Steel clashes. Wings shatter. Golden blood falls like stars.
The battlefield blurs, and suddenly I was no longer standing in ash and ruin but sinking into heat, into him. Adrial lays beneath me, scarred chest bared, his eyes no longer ember-red but soft flame. His hands don't bind me, didn't command me—they wait, open at his sides, as if I had tethered him instead.
I straddle his hips, guiding him inside me with a trembling hand. As his warmth stretches my limits, my fingers curl into the sheets beside him, anchoring us in the now. The stretch burns and melts all at once, a heat wave surging through me as I rock down onto him, taking him completely. A sound breaks from his throat, not the growl of possession, but something raw, unguarded, the echo of vulnerability that almost makes me pause, savoring the swell of our mingled breaths.
For once, the pace was mine. My rhythm. My choice. His eyes never leave me, burning with hunger and surrender both, and when I pressed my palms to his chest, I felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath my hands, real and human.
"You've always taken," I whisper, moving harder, faster, claiming every inch of him. "But this—this is mine."
His breath catches, his head tipping back as if undone.
"Yours," he groans, voice breaking. "Only you."
Heat coils low, tight, and when it shattered, I cried his name, my body clenching around him as the world came apart. He surges with me, spilling deep inside, his voice a rough prayer in my ear.
A sudden chill slices through the humid air, sharp and biting, yanking me from the battlefield?. The dream dissolves, slipping through my fingers like water.
I blink into darkness, gasping. The sheets are damp against my skin, my pulse still racing. Beside me, Adrial lies silent, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his face turned toward me in the half-light. His hand rests open against the mattress, not holding, not binding.
The echo of the dream still hums in my body—his surrender, my control, the fragile confession of yours. I reach for him, almost touching, then stop, my hand trembling above his scars.
Because it hadn't been real.
He would never let me have that. Not awake. Not yet.
Still, I curl closer, listening to the steady beat of his heart, pretending for one fragile moment that the dream might one day belong to me.
But my breath still came too fast. My skin was damp with sweat. The vision lingered, sharper than any dream should be—gold blood glittering, wings torn from the sky.
"Adrial," I whispered, my voice shaking.
His eyes open instantly, ember-red in the dark. He didn't move at first, only studied me as though he already knew. "Another dream," he said. Not a question.
I nodded, clutching the sheet tighter around me. "I saw it again," I whispered, clutching the sheets against my chest. "The battlefield. Your fall. It wasn't just a dream this time, Adrial—I felt it. Why? Why do I keep seeing it?"
His jaw tightened, the flicker of fire in his gaze darkening. "The bond runs deeper than I allowed. You're slipping past the walls I built."
My throat tightens.
"So it's true, then?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Did you really fall… because you loved a human?"
Silence stretches between us, heavy, suffocating. I almost think he won't answer. But then his arm reaches for me, pulling me against him with a tenderness that stole my breath. His lips brush my temple, his voice rough and low against my skin.
"Yes."
The word cracks through me, leaving me trembling. My hands curl against his chest as I pressed closer, unable to stop myself. He holds me tightly, scarred hands gentle now, letting me rest against the warmth of him as the truth hangs between us.
And though fear still twists in my chest, another ache rose with it—something deeper, dangerous. Because I believe him. And worse, some part of me wants to be the reason he'd fall again.
My fingers curl tighter against his scars, as though holding him might steady the storm inside me. But it doesn't. It only makes it worse. Because for every heartbeat I feel beneath my palms, I want another. For every crack of tenderness he lets slip, I want more.
Danger isn't his claws or his shadows or the mark burning above my heart. It's this ache—this impossible pull—that makes me crave the parts of him I should fear most.
"You don't understand," I whisper, almost to myself. "I'm supposed to hate you. I'm supposed to fight you." My throat closes around the words, the truth unraveling me as they slip free.
"But I don't. I can't."
His hand stills at the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair like he's caught between holding me and pushing me away.
His breath is ragged when it breaks the silence. "Don't say that."
I lift my face, searching his eyes for cruelty, for mockery—anything to anchor me back in the safety of loathing. But all I find is fire straining against a cage, hunger wrapped in sorrow.
"I should stay away from you," I say, my voice trembling. "But every time I try, the bond pulls harder. And worse… part of me doesn't want to resist anymore."
The ember-red in his eyes flickers, softer, unsteady. His jaw clenches like the words I've given him hurt more than any blade could.
"You'll damn yourself," he says, low and raw.
I swallow hard, the ache in my chest splitting me wide open. "Maybe I already have."
His words hang between us, heavy as chains. I want to answer, to swear I can still save myself, but the truth knots in my throat.
Instead, I lower my head back to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart beneath my cheek. My hand trembles where it rests against his scars, torn between pulling away and clinging tighter.
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then his arms close around me—not binding, not claiming, just holding. The smallest mercy. The smallest cruelty.
Because it's enough to make me hope.
And hope is the most dangerous thing of all.
"Hope will break you, Evelyn," he murmurs against my hair, his voice frayed at the edges, more raw truth than warning. "It broke me once. It will break you, too."
My throat tightens. I should turn away, should push him back into the shadows where he belongs. But I can't. My lips find the line of his throat instead, a tentative brush, and when he shudders, I dare another kiss, higher this time, tasting the salt of his skin.
His breath catches, ragged. His hand fists in my hair, not to stop me but to draw me closer, and then his mouth is on mine—hungry, consuming, claiming me as much as I claim him.
There is no hesitation. No restraint. The kiss deepens until I am gasping against him, my nails scraping over his scarred chest, and he growls into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. Shadows curl at the edges of the room, restless with his desire, but they don't bind me—they only frame us, like the world itself bends to witness. Amid this consuming closeness, a single, raw thought cuts through: His surrender means more than desire; it feels like freedom.
I roll onto my back, pulling him with me, and he comes willingly, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His lips trail fire down my throat, across the curve of my breasts, his hands dragging the sheet aside like it offends him.
"Mine," he growls against my skin, kissing lower, tasting every inch he uncovers. And yet when my hands grip him tighter, guiding him, urging him, he obeys—not because the bond commands, but because he wants this as much as I do.
When he thrusts inside me, it's deep and immediate, the stretch sharp and intoxicating. A cry rips from my throat, and his pace answers it—hard, relentless, each movement a confession of how much he craves me.
The pleasure builds fast, wild, the mark above my heart flaring with every thrust. My body tightens around him, shuddering as I break apart with his name on my lips.
He follows with a ragged groan, spilling deep inside, his body trembling over mine, his forehead pressed to mine as he gasps for air.
"Yours," he breathes, voice raw, lips brushing mine. "Only yours."
And I know, in that moment, he means it.