Page 75 of Rook

Fuck—of course I do. Vance has wanted me to himself ever since Gunnar and I were first confined to his house what feels like a lifetime ago. Gunnar’s voice cuts through the steam, as if he’s reading my mind. “He tried to play us against each other, Aisling. He’s used every dirty trick in the book.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “And what now?”

“We’re going to figure it out, just…try to enjoy the next hour before the war starts,” Gunnar says.

But there’s something else I need to tell him, and I blurt it out before I can think better of it—because we agreed there would be no more lies.

“Inari wants me to be Archangel,” I murmur.

He stiffens behind me, his fingers pausing their gentle massage. “You? I mean…I can see it, actually.”

I laugh. “Really?”

“You’re bossy.”

I snort and shove his shoulder gently. “Thanks for the words of support.”

“No…I mean it,” he says. “You’ve changed everything already, and you didn’t even have power then. Now…well, think about what you could do.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Gunnar’s hands find my chin, guiding it upward until our eyes meet. His are a stormy sea, deep and fathomless. “But what about what you want, Aisling? Do you want that burden?”

I search his face, looking for an answer in his features, but all I see reflected back at me is my own uncertainty. “I don’t know anymore,” I confess, my voice barely above the sound of sloshing water. “I started this just trying to save myself, then it was about protecting my friends. Now it’s like this whole city needs my help, and…” I trail off, lost in the magnitude of the choice before me.

“Hey,” he says softly, his thumbs brushing away the lines of worry from my brow. “We’ll figure this out together.”

“Would you really want that?” My voice is a whisper, fragile like the steam around us. “Ruling…together?”

He twines his fingers with mine, giving them a gentle squeeze, grounding me in the moment. “I’d prefer it,” Gunnar admits, his voice holding a weight that’s more than just the warmth of the water. “With you, I reckon we could do some good for Pacific City.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite the ache in my heart, the fear that threatens to overwhelm me. “I would like that too.”

For a moment we just float there, our linked hands a silent vow in the rising mist. Then, spurred by a need to reaffirm the bond between us, I shift. My muscles protest, but the soreness is a distant second to the pull of connection. I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying me with his hands as I straddle him. His touch is reverent, worshipful of every bruise and memory written on my skin.

The soreness fades into insignificance as I sink down, enveloping him. There’s a simplicity in the act, a return to something fundamental—like finding my way back to a place I never realized I’d left. It’s not just flesh joining, but the rekindling of something raw and untamed; the very essence of what it means to be omega and alpha, united.

“Home,” I breathe out, the word encompassing everything we’ve been through—the fights, the passion, the pain, and now, this tender communion.

“Home,” he echoes, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my body.

The water laps gently against our skin as we move together in a slow dance. There’s no rush, no urgency, just the ebb and flow of connection, as if we’re adrift on some tranquil sea. His hands roam my back, tracing the contours of my weary muscles with such care it borders on reverence. Every touch, every glide of his palms, seems to draw apologies from my lips—a silent litany of remorse for the rifts I’ve caused, for the games I unwittingly played with his heart.

“Sorry,” I whisper against the column of his neck, my breath hot in the coolness of the steam-filled room. “For everything.”

“Shh.” Gunnar’s fingers thread through my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. His kiss then is a seal over those whispered regrets, a promise in the press of lips that speaks louder than words ever could.

I nod, lost for a moment in the depths of his blue eyes that don’t just see me but understand the tangle of my soul. And as we move together, there’s a healing in the rhythm, an unspoken forgiveness that melds our bodies and minds into one singular being.

The water cradles us, a warm embrace that allows for the gentle rocking, the soft sighs that mingle with the sound of droplets cascading off the edge of the tub. It’s not about pleasure, not this time—it’s about healing, about stitching back together what was torn apart.

“Thank you,” I murmur, because gratitude is all I have left to offer—the thankfulness for his presence, for his unwavering strength, for the love that refuses to be dimmed by past hurts.

“Always, Aisling,” he replies, his grip tightening just enough to anchor me, to remind me that whatever comes our way, we’ll face it as one.

Time drips away with the water that cools around us, and eventually, the languid motion of our bodies stills. My head finds its way to Gunnar’s chest, a broad expanse of muscle, where his heartbeat thunders steadily beneath my ear. It’s a sound I’ve come to know as well as my own—a rhythm tied to the pulse of my life.

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