Rowan's POV
The irony of our situation wasn't lost on me as I surveyed the small guest room with its single bed and rain-lashed windows. After almost a month of Mikael sleeping on our sofa to maintain his precious boundaries, here we were.
Forced into intimate proximity by nothing more dramatic than bad weather.
Under normal circumstances, I might have found it amusing—the universe conspiring to put us exactly where I'd been trying to maneuver us for weeks. But tonight, amusement felt impossible.
I was still processing what I'd witnessed during the exorcism, and the images wouldn't leave me alone.
I'd watched Mikael transform into someone I barely recognized. An image of a ruthless hunter and enforcer of the church wielding silver implements with deadly precision, did something unpleasant to me.
When he'd commanded the entity to reveal itself, his voice had carried absolute authority that made my bones vibrate with recognition and terror. Not attraction—though let's be honest, there'd been some of that too, because apparently I had a death wish.
But genuine, visceral fear. It had been a masterclass in witch hunting that chilled me to the bone.
You're playing a very dangerous game, Wren. And you're going to lose.
The realization had settled in my chest like a poison: if Mikael discovered what I truly was, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same thing to me. Probably worse.
The tender husband who bandaged my wounds and defended me from Dominic's suspicions was the same man who could destroy my kind without question or hesitation.
I'd seen it in his eyes during the exorcism—cold, clinical determination that would brook no mercy for creatures like me.
So why are you still doing this? Why are you still pushing him when you know how it ends?
I didn't have a good answer for that. Or maybe I did and just didn't want to examine it too closely.
I'd tried to suppress these thoughts during the dinner with the grateful family, focusing instead on playing the role of the overwhelmed wife who'd witnessed something beyond her understanding.
But watching him work with such efficient brutality had made denial impossible.
"I'll take the floor," Mikael announced, breaking into my dark contemplation. He was examining the narrow couch pressed against one wall with obvious distaste. "Or that monstrosity, if necessary."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said, forcing lightness into my voice despite the turmoil in my chest. "I'm not going to let you suffer for the sake of propriety when there's a perfectly good bed right here. Besides, you'd probably fall off that couch in your sleep and crack your big head open."
"Wren..." His voice carried that familiar warning, but I could see the exhaustion in his posture.
The exorcism had drained him physically and emotionally, and sleeping on that uncomfortable furniture would only make tomorrow's journey more miserable.
"Look at you," I continued, moving to our travel bag with practiced efficiency. "You can barely stand upright. One night sharing a bed with your wife isn't going to corrupt your immortal blessed soul, Father Mikael. I promise to keep my hands to myself."
The way his jaw tightened told me he disagreed, but he was too tired to argue effectively.
The tension between us was palpable as we prepared for sleep in the confined space. Every movement felt charged with significance—the rustle of fabric as I changed into my pajama behind the wooden screen, the careful way Mikael removed his clerical collar and folded it with ritualistic precision.
When I emerged from behind the screen in my thin cotton pajamas—modest by most standards but still somehow felt like lingerie under his carefully-not-looking gaze—he was examining something on the bedside table with intense focus.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved closer to see what had captured his attention and…
Oh. Oh no.
It was an antique knife, its ornate handle gleaming with the distinctive patina of blessed silver. Even from a distance, I could feel the faint buzz of sanctified metal against my senses—not painful at this distance, but definitely noticeable.
"That's beautiful craftsmanship," I said, genuine appreciation coloring my voice despite the weapon's purpose. "May I?"
I reached for the ornate handle before he could object, careful not to let my skin make direct contact with the blessed metal. The weight of it was perfect, balanced for both ceremony and practical use. Whoever had forged this had known what they were doing.
They'd made it to kill things like you, Rowan. Maybe show some self-preservation instincts?
"Wren, that's not a toy," Mikael said sharply, moving to take it back from me. "It's a consecrated weapon. Very dangerous."
"I'm just looking!" I protested with a laugh, playfully dodging away from his reaching hands. "I'm not going to hurt myself with it. I'm not completely—"
But my teasing movement proved more dangerous than I'd anticipated when I stumbled over the edge of an old worn carpet.
Time slowed in that horrible way it does right before disaster strikes. I felt myself falling backward, felt the knife twist in my grip, felt the sharp edge catch against my hip bone as I fell on it, right where… No. No no no no.
A bright line of pain made me cry out, slicing directly over the barely visible witch-mark on my left hip bone.
The mark Mikael could never, ever see.
Pain exploded through me—not just from the cut, but from the blessed silver making contact with my skin, with my mark. It felt like being branded with white-hot iron, like every nerve ending in my body was screaming at once.
Don't scream. Don't scream don't scream don't scream…
I bit down hard on my lip, tasting blood, swallowing the cry that wanted to tear out of my throat. Mikael was already lunging forward to catch me, and momentum sent us both tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and muffled curses.
"Damn it, Wren!" He untangled himself quickly, his eyes immediately going to the thin line of blood seeping through my clothes. "I told you it was dangerous!"
"It's fine…" I managed, though the pain was so intense I could barely think. "Just a scratch."
"Let me see." He was already moving to his travel case. "This needs to be cleaned and bandaged."
"Mikael, really, it's nothing."
"Now, Wren."
The command in his voice sent something through me that had nothing to do with the cut. He returned with gauze and antiseptic and knelt on the floor in front of me, which put him at a height I had not expected and which made the small room feel suddenly much smaller.
"Come on, show me."
I pulled the hem of my pajama shorts down slowly, exposing the cut—and trying very hard not to think about what else I was exposing.
The thin line wasn't deep, but it was bleeding freely in the way shallow wounds do. But more importantly, the skin around it was already red and angry-looking, the witch-mark beneath effectively will be hidden under the scar later.
One less thing for him to discover.
One less reason for him to kill you.
Except now I had a whole new problem, because Mikael's jaw had tightened at the sight of the blood, and his hands—those large, capable hands—were reaching for my bare skin.
He began cleaning the cut with methodical care, his touch impossibly gentle for hands that size. The antiseptic stung on top of the burning from the blessed silver still working its way through my system, and I made a soft sound without meaning to.
His thumb moved—just once, across unmarked skin beside the wound, the way you'd soothe something without thinking about it.
"Hold still," he said, his voice quieter than it had been.
"I am holding still."
"You're trembling."
I hadn't noticed. I catalogued the fact with interest and decided not to address it.
He leaned closer to examine the cut, his breath ghosting across my inner thigh in a way that made me forget about the pain for half a second. His dark hair was close enough that I could have touched it without stretching. Could have buried my fingers in it and pulled him closer, сould have…
Stop. Stop right now.
The lamplight from the bedside table caught the planes of his face from below, and I found myself studying the set of his mouth. The careful way he was concentrating, the way his lashes cast shadows when he looked down.
The man who had wielded a blessed blade with cold precision was now using those same hands to tend a wound from another blessed blade.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Neither was the fact that I was getting increasingly turned on despite the pain. Or maybe because of it. Maybe I really did have a death wish.
"You do this very well," I said, keeping my voice light. "The concerned husband routine."
"It's not a routine." He didn't look up.
"Isn't it?"
His hands stilled for just a moment before he continued his work, securing the bandage with careful precision.
"You're staring," Mikael said, without looking up.
"You're kneeling before me. It's difficult not to."
The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. He secured the edge of the bandage, and his hands stilled. The task finished, the reason for touching me gone.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, his thumbs still resting light against my skin.
The warmth of his palms was specific and concentrated, and I was aware of it the way you're aware of a fire in a cold room.
"Less than before."
"Good." He said, but still didn't pull away.
His hands stayed where they were, bracketing the bandage, his thumbs tracing idle patterns that I didn't think he was conscious of making.
The space between us was almost nothing. I could count his eyelashes from here. Could see the exact moment his breathing changed from steady to something else entirely.
Kiss me. Please. Before I do something stupid like kiss you first.