Page 106 of The Awakening of Essensia

“You sound like you wanted them to.”

Elijah exhaled sharply, then leaned in, pressing his lips to hers.

His scent closed around her, mixed with something sickly-sweet. Her stomach churned and her limbs locked.

“Not here,” she said, looking at the gate, her heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

He moved closer, took her by the shoulders, and pushed her gently against the cold stone wall. “Yes here,” he breathed, his voice rough. His mouth was on her again, harder now, like he was claiming her.

Vaelira’s insides recoiled at the touch. She pushed against his arms, but he didn’t notice, just held her pinned against the hard stone as she braced her palms on his chest, trying to reclaim the distance between them.

He misread the gesture, sliding his hand to her waist. She pushed again, heat flaring in her chest.

He didn’t stop. His fingers gripped her hip painfully as his lips grazed her jaw. She turned her head away. His mouth moved to her throat, his teeth scraping her skin.

“Elijah, stop,” she whispered. Her voice was thin, her chest tight with panic.

“Vaelira,” he breathed against her skin, pushing his hips hard against her, locking her in place with his body.

She was going to be sick.

In times of great danger, rage is better than fear. Galfri’s voice rang in her mind.

She clung to that voice. Let the anger rise. The anger at him holding her back, at him silencing her. Trying to make her small. Anger at his disregard for her wants, for ignoring common sense in place of his own self-righteous plans.

She shoved her hands against his chest again, harder. There was no way for him to misread the gesture now, yet his teeth were on her ear, his tongue flicking over the bite as if it would make up for the hurt.

She’d had enough of his presumptions. Of his games. Heat flared from her palms.

Elijah stumbled back with a gasp, looking down. Two patches of his shirt were burned through, the skin beneath red, but not broken.

“I said no.” Her voice was iron.

Elijah stared. He stepped back, his eyes roaming from left to right, like he couldn’t face her, or himself.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Lira.”

“Don’t ever call me that,” she snapped. That name wasn’t for him. Would never be for him.

He nodded dumbly and turned towards the gate, moving towards it stiffly.

She let him walk ahead a few paces before following, the heat slowly draining from her palms.

25

Phantom Hands

For three days, Vaelira lay in silence. Her body sank into the bed, as if the mattress was trying to swallow her whole. Every muscle ached, every movement sending a bolt of pain down her limbs. Even walking to the refectory felt like wading through ash. The others whispered about the chapel, the story changing by the day, but their voices were muffled, like she was hearing them through water. She ate quickly each evening, eyes fixed on her plate, then disappeared before anyone had the chance to ask her opinion.

Elijah had come looking for her, but she hadn’t answered when he knocked. Not on the first day, or the second, or the third. Each time, she lay barely breathing, staring at the ceiling like she might burn a hole through it. By the fourth, she knew she wouldn’t be there when he came again. She couldn’t bear to hear that voice through the door, soft and insistent, like nothing had happened. Not after the way he’d gripped her wrist outside the chapel, and then her waist.

The sun had barely risen over the walls when she slipped into the secret passageway. Galfri wouldn’t be expecting her, but she couldn’t lie in that bed a moment longer, couldn’t stand the quiet. Jurah had excused her from drills and lectures for the week due to her head injury, so no one would miss her.

Vaelira climbed out of the tunnel and into the abandoned storage room in the Index, finding robes already folded and waiting for her on one of the shelves. She hesitated only a moment before changing, pulling up the hood and slipping into the corridor.

The mage chamber was empty, but the silence wasn’t the peaceful reprieve she had been hoping for. It pressed against her ribs, demanding to be heard. Mercifully, light glowed from the makeshift archway ahead, and she ducked through, inhaling the heavy air of the archives, the scent of old parchment and leather stuffing up her nose.

Galfri sat at the table, hunched over a worn book. His face looked older, the lamplight carving hollows beneath his cheekbones like time had finally caught up to him. Did he know the true nature of Elijah? Is that why he had never trust him with the truth?