Page 27 of The Scars of War
He steps into the flicker of firelight. Tall. Pale. Smoke and shadows wrapped in the shape of a man. His hair glints silver. His glasses catch the flames. And his eyes…I know those fucking eyes. Not warm. Not cruel. Justcold.
He kneels beside the boy. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t rush. Just tilts his head like he’s curious about how the body’s breaking.
Then, softly, like a prayer or a curse…“Necrose.”
The word coils into my blood like venom. Every inch of me seizes. Ifeelit. Like it was waiting inside me. Waiting to be called awake.
The boy stops breathing. Dead. Gone.
The man lifts his gaze to mine. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me. Like he knows something I don’t. Like I belong to a story I haven’t been told yet. His voice is quiet. Too quiet. “You’re late.” I try to move. To run. To wake the fuck up. His hand lifts, slow, reaching for my face. “You’ll understand soon.” Then everything fractures.
I wake up choking on a scream in a bed I don’t recognize. I know the ceiling. Black wood, carved with spirals. The scent of smoke still lingers from a fireplace that’s long gone cold. Riven’s mansion. I’m back in his bed. I can still hear Elias in my mind…that word scraping the inside of my brain like it belongs there.
Necrose.
And my hands…fuck. They’re wet. Bright red blood coating my fingers, smeared across my wrist and under my nails. I throw the covers off and stumble to the edge of the bed, breathing hard. The air in the room is too still. Too sharp. Like it’s been holding its breath with me.
My reflection in the glass wall looks like something unfinished. Eyes wide. Hair tangled. Skin pale except where the blood stains it. And it’s not mine. I don’t feel pain. I don’t see a wound. I remember it.
Fingers wrapped tightly around his throat. The scream followed by complete silence. I stagger backward, still wrapped in the sheets, hitting the edge of the desk with a crack. My palm leaves a red smear across the wood
“Lux.” His voice cuts through the panic like a blade. I turn. Riven stands in the doorway, barefoot, shirtless, his pants slung low on his hips like he rolled out of bed the second he felt something change. His eyes lock to mine, then drop to my hands. He crosses the room in three long strides and grabs my wrists. His grip is tight. Too tight. I let him. “This isn’t yours,” he mutters, scanning me for wounds. “You’re not hurt.”
“I saw it. I saw everything.”
“What did you see?”
“A boy. Dying. Blood. I was the one…I was…” My voice cracks.
He exhales slowly, dark eyes narrowing. “He’s already inside,” Riven says, more to himself than to me. “I thought we had more time.”
“Who?”
“Elias.” The name drops like poison in my throat. “This is his work,” Riven says. “Dreams. Visions.Echoes.He doesn’t touch your body. He touches yourmind.”
“Why?” My voice trembles. “What does he want?” Riven steps closer, wiping my hands with a towel pulled from the desk.
“He wants to know if you’ll survive the unraveling.”
“What unraveling?”
His gaze is quiet. Heavy. “You.”
I should be afraid of all the blood, the dream, or the fact that my mind seems like it is no longer mine. All I can feel is him. Riven.
He doesn’t ask. He decides. He scoops me up, sheets and all, and carries me out of the room. Ibarely register the hall, the turn, the marble floor beneath his feet. My heart’s still thrashing, my skin crawling.
I can hear the water as it starts running. Hot. Fast. The hiss of steam hits the air. We’re in a massive, black-tiled bathroom. The light is dim, but the heat is immediate. The glass shower fogs before he even steps inside. He sets me down gently and peels the ruined fabric from my body. “You need this,” he mutters. The water hits, scorching, cleansing. I gasp and brace against the tile. Blood runs down my thighs in red ribbons, swirling down the drain. Riven steps in behind me and presses against my back. “I’m not scared,” I whisper, even though I fucking am.
“You should be.” His hands trail up my sides. Slow. Deliberate.
“Riven…”
“You’re safe,” he says against my ear. “He’s not here. I am.”
I suck in a breath and turn to face him as steam curls through his hair, eyes dark and locked on mine. “Let me feel something real,” I whisper. He starts to respond, but I’m already dropping to my knees. Tile coldunder my skin. Steam rolling around me. I look up at him as I run my hands up his thick, muscular legs. His cock is already hard, thick, flushed, demanding. My mouth waters. I take him in without a word. His breath hitches. One hand slams against the glass wall above us, the other gripping my soaked hair “Fuck…” I hollow my cheeks and work him deep, tongue swirling, letting the water hit my back as I choke down every inch. He looks down at me like I’m something unholy. I moan around him, and that’s when his control snaps. “You little fucking…” He pulls out with a growl, drags me to my feet, spins me, and shoves me face-first into the tile. “You want real?” he snarls. “I’ll give you something real.” He slams into me from behind. No buildup, no softness, just pure brutal claiming. I gasp, and his hand wraps around my throat. Not squeezing. Yet. “Say it.”
“Fuck…”
