The Oblivion

Chapter 8.

Back in Nyx and Nyles' apartment, the silence felt different. It was a thick, restless thing, smothering the usual comfortable clutter of their shared space. The crime scene photos were seared behind Nyx's eyes every time she blinked. The clean, precise cuts. The empty sockets. Nyles moved through the kitchen with a controlled violence, the set of his shoulders tense beneath his t-shirt.

"They're getting better at it," he finally growled, cracking the seal on a beer bottle with more force than necessary. The sound was shockingly loud.

"Or more devoted," Nyx countered, pulling her hair into a messy knot. She'd already scrubbed her hands raw in the shower, but the phantom feel of blood-stained magic lingered. "That sigil wasn't just carved. It was inscribed. There was intent in every slice. That takes focus. Joy, even."

They'd filed their reports, their words clinical and detached. Captain Orlen had listened, his stony face growing grimmer. The Bailtaine Order's name hung in the air between them all, a silent, ugly confirmation. Now, the weight of it settled here, in their home, amongst the mismatched furniture and Nyles's scattered tattoo sketches.

A commotion in the hallway broke the tension. Raised, frantic voices—Layla's, sharp and frayed, and a man's, pleading and defensive. Mark. Nyx was on her feet in an instant, her hand curling into a fist. Nyles placed a steadying hand on her arm, his touch a warm anchor. Calming her racing heart, Nyx opened the door, leaning against it casually just as Layla's door was wrenched open, her eyes fixated on the shitty peeling paint of the hallway wall.

Her pink eyes locked onto Mark's pathetic frame as he slunk away, moving only once he had disappeared down the hall. She padded over to stand in front of her friend, eyes scanning for any fresh markings.

"You ok, Nip?" she asked.

Layla rubbed her forehead, a headache beginning to form. "Yeah, just a s**t week," she looked up, her eyes softening as they travelled over her coloured hair.

"I know a werewolf who owes me a favour?" Nyx teased, causing a small smile to crack across Layla's face.

"Tempting," she muttered.

"You've got a spare key, Nip. Always welcomed in my space." She gave Layla's shoulder a gentle squeeze before disappearing back into her apartment.

"f**k," Nyx breathed, her anger momentarily redirected as she pressed her back against the front door, hearing Layla's close a moment later, the deadbolt sliding home. "That piece of s**t. He came back to talk. Like that would fix where his d**k ended up."

"She handled it," Nyles encouraged, though his eyes were fixed on the door, as if he could see through it to where Layla was now, alone and picking up the pieces again. "She's stronger than he is."

They retreated to the living room, the need for a distraction a mutual, unspoken agreement. Nyx found an old action movie on the streaming service, all meaningless explosions and choreographed fights. They settled onto their beat-up couch, a familiar island in the uneasy sea of the night.

Nyx wore one of Nyles's old band shirts, a soft, faded thing that swallowed her frame, and a pair of simple cotton underwear. Nyles was just in his boxers, his powerful body a landscape of muscle and ink in the flickering blue light of the screen. He was beautiful in an almost offensive way, especially now, when the world outside felt so vicious.

For over an hour, they pretended to watch. They talked about nothing. The weird smell from the downstairs deli. The leaky faucet Nyles kept forgetting to fix. Whether they should repaint the bathroom. Mundane, grounding things. His hand rested on her thigh, his thumb drawing slow, absent circles on her skin.

The circles grew purposeful. His touch, initially a comfort, began to signal a different need. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin cotton of her underwear, a low, building heat that pushed back against the cold dread in her gut. She shifted, turning her body toward him, her own hand finding the hard plane of his stomach, tracing the lines of his tattoos.

On screen, a car chase blared, meaningless noise.

Nyles's hand slid beneath the waistband of her underwear. His fingers were calloused, gentle at first, just teasing through her curls before finding her already wet and wanting. He didn't speak. He just watched her face, his hazel-green eyes dark in the dim light, as he stroked her, his touch graduating from a soft exploration to a firm, knowing rhythm that made her breath hitch.

"Need you," she murmured, the words gruff, stripping away the last pretense of the movie. Her own hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his length. He was thick and hard, velvety heat in her palm. She began to stroke him, matching the pace he set on her.

A low groan rumbled in his chest. He guided her head down with a hand tangling in her pearl-white hair, not forcing, but asking. She went willingly, her lips parting, taking the length of him into her mouth. The taste of him, salt and skin, was intimately familiar, a grounding antidote to the death they'd witnessed. She used her tongue, her hands, losing herself in the act, in the tangible, living proof of him.

He didn't let her finish. With a growl that was all wolf, he pulled her up, his mouth crashing onto hers in a fierce, possessive kiss. He yanked her underwear down her legs and shifted, laying her back on the worn cushions. There was no further ceremony.

He drove into her in one deep, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. "Mine," he breathed against her neck, the word a vow and a claim.

Their coupling was raw, a physical exorcism. It was him pressing her into the couch, her nails scoring down his back, their breaths harsh and mingled. It was her legs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper, taking everything he gave. It was him chanting "My Luna" into her skin like a prayer, his pace furious, a desperate anchor in a spiraling world. The room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, of their ragged gasps, of the couch protesting under their weight.

It was rough, it was wild, and it was passionately, unequivocally theirs. When the peak came, it ripped through them both with a violence that felt like survival, a shared lightning strike that left them trembling and spent in its aftermath.