Under the Shadows

He pulled back, his chest heaving as he looked at her. His lips were red, his hair disheveled, and his eyes... God, his eyes burned. They searched hers as if looking for something, something he wasn't sure he wanted to find.

Elyne's hands fell away from him, trembling as she gripped the edge of the counter for support. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths uneven, as the weight of what had just happened crashed over her like a tidal wave.

"What... what the hell was that?" she managed, her voice hoarse.

The Reclaimer didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a gentleness that sent shivers down her spine.

"That," he said finally, his voice quiet but laced with something dark and unyielding, "was inevitable."

Elyne's jaw tightened, her mind spinning as she tried to process his words, his touch, the way his gaze lingered on her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Don't think this changes anything," she muttered. "I still hate you," she said again, though this time the words felt hollow, a weak defense against the truth she didn't want to face.

His lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, and he leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"I know," he murmured. Then, as if the moment hadn't just unraveled them both, he stepped back, his hands falling away, leaving her feeling unmoored and exposed.

The absence of his touch was like a cold slap to the face, and Elyne's fists clenched against the counter as she watched him turn away, his movements calm, deliberate, like nothing had happened at all.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts as the world around her slowly settled. The cool surface beneath her thighs contrasted sharply with the lingering heat coursing through her body. Her gaze swept across the kitchen, taking in the scattered utensils, the shattered remnants of a glass glittering like fragmented stars on the floor. It looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind, but the real storm was still raging inside her.

What had she done?

Her mind replayed the last minutes with brutal clarity—the heat, the fury, the undeniable pull that had drawn her to him like a moth to a flame. She felt both exhilarated and horrified, as if she were teetering on the edge of a precipice she hadn't even realized she'd been approaching. The Reclaimer wasn't just a line she shouldn't have crossed; he was the goddamn line.

Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white as she tried to ground herself. The air felt too thick, her skin too sensitive, and her thoughts refused to quiet. She cast another glance at the chaos around her, the disarray a glaring reminder of just how out of control she had been.

The sound of footsteps pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. She looked up to see him reemerge from the bathroom, his chest still bare and his hair a tousled mess, damp with sweat. He looked as disheveled as she felt, his breath still uneven, though his expression was carefully measured. He held a towel in his hand, his green eyes softer now, but still holding that maddening, unreadable intensity.

He stopped a few steps away, his gaze meeting hers before he held out the towel. His voice was soft and low, almost apologetic. "Here. If you need help... I can—"

She couldn't let him finish. The softness in his tone, the tentative offer—it was too much. Too tender. Too normal. She snatched the towel from his hand with more force than she intended, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment before she turned away.

"I'm fine," she muttered, her voice sharper than she'd intended. Her chest tightened as she felt his gaze linger on her, but she couldn't look at him. Not now. Not when her own thoughts were such a mess.

She slid off the counter with a practiced ease, her legs protesting faintly, still shaking from the strain—tomorrow, she would definitely be sore, fuck—and made her way toward the bathroom.

Her mind latched onto one clear, practical thought: she needed to pee. Now. She didn't have time for complications, and the last thing she needed was a fucking UTI. Or another damn reason to regret this moment.

Each step felt like a reprieve, a sliver of distance between her and the chaos she'd unleashed. She didn't dare glance back at him as she moved, clutching the towel like it was the last shred of her composure.

The bathroom felt cooler, quieter, the hum of the world outside muffled by door as she closed it. Elyne let out a shaky breath, her reflection catching her eye in the small mirror above the sink.

Her hair was a mess, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses. And her eyes—God, her eyes—looked wild, a storm of emotions she couldn't untangle. Anger. Desire. Regret. Defiance. They were all there, fighting for dominance.

Her skin was marked, faint red imprints scattered across her body—evidence of his hands, his mouth, his passion. Her fingers ghosted over one of the marks on her collarbone, and a sharp pang shot through her chest.

She hated how it made her feel. Vulnerable. Exposed. Wanted.

She turned away from her reflection, focusing instead on the immediate task. One step at a time, she told herself.

Elyne sat on the toilet, her elbows resting on her knees as her head fell into her hands. Her hair brushed against her fingertips, damp with sweat, as the cold tiles beneath her feet anchored her to the moment. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a struggle against the wave of emotions crashing through her.

What had she done? How had it come to this?

One minute, she'd been ready to pull the trigger, to end this twisted game between them once and for all. The anger, the fury—it had burned so brightly, so fiercely that she'd thought it would consume everything. And then, like a flame meeting oxygen, it had turned into something else entirely. Something she couldn't control. Something she wasn't sure she even wanted to.

Her hands pressed harder against her face, her palms cool against her flushed skin. Shame pooled in her stomach, bitter and unrelenting. How could she have let it happen? How could she have let him touch her like that, kiss her like that? Worse, how could she have wanted it?

Because she had wanted it. God, she'd craved it. She nearly—nearly? —begged for it. Fuck.

The realization struck her like a punch to the gut, leaving her breathless and reeling. She'd hated him. She still hated him. Didn't she? And yet, the memory of his hands, his lips, his voice—all of it lingered, branded into her skin, her mind, her very being.

The worst part wasn't the shame or the guilt. It wasn't even the anger that still simmered beneath the surface. It was the fact that she had loved it. Adored it. Every second, every kiss, every touch had unraveled something inside her that she hadn't even realized was tightly wound.

No man had ever come close to making her feel this way. Not even a fraction. And yet, he had done it—effortlessly, infuriatingly. Twice, no less.

Her hands fell away from her face, her eyes staring blankly at the bathroom tiles as the weight of the realization settled over her. Her whole life, she'd believed in control. She'd built her walls high, convinced herself that no one could breach them. Love, passion—they were for other people. People who didn't have a job like hers, a life like hers.

She'd told herself that what she had was enough. The fleeting connections, the moments that never lingered—they were safe. Predictable. Necessary.

But now, with the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin, she couldn't lie to herself anymore. He'd torn through her defenses like they were nothing, and she hadn't just let him. She'd welcomed it. She'd wanted it so badly it made her chest ache just to think about it.

A shiver ran through her as she stood, the cold air brushing against her bare skin. Her fingers trembled as she turned the faucet, letting the warm water cascade over her hands. She scrubbed them almost violently, as though she could wash away the evidence of what had happened. But it wasn't enough. No amount of water would ever erase the way he'd made her feel.

What was she going to do?