Chapter Twenty Three - The Price of Power

Sierra’s POV

Sierra didn’t remember exactly when her legs had carried her to the training hall. All she knew was that she needed the space—the cold stone, the echoes, the way the shadows seemed less oppressive here. The walls held a different kind of silence: not empty, but expectant. Like they were waiting to see what she would do next.

She pressed her palms to the smooth, cool stone, trying to steady her racing heart. Her pulse thudded in her ears, each beat echoing the memory of the purr from the summoning circle. She hadn’t meant for the shadows to answer so vividly—not like that—but a part of her had wanted them to. A part she hadn’t admitted even to herself.

By the time she returned to her dorm, sleep refused to come. Her body felt restless, charged, like her blood was humming with leftover magic. She rolled onto her side, tugged the blanket tight, and squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how he smelled. Don’t think about his hands. Don’t think about the way he made your pulse skip.

But her mind betrayed her.

Sleep came in tremors, dragging her into a vivid, impossible dream.

Malick’s shadow was the first thing she felt—wrapping around her like smoke, like fingers trailing over her skin. Then came his voice, low and dangerous, curling around her like silk.

“You called for me. You wanted this.”

She tried to deny it, but her body gave her away. His presence pressed against her, magnetic, impossible, warm. Every nerve sparked, every shadow in her veins thrummed, echoing the desire she refused to acknowledge.

His hands bracketed her hips, firm and sure, pulling her flush against him. His mouth brushed the hollow of her throat, breath hot, lips grazing, teeth scraping just enough to make her arch.

“Malick…” she gasped, but it didn’t sound like a protest.

His laughter was dark and quiet against her skin. His thumb swept across her stomach, lower, until her thighs trembled in the dream. Heat pooled between them, fierce and consuming, her back arching as his lips finally found hers—harder this time, claiming, tasting. She clutched at his shirt, dragged him closer, desperate for more, needing more, even as shame twisted somewhere in the back of her mind.

The dream blurred into fire—his tongue teasing hers, his teeth tugging her bottom lip, his palm pressing her down into the mattress like she belonged there. Shadows curled around her wrists, pinning her, but not cruel. Just anchoring. Guiding. Every nerve in her body screamed with longing she had no right to feel.

She woke with a strangled gasp, chest heaving, sweat slicking her skin. Her sheets tangled between her legs, damp with a shameful, undeniable wetness. Her body ached with need, throbbing where the dream had left her undone.

Fury surged hot on the back of it. Fury at herself. Fury at him. Fury that her own body had betrayed her in such a humiliating way. She buried her face in her pillow, muffling a groan. “Gods damn you, Malick.”

But the shadows didn’t care. They slithered along her skin in smug little caresses, as though they’d enjoyed the dream just as much.

She was still trembling, still angry, when she whispered his name aloud without meaning to. “Malick…” It slipped out broken, caught between a plea and a curse.

And then the door opened.

She jolted upright, heart in her throat.

Malick’s POV

Malick paused at the doorway, ears straining. A soft, almost inaudible sound had drifted from inside—the way her voice trembled when she whispered his name. Something about it made his chest tighten, an unfamiliar heat curling in his stomach.

He knocked once, lightly. No answer. The door creaked open at his push, and he froze.

Sierra sat on the edge of her bed, flushed and sweaty, hair plastered to her forehead, eyes wide and startled. The remnants of whatever had spurred her out of sleep lingered in the air: the tang of her effort, the heat of her body, the unmistakable aura of her magic still coiling in the corners of the room.

“Hey,” he said softly, careful. His eyes drank her in—not with cruelty, not with mockery, but with something sharper, something curious, pulling at him in ways he didn’t yet understand.

She stammered, fumbling for words, cheeks blazing scarlet. Malick stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. His boots scuffed softly against the floor as he took in the tension radiating from her. Shadows curled around her, restless, whispering secrets in a language he didn’t fully understand—but he could feel the longing in them, the pulse of power she couldn’t yet control.

“Everything okay?” His voice was low, careful, but his pulse had quickened. Standing there, close enough to feel the warmth of her, he realized just how much he wanted to reach out—not to touch, not yet—but to anchor her in the storm swirling inside her.

Sierra blinked at him, words failing, and he understood. The sight of her, flushed and vulnerable but still trembling with barely controlled power, made his thoughts dark with desire—not something physical yet, but an ache that pressed at his chest.

“Just breathe,” he said, taking a cautious step closer, “I’ve got you.”

Sierra’s POV

She tried to pull away, but her exhaustion betrayed her. His arm slid around her shoulders, firm and steady, and she collapsed into him despite herself. Her cheek brushed his bare chest, the heat of his skin searing her.

The shadows slowed. Her breathing steadied.

And then—he kissed her.

Not rough like the dream. Not claiming. But soft. Slow. Grounding. Promising.

It shattered her anyway.

Her fingers curled weakly into his chest, not pushing him away this time. The taste of him was everything the dream had been and more—real. Dangerous. Impossible.

When he pulled back, her lips were parted, her face burning, her body trembling all over again. This time not from panic.

“I… I don’t know what this means,” she whispered, voice hoarse, furious with herself for meaning every word. “What… us… I mean…”

Malick only studied her, shadows licking at his heels, eyes dark as ink. He didn’t give her answers. Just brushed her fingers lightly with his, as if to remind her: he was here.

And gods help her—she wanted him still.

Hours later, she lay on her bed, tossing and turning, unable to quiet the storm in her mind. Her stomach twisted with frustration—frustration at her body, at the dream, at Malick’s calming presence. She wanted answers she couldn’t name. She wanted more than grounding—she wanted to understand this tether, this pull, this ache that left her restless and raw.

The shadows lingered, coiling in silent, smug anticipation. She buried her face in her pillow, muttering curses under her breath. “I won’t tell him. I won’t. Never.”

Her hand drifted to her chest, tracing the faint, lingering warmth of his presence as if she could capture it in her fingers. She clenched her jaw, gritting her teeth against the frustration, the ache, the desire she refused to name.

Every whisper of shadow felt alive. Every flicker of heat across her skin seemed to pulse with Malick’s presence, even when he wasn’t there. She could almost feel his fingers lingering, brushing against her wrists, anchoring her in the chaos that was her magic and her own longing.

Sleep finally claimed her, but not gently. The remnants of her dream, the ache of desire, the frustration, all tangled into a restless, vivid dreamscape that teased and taunted her.