Chapter 42 Whipped Cream Incident
I imagined tracing the lines of his muscles with my tongue, licking the cream off his skin while he groaned my name, his angelic composure finally, beautifully shattering under my touch.
Across the table, Malik froze. The glass stopped halfway to his lips.
I felt a sudden, sharp tug in my mind—a precognitive resonance that felt like a hook catching in my ribs. His eyes snapped to mine, and they weren't serene anymore. They were dark, stormy, and focused on me with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Amaya," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, vibrating warning. "Your thoughts... they are not focused on sustenance."
I felt the heat explode in my cheeks, a mortification so deep I wanted the moonstone to swallow me whole. "I... I was just... thinking about dessert."
Malik didn't look away. He leaned forward, his aura suddenly expanding, a protective, possessive chill that wrapped around me like a shroud. "You are a catalyst of the Light. You must learn to guard your mind, especially against... such vivid distractions."
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and for a heartbeat, the 'Saint' was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he wanted to devour the very thoughts I was having. The air between us crackled, the static electricity turning into a thrumming, physical weight.
"I'm a human, Malik," I managed to whisper, my voice trembling. "Humans are messy. We don't just meditate on laws. We feel. We want."
"I am aware of what you want," he replied, his voice a low, intimate rasp that sent a shiver straight down my spine. He set the glass down with a sharp clink and stood up, his composure returning like a mask being slammed into place. "Eat. Ryker is waiting for you at the training grounds. And I suspect he will not be as patient with your... distractions as I am."
He turned and walked away, his stride graceful and hurried, leaving me alone with my avocado toast and a heart that refused to stop racing. He’d felt it. He’d seen the whipped cream. And for a second, the Wolf King had looked like he wanted a taste.
The training grounds of Salvation were a brutal contrast to the ethereal beauty of the rest of the school. Located in a sunken amphitheater carved out of dark, jagged basalt, the air here smelled of old sweat, ozone, and the metallic tang of blood.
Ryker was waiting for me in the center of a circular pit, his black Henley discarded, leaving him in nothing but low-slung training trousers. His back was to me as I approached, and I couldn't help but stop and stare. He was a landscape of hard muscle and ancient scars, his skin bronzed and glistening with a light sheen of perspiration. He looked less like a mentor and more like a primal force of nature that had been poured into a human shape.
"You're late, doll," he growled without turning around. "Malik, keep you busy with a particularly long prayer? Or did you just get lost in his blue eyes?"
"He was giving me a lecture on mental discipline," I replied, stepping into the pit. "Apparently, my thoughts are a 'vivid distraction.'"
Ryker turned then, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on his lips. His storm-gray eyes swept over me, taking in the form-fitting gear. "Is that so? Well, consider this a lesson in physical discipline. In a real fight, the enemy won't care about your thoughts. They'll only care about how fast you can bleed."
He moved toward me with a sudden, predatory speed that made my breath hitch. Before I could even raise my hands, he was behind me, his arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. The heat radiating off him was staggering, a furnace that threatened to melt my resolve.
"Rule one: reflex," he whispered into my ear, his stubble grazing my skin. "If you feel the shadow, you move. Don't think. Don't analyze. Just react."
He spun me around, his hands gripping my shoulders with a strength that was both terrifying and intoxicating. He pushed me back, then pulled me forward, forcing me to find my balance on the uneven basalt.
"Hit me," he commanded.
"What?"
"You heard me, doll. Show me those teeth you're so proud of. Hit me like you mean it."
I swung, a clumsy, human punch that he caught with a bored flick of his wrist. He twisted my arm behind my back, pinning me against his chest. I could feel every hard line of his body, the thrum of his heartbeat against my spine.
"Pathetic," he hissed. "You're fighting like a pharmacist. Stop worrying about the dose and start worrying about the kill. You have a goddess’s power and a brat’s attitude—use them."
He released me, and the sudden loss of his heat made me snarl. Something in me—that wild, untamed spark he’d ignited in the alley—flared to life. I didn't think; I just lunged. I used my weight to tackle him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
We hit the ground hard, rolling over the basalt. Ryker laughed, a dark, appreciative sound as he pinned me beneath him. He was heavy, his thighs straddling mine, his hands pinning my wrists to the floor above my head.
"There she is," he murmured, his eyes blazing with a dangerous, hungry light. "The fire. I can feel it vibrating under your skin, Amaya. It wants out."
"You're an ass, Ryker," I gasped, my chest heaving, my body responding to his proximity with a desperate, treacherous ache.
"I'm a survivor," he corrected, lowering his head until our noses touched. "And if you want to be one too, you need to stop being afraid of the dark. Especially the dark inside you."