Page 161 of Harbinger

I can’t decide if that’s a mercy or a cruelty.

Inside, steam rises in languid sheets that blur the hard lines of stone tiles, fogging the glass ceiling overhead just enough that the starry night winks in and out like it’s peering through clouds. There are six pools sunken in the floor, each framed with tiled mosaics of the patron constellations. For a moment, I stand there listening, half convinced I might hear Bishop’s footsteps after all, following me into the steam to prove I’m not imagining the fragile thread stretched between us.

But the bathhouse remains stubbornly silent. A trace of minerals hangs in the air, as if the room is holding its breath, too. I force myself to stop waiting and move toward the pool in the center, drawn to the way its dark stone steps seem to vanish from sight.

The air leaves my lungs in a long sigh as I take the first step down. The water carries a pale, milky cast that swallows the light a few inches below its surface. The stone inside the pool is slightly rough. It’s a mercy, given that I don’t trust my overworked muscles to keep me from slipping otherwise. I lower myself inch by inch to the built-in bench, until the water reaches all the way to my shoulders. A moan escapes my mouth as the silky heat closes around me, the sound way too intimate for a space that’s usually shared—and suddenly I’m very glad Bishop wasn’t here to witness that.

I linger there, letting the heat cocoon me, my body easing more with each second that passes, warmth sliding into places I didn’t realize were tight. The minerals in the water linger on my skin like a caress.

Void him. He was right.

But there’s some tension even the water can’t help me shake.

It’s not like the invitation meant anything. Surely Bishop knows that. The baths are large and empty. Not asking would have been rude. I don’t care that he said no.

It’s good that I’m alone.

I close my eyes and relish it. Relish the quiet lapping of the water against tile, the slight hiss coming from the sauna, the airy bubbles that break over my skin where the water is piped in directly from the mountain hot spring.

I’m glad that I’m alone.

The speed of my pulse suggests otherwise.

I sink deeper into the pool until the water hits my chin, heat sliding over me in slow, insistent waves. Steam curls around my face as I lower my head back to rest on the pool’s edge and close my eyes.

This stolen moment is enough. It’s all that I need.

And he knew it. Arranged it. Kicked everyone out.

For me.

It shouldn’t fucking matter, but just thinking about it betrays me. The heat loosens something devastating, stripping away the sharp edges I’ve honed through discipline and routine, anger and grief, and leaves something delicate behind.

I am absolutely not waiting for him. Not hoping he’ll join me. Nope. I am relaxing. Aggressively.

But if he did come in here …

I hover in the space between thoughts, held by the water and balanced on the edge of something I refuse to name.

Because what would be the point?

Bishop is probably absorbed in whatever important paperwork he keeps in the infirmary.

Maybe I’ll punish him tomorrow. Insist we don’t train until he kicks everyone out again and takes full advantage of this glorious heat himself. Maybe in the light of day, I’ll be able to remember the lines between us better and see that this is enough. More than enough.

I’m halfway through convincing myself when the echo of footsteps on tile tells me I’m not alone.

This isn’t happening. He isn’t joining me.

Please, Stars, let this be fucking happening.

When I pry my eyes open, Bishop stands at the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. I sink lower, my own body covered by the opaline mineral water.

Steam beads on him, a thin sheen of sweat already clinging like a second skin. A low rush of heat that has nothing to do with the water floods through me. One of his arms is fully mapped with intricate silver lines in a pattern that winds over muscle and bone like beautiful scars. The other arm is half marked, the design breaking off suddenly, unfinished and waiting. More lines arc across his shoulders, continuing into the hard lines of his chest, disappearing under the towel before reappearing on his thighs and weaving across his calves. His lethal past written on him in a language my body longs to learn.

This is the guilt he carries. The power he keeps sheathed beneath armor and discipline and that maddening restraint.

I want to strip it all away until I reach the man underneath.