Chapter 29: The Calm After the Chaos

The cabin smelled of salt, smoke and something darker.

The storm outside had died, but the one within these walls still lingered not roaring anymore, but a low, simmering burn beneath the silence.

Alistair Von Wolfenstein lay half-awake in the tangle of sheets, his shirt long forgotten, his hair a mess from fingers that had yanked and twisted through it the night before. His cutlass rested on the floor beside the bed a silent reminder that the battle wasn't over.

Because this wasn't peace.

This was the eye of the storm.

And beside him on either side were the two women who made up the tempest.

Seraphina Blackthorn.

She was draped over the left side of the bed, half-covered by the thin sheet, though it did little to hide the scratch marks down her back some from the battle, some from him.

Her dark hair was still wild, tangled against the pillow, and her lips swollen from too many fierce kisses were parted just enough to suggest she wasn't sleeping as soundly as she pretended.

And her dagger?

It rested beneath the pillow always within reach.

Even now.

Even after.

Alistair's gaze slid down the bare line of her back, the bruises along her ribs, the bandage still haphazardly wrapped around her shoulder the one he hadn't been allowed to fix properly because Seraphina never let anyone take care of her.

Not even him.

Especially not him.

And when he shifted slightly when his fingers grazed her wrist

Her eyes opened.

Dark. Smoldering. Dangerous.

Like they hadn't just shared a night of chaos like the fight between them was still happening.

"You're staring," she murmured voice rough from sleep, from battle, from him.

Alistair smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hard not to."

Her lips curved but it wasn't soft. It was a dare.

A challenge.

Because Seraphina never gave anything freely not even now.

Isolde Greaves.

On Alistair's other side just as close, just as sharp was Isolde.

Unlike Seraphina, she wasn't tangled in the sheets. She lay on her back, hair fanned across the pillow, the thin blanket pulled just high enough to reveal the bare line of her collarbone pale and marked by him.

Her rapier polished clean at some point during the night rested against the nightstand. Always within reach.

Of course it was.

Isolde's gaze wasn't closed off like Seraphina's but it wasn't open either. It was calculating the same sharp, unyielding look she wore in battle.

Except now, her hair was undone, her shirt long discarded, and her lips still stained from the roughness of his kiss.

Her voice broke the silence first.

"You're awake," she said softly too softly.

Alistair shifted, turning his head to meet her gaze. "You're not asleep either."

Isolde's mouth curved not a smile, but something colder. "I don't sleep easily."

Seraphina's voice cut in from the other side. "We noticed."

Alistair exhaled a rough sound and ran a hand through his hair. "Saints above, can we go one morning without you two at each other's throats?"

Isolde didn't blink. "Can you?"

Seraphina's dagger appeared from under her pillow twirling lazily between her fingers, though Alistair knew better than to think the gesture was casual. "He likes us at each other's throats. Don't you, Captain?"

The word dripped with something more than just teasing.

And gods help him Alistair's pulse jumped.

Because the truth the brutal, unrelenting truth was that she wasn't wrong.

He did like it.

The tension.

The fight.

The way they circled each other all teeth and claws and desire.

And last night?

It hadn't solved a damn thing.

If anything it had only made the storm worse.

The Simmering Fire.

The cabin felt too small now too hot, even with the cold morning air slipping through the cracks in the wood.

Alistair swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to both of them, running a hand over his face.

"What now?" he muttered more to himself than to them.

But Seraphina answered first.

"Now?" Her voice was a purr but there was venom beneath it. "You go back to pretending you don't want this."

Isolde's voice followed quieter, more cutting. "And we go back to pretending we don't want to kill each other."

Alistair's head dropped forward a humorless chuckle leaving his lips. "Perfect."

Because that was the truth of it.

The night hadn't erased the fire.

It hadn't softened the rivalry.

It had only tangled them worse.

Seraphina a storm of want and rage, never giving anything without a fight.

Isolde a blade of ice, cold and cutting, never surrendering control not even to him.

And Alistair caught between them, not just in bed, but in everything.

Wanting both.

Needing both.

And knowing

He couldn't have both.

Not forever.

Because this wasn't just about desire.

It was about dominance.

About winning.

About who would claim him if either of them ever truly could.

And as Alistair stood shirtless, breath still unsteady with Seraphina and Isolde watching him like he was both a prize and a weapon…

He realized something brutal.

The storm between them hadn't passed.

It had only just begun.