Page 231 of Scarlet Wars
My answer came out as little more than a breath. “Okay.”
He moved so fast it startled me, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shifted me beneath him.
A startled chuckle burst out of me at his urgency.
His eyes darkened with intent before he murmured against my lips, “That sound is the most wonderful sound in the world.”
Heat rushed through me, fiercer than any protest, and I kissed him harder.
Then his hands were on me, sliding under the hem of my shirt, tracing fire up my sides until every nerve lit up.
My breath hitched, a moan slipping free before I could bite it back.
He stilled for half a heartbeat, then gave a low, rough laugh against my mouth. “I was wrong,” he whispered, the words all ragged. “Thatis the fucking most wonderful sound in the world.”
The way he said it—like he’d devour the noise straight from my throat if I let him—made me shiver all over again.
And then I let him.
The next day,I woke up with a knot of restlessness curled under my ribs.
Even with Caden reassuring me last night, the urge to talk to Rachel hadn’t gone anywhere. I needed to set things straight. To make it clear there would be no her and him in any universe, parallel, magical, or otherwise.
And weirdly, it wasn’t even about Caden. It was about Rachel. About something I needed to clear before we couldbecome friends in any meaningful way. And I wanted that, more than I’d expected.
I also realized, in doing this, Rachel would probably put two and two together about the nature of my relationship with Caden.
But fuck it. At this point, subtlety could go die in a ditch.
I manifested my Nexus in my palm, blue drops hovering over it, rearranging themselves into the lingering text Caden had sent me earlier, telling me tostay cunning and beautifulwhile he went off with Sean to dig up more information about Gordon.
I flicked my fingers, dissolving his message and pulled the drops back together into a new pattern: a text for Rachel, asking her to meet me in her personal training room.
Figured the conversation would go down a lot better if we were both physically occupied in an environment where neither of us could pretend we weren’t equals.
She was already waiting for me when I walked in, stretching her arms over her head with the casual grace of someone who could probably take down a small militia before breakfast.
“Morning,” she said without turning.
“Hey.” I stepped inside and let the door slam shut behind me, because my subconscious felt dramatic.
Rachel glanced over, one brow raised. “You look like someone who woke up and chose violence.”
I shrugged. “Or cardio.”
“Same thing,” she deadpanned, tossing me a staff.
I caught it easily, twirling it once to hide my nerves.
Without waiting for another useless second, Rachel lunged first.
Our staffs collided with a loud crack that echoed through the room. She pressed forward, testing me, pushing my balance. I slid back, pivoted, and swung low toward her legs. She blocked and spun cleanly.
I gritted my teeth and launched into a series of fast attacks, controlled, precise, maybe a little furious. Rachel countered each one with the ease of a woman who had lived her entire life expecting to be attacked.
She swept my leg. I caught myself on my hand, flipped, and landed with a thud.
Rachel gave an appreciative nod. “Fancy.”
