their angry crimson fading to flat, pearlescent white. They didn’t vanish. They became history, not fresh wounds. It looked a lot better than it did.
She opened her eyes, trembling from the effort. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly, a silent thank you tasting of smoke and salt. “You should go back to class,” he murmured against her lips.
Her gaze fell, the reality of the hallway, the students, the judging eyes, crashing back. He grabbed her hand before she could pull away, caressing her knuckles with a shocking tenderness.
“This is not going to end,” he stated, the words absolute, a vow etched in steel.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, a searing brand of promise. “I will see you after class for training. And then, maybe, we can have dinner. At my home.”
The shift was so sudden, so shockingly normal, it left her dizzy. A real date. Not a frantic coupling in the dark, but dinner. At his home. A sudden, brilliant smile broke across her face, transforming her completely. Her whole face blushed a deep, delighted rose. “O-of course!”
She rushed then, giddy and off-balance. She scooped up her bag, stepped into her socks and shoes, and was out the door with a final, fleeting glance, forgetting that her underwear was still on his cot, tangled in the sweat-damp sheets.
The courtyard air was a cold slap, clearing the scent of him from her head. She saw Alyce leaning against the dry fountain, asura casually leaning beside her. Angel braced for a lecture, for worried anger.
Alyce looked her over once, up and down. A slow, knowing smile spread across her freckled face. “You look like you got a nice fucking in,” she said, her voice casual. “Did Mister Broody change his mind?”
Angel blushed profusely, covering her face with her hands. A helpless, happy sound escaped her. Alyce’s smirk softened. Her sharp eyes caught the change on Angel’s arms, the significant reduction in fresh marks, the healed skin.
She smiled softly, a rare, genuine expression. “C’mon,” she said, pushing off the fountain and asura following behind. “Let’s go to class before Silas beats our asses in front of everyone.”
Angel giggled, the sound feeling foreign and wonderful in her own throat. They ran, their footsteps echoing in the polished concrete corridors, a brief, bright reprieve from the shadows gathering in their wake. For these few minutes, it was just two young women, late for class, one of them secretly carrying the scent and the promise of her teacher like a fierce, glowing coal next to her heart.