Descent, page 22
I glanced down at the ring on my finger—Elise’s ring. The tiny diamond caught a shard of moonlight and sparkled faintly. It didn’t shine like it used to, but neither did I. Still, it grounded me. A piece of her wrapped around my finger like a promise I hadn’t broken yet.
I couldn’t let myself think about what might’ve happened to her. The idea of Elise being trapped somewhere, hurt or worse, was too much. It would splinter me if I let it. So I didn’t. I tucked the fear away and focused on the steady warmth at my back.
Walton shifted slightly in his sleep, his fingers brushing against the small of my back like he could feel my thoughts unraveling. Even in dreams, he was protective. I’d come to depend on that more than I should’ve, more than I ever expected.
I breathed him in. His scent. His presence. Everything about him screamed danger, and yet, I’d never felt safer.
But I couldn’t sleep.
Not with my thoughts swirling like smoke—children locked away in cells, the Marauders, the fragile thread we were walking every day. It was too much noise inside me. I needed space to sort it out, even just for a little while.
Carefully, I began to untangle myself from Walton. His arm tightened around me in protest, and I paused. “I’m just going to take a bath,” I whispered.
Immediately, he released me.
Slipping from the bed, I padded softly across the room and into the adjoining bathroom. The moment I stepped inside, I paused, stunned by the quiet opulence of the space. Compared to the decay and ruin of the world outside, it felt… untouched.
Smooth black tile cooled my feet. The clawfoot tub gleamed like a relic from another era, pristine and inviting. I turned on the tap and watched the water rush in, steaming as it swirled.
It felt indulgent, almost wrong, to have something like this. Soap, shampoo, candles—actual candles—lined the shelves. I could have wept at the sight of them. It was the kind of place that belonged in a memory, not reality.
Once the tub was full, I shed my clothes and lowered myself into the hot water. It wrapped around me like a second skin, chasing away the ache in my limbs and the grime clinging to my skin.
I leaned back and let myself sink just enough to feel weightless.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t afraid. I was just… me. Quiet. Still. Warm.
The horrors could wait until morning.
The scent of lavender drifted up in soft waves as I picked up a bar of soap, its smooth surface almost too perfect to use. Slowly, I began washing away the grime and dried blood that clung to my skin, each pass over my body feeling like more than just cleaning—it felt like a release. As if I were scrubbing away not just dirt, but fear, exhaustion, and the sharp edge of trauma.
When I opened my eyes again, everything looked different. The flickering candlelight danced on the tiled walls, turning the bathroom into a place of quiet magic. The bathwater’s warmth cradled me, and for a moment, I allowed myself to pretend this was normal. That I was just a girl taking a bath in a world that hadn’t fallen apart.
I shifted slightly, reaching to scrub my back—but a sharp stab of pain cut through my ribs. I gasped and bit down on my lip to muffle the sound. The last thing I wanted was to wake Walton. He needed the rest more than I did.
So I turned to my hair instead, letting my hands hover over the neat row of bottles perched on a shelf nearby. They looked untouched, like little treasures waiting for someone to remember them. Back in the Purifier bunker, we had one brand of shampoo and conditioner—scentless, utilitarian, cold. These… these were indulgent.
I picked up the first bottle and twisted the cap, inhaling deeply. The scent was strong—overpowering roses. Too floral. I set it down. The next one was citrusy and bright, and for a second I was back in the greenhouse Elise and I used to sneak into, sunlight on our faces. My throat tightened, and I moved on.
Bottle by bottle, I chased old ghosts. Sandalwood like the ancient books Elise would hoard. Mint so crisp it made my eyes water. And then—I found it. Lavender and vanilla. Warm, gentle, familiar.
I poured some into my palm and began lathering it into my hair, the creamy suds sliding through my fingers. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent, letting it wrap around me like Walton’s duster when I was cold. My fingers massaged my scalp slowly, thoroughly, and I could almost forget the bruises blooming on my skin or the iron tang of blood from earlier.
Rinsing it out, I felt lighter. Calmer.
I reached for the matching conditioner and smoothed it into my hair. It coated every strand in luxury, and I allowed myself a small smile as I combed it through with my fingers. It was the softest thing I’d touched in weeks—maybe longer.
While it sat, I leaned back, letting the heat work on my bruises and aches. The pain in my ribs ebbed to a dull throb. The world outside felt far away, muted by steam and stillness.
Here, alone in this flicker of peace, I remembered what it felt like to just be. Not a runaway. Not a burden. Not even a survivor.
Just a girl with lavender in her hair, warm water on her skin, and the quiet hope that tomorrow might not hurt quite so much.
I sank deeper into the water, eyes closed, letting the warmth cradle my aching limbs like it could keep the whole world out for just a few more minutes. For the first time in days, I felt clean. Not just on the outside, but somewhere deeper—somewhere hollow I hadn’t even realized was aching until now.
The lavender clung to my skin, delicate and soothing. It felt like my body had finally remembered what peace could be, however brief.
“You about done?” Walton’s voice cut through the quiet like gravel sliding across stone.
My eyes flew open, my breath catching. He stood in the doorway, shirt gone, duster and hat nowhere in sight. He wasn’t looking at me. Not really. His eyes hovered just above me, somewhere near the steam curling off the tub.
“Oh—Walton, I—I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said, scrambling to sit up straighter, the water lapping around me. “I was just trying to get cleaned up before we leave. I was quiet, or I thought I was—my back’s been hurting and I couldn’t reach it properly, and—”
I trailed off. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. The room suddenly felt tighter, like the steam had thickened, weighed down by something heavier than water or soap.
“Your back?” he asked. Just two words, spoken low, but there was something in them I couldn’t place—like someone trying to bite back regret.
“Yeah,” I said softly, not looking at him now either. “Just sore ribs. From—well. It’s not important.”
He made a sound—half sigh, half growl—and took a step forward. The scent of ash and worn leather hit me first, familiar and grounding.
“I can wash it for you.”
My breath hitched. The words weren’t romantic. They weren’t laced with anything obvious. Just a simple offer. But golly, it undid me.
“O-okay,” I whispered.
I turned away from him, my cheeks flaming as I pulled my wet hair to one side. I heard the soft rustle as he knelt. The sponge passed from my trembling hand to his calloused one, our fingers brushing for the barest second.
Then he began.
Warm water cascaded down my back as the sponge made its first slow pass over my skin. His touch was impossibly gentle—painfully gentle—like he was scared I might shatter if he pressed too hard.
I’d expected it to hurt. But it didn’t.
It soothed.
Every pass washed something away. The bruises, the dirt, the shame. The hands that had grabbed me, the laughter I couldn’t unhear. The Purifiers. The bunker. My sister’s scream the night I ran.
All of it trickled away with the soap and steam.
His hand brushed higher, just under my shoulder blade. My breath caught in my throat. No one had touched me like this before—without expectation, without ownership. Just care. Pure, rare, devastating care.
“Does it hurt much?” he asked, voice low like a prayer he didn’t mean for anyone to hear.
“Not as much now,” I managed. My voice sounded different—soft, like I was made of glass. “The water helps.”
But it wasn’t the water. Not really.
It was him.
And I didn’t know how to survive the way that made me feel.
His hands moved with the same reverence you might use to touch a wound. Careful. Controlled. But I felt it—just beneath the surface of every slow, deliberate circle of the sponge—rage.
Not at me. Never at me.
It was something deeper, simmering low in his chest. Maybe it was anger at the Marauders for what they did to me. Maybe it was guilt, festering because he hadn’t been able to stop it.
But he was here now. And that mattered more than anything.
“Walton,” I breathed, barely more than a whisper, “thank you.”
He paused for a beat. The air between us held still. Then he resumed, quieter this time.
“Just rest, Ev.”
The way he said my name—not like a nickname, but like something sacred—made my throat tighten. I swallowed hard, willing the tears not to fall.
When he finished, he set the sponge down with a careful hand and reached forward to help me rinse off. The water sluiced down my back in warm rivulets, and still, his hands stayed steady—rough, yes, but so heartbreakingly gentle.
I’d never been touched like this before. Not with reverence. Not like I was something fragile, something worth preserving.
His hands skimmed along the curve of my spine, avoiding the worst bruises but never shying away from me. Every brush of his fingers sent a shiver racing through my limbs, not from fear but something far more dangerous—desire.
My breath hitched, and I hated myself for the way my body responded. Hated that the pain faded under the way he touched me. Hated that I wanted to lean back into him, let his hands roam higher, lower—wanted him to hold me like I was his and not just a burden he carried.
And goodness help me, I didn’t just want his hands.
I wanted him.
The intimacy was quiet. Holy. His silence spoke volumes: You’re safe. I’ve got you. I won’t let the world hurt you again.
A soft sound escaped my lips—half sigh, half something else. I didn’t mean to make it. Didn’t even realize I had… until his hands froze.
Then jerked away like I’d burned him.
He stood up so fast the water sloshed against the side of the tub. His voice when it came was sharp, brittle like glass on the edge of breaking. “Hurry up. We’re burning daylight.”
The door slammed behind him.
I sat there, dripping and naked in a room that suddenly felt too cold. The echo of his departure rang louder than any explosion. The absence of him was deafening.
And I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.
I pressed a trembling hand over my chest, like I could hold the cracks in place. Maybe I’d ruined something sacred. Maybe he saw me as a temptation. Maybe he hated himself for the way he touched me. Maybe he hated me for wanting it.
I didn’t know.
But the silence he left behind hurt more than any bruise.
I stared at the door long after he slammed it; the steam rising from the bath curling around me like fingers I no longer wanted.
The water, once warm and soothing, now felt tepid. Empty. Like something had been poured out of me and wasn’t coming back.
I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.
His touch had been careful. Reverent. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of my back with nothing more than a sponge and silence. And when I leaned into it—when I let the need slip past my lips with that stupid, breathless sound—he recoiled like I’d struck him.
Was it disgust?
Regret?
Had I broken something between us that I didn’t even know we had?
I glanced down at the water, rippling faintly from my movements. There were no answers there—only my reflection, blurry and distorted. I looked like someone else. Someone older. Someone who had known something close to tenderness… and lost it.
I wanted him to touch me again.
Not just the way he had, but more. I wanted his hands on my skin. I wanted his breath in my ear. I wanted to know what it felt like to be chosen, not protected. I wanted to feel something real, something raw, something that wasn’t fear or survival or shame.
I wrapped a towel around myself and stood slowly, the chill in the air biting at my wet skin. I dried off with shaking hands and slipped into fresh clothes, each movement haunted by the memory of him—his rough hands, the press of his palm between my shoulder blades, the sound of my name on his lips.
When I stepped back into the room, Walton was already dressed. His back was to me, shoulders hunched as he shoved clothes into his bag like they’d wronged him personally.
He didn’t look at me.
“Get your shit together,” he said, voice flat. “We need to move.”
I stood there for a moment, just watching him. The man who’d washed my back like he was offering penance. The man who now wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I swallowed hard and nodded, forcing my feet to move. My hands gathered my things on autopilot, stuffing clothes and weapons into my pack with more force than necessary.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to ask him what I’d done. Why he’d touched me like that only to pretend it hadn’t happened. Why he made me feel safe only to leave me cold the second I leaned in.
But I said nothing.
The silence between us was thick with things neither of us were brave enough to say. And all I could think about—through the ache in my chest and the fire still smoldering low in my belly—was how much I wanted him to touch me again.
Even if it broke me.
Chapter 26
Walton
I slipped out of The Seraph’s Embrace, the heat of the place clinging to my back like a ghost as the cool night wrapped around me. The clearing was quiet, save for the crunch of gravel under my boots and the soft rustle of leaves in the trees. I needed distance. Space to breathe. A second to clear my goddamn head.
Lit a cigarette with fingers that wouldn’t stay steady. Brought it to my lips. Inhaled deep. Held it until the burn at the back of my throat forced me to exhale. Smoke curled into the air like sin rising off a soul. Fitting.
Silence padded after me, her claws barely whispering against the dirt. Loyal as ever. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a treat. She took it gently, tail wagging once, as if that could undo what I’d done.
I’d crossed a line. I knew it.
Washing her back hadn’t been just about care. Not entirely. The moment she let me touch her, trusted me with that softness, something inside me cracked open. Her skin was too warm, too real. The sound she made when I touched the right spot—soft, breathy, unguarded—burned into my memory like a brand.
Christ.
I leaned against a tree, bark biting into my spine, and tried to push the thoughts away. But they clung tight, wrapping around me like chains.
Everly.
She’d looked at me like I wasn’t damned. Like I was worth something more than the weight I dragged around.
I dragged smoke into my lungs and stared at the stars, cold and distant as always. Took another pull, let it burn down to the filter, then flicked it into the dirt. Maybe I was trying to set myself on fire from the inside out. Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
I thought of Emma. Of dinners and laughter and light. All of it gone. All of it stolen. And here I was, with blood on my hands and a girl in the next room who trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms. Who didn’t know that I was lying to her.
She wasn’t mine. Never would be.
I wanted to be better for her. But better men didn’t make deals with the devil. Better men didn’t leave girls behind to chase ghosts.
“Get your shit together,” I muttered.
Silence nudged my leg. I crouched, ran a hand over her ears. Her warmth grounded me. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need lies.
But Everly would. Soon.
And when she did, I didn’t know what the hell I’d say.
It didn’t matter how much I wanted Everly; what mattered was keeping her safe from what I had become—keeping my darkness from engulfing her light.
I heard the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and didn’t need to look to know it was Lyra. She always had a way of showing up when my thoughts were darkest. She moved with that calculated grace she wore like perfume, her black hair catching the dawn in soft glints like a blade just before it sank in.
“Hey there,” she greeted, her voice smooth, almost melodic.
I lit another cigarette, the flare of the lighter casting my face in a brief glow. I didn’t bother with a greeting. If she was here, she wanted something—she always did.
“You seem… forlorn,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic. It didn’t suit her.
I took a drag and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift up and vanish. “Just thinking,” I muttered. Safer to keep it vague.
Lyra stepped closer, and I could feel her studying me. “You can talk to me, you know.”
I ground the cigarette into the dirt with my heel, not meeting her gaze. “Nothing to talk about.”
“This about the girl?” she asked, and her tone shifted—curious, sharp. “The Purifier?”
My jaw tensed. I didn’t want her name on Lyra’s lips.
“Not everything revolves around her,” I snapped.
“But you care about her,” she pushed, stepping closer. I caught the edge of a smirk pulling at her mouth.
“Drop it,” I said, my voice low, warning.
She crossed her arms, leaning against a tree like we were just having a casual chat. “Do you even know what you feel?”
I turned away, fists clenching. Of course I knew. That was the problem.
“Listen,” she said, her voice losing some of its edge. “Everly being a weakness… that’s dangerous.”
