There was a soft click—the sound of the black box's latch releasing.
Aurelia flinched, bracing for a blade, a needle, the burn of poison.
"Your hand." He grabbed her injured wrist. She felt his fingers—cool, sure—wrap around the tender flesh. His touch was firm, not cruel, but inescapable.
Her eyes flew open.
He wasn't looking at her face. His masked gaze was fixed on her wound. With his free hand, he opened the box. Inside, laid neatly on dark velvet, were not weapons, but healer's tools: clean linen bandages, a small ceramic jar of salve, a silver vial, and a bone needle with fine silk thread.
For a long moment, he simply studied the ragged cut, his expression unreadable behind the gold.
Then he reached for the silver vial, uncorked it with his teeth. Her eyes locked on the movement—the sharp, pale flash of his canines, perfect and dangerous. A hot, unwelcome pulse of sensation, a pure physical betrayal, sparked low in her belly and tightened between her thighs.
He pulled her hand closer, tilting it, and poured the clear liquid over the wound.
It stung, fierce and clean—a sharp antiseptic burn. She hissed, her face screwing up in pain as she instinctively tried to pull away.
But Tenebrarum held her fast. "Be still," he commanded, his voice a low vibration. He took the jar of salve, smoothed a dollop of the cool, herb-scented ointment over the torn skin with a thumb that was surprisingly deft. Then, with swift, practiced motions, he began to wrap her wrist in the linen bandage, binding her pain and his care together in a neat, tight spiral.
He finished tying off the bandage, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat on the neat knot. Then, his masked face tilted up, and his eyes—those unseen, knowing eyes—found hers.
He tried to turn away immediately, the moment of connection severed.
But her hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, mirroring his earlier hold on her. "Thank you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
The words hung in the air, an anomaly. He stiffened, then pulled his arm free as if her gratitude were an affront. "You should leave," he said, his voice flat, dismissing her. "Close the door when you're done."
She bowed her head, the obedient gesture at odds with the rebellion coiling in her chest. She moved to the door, her purple gown still stained with her own blood, her body humming with a treacherous, lingering heat from his touch.
Her hand rested on the cold handle. Then, instead of pulling it open, she pushed it quietly shut. The lock slid into place with a soft, definitive click.
She turned back to face the room.
He had his back to her, slowly unbuttoning his white shirt, the fabric stained with a smudge of her blood. He froze as he noticed her reflection in the dark glass of a weapon's display case.
"I told you to leave!" The command was a lash, but it couldn't hide his surprise.
"You said when I'm done," she replied, her voice quiet but clear in the silent armory. She took a single step forward. "But unfortunately... I'm not."
Her steps were swift, a surge of reckless momentum. Before he could turn fully, she was there.
Her hands came up, one tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other splaying against the half-unbuttoned shirt on his chest. She pulled him down, and her lips found his.
The kiss was not an invitation. She poured every ounce of her confusion, her lingering fear, and the defiant heat he had always stoked in her into it.
He did not freeze. He did not pull away immediately. His body recognized hers—the familiarity of her touch, the taste of her desperation. For a fleeting, dangerous second, his lips moved against hers in a dark, automatic response, a ghost of old habits and claimed territory.
Then his hands came up, not to cradle her face, but to frame it, his thumbs pressing into the hinge of her jaw with deliberate, controlling pressure.
He broke the kiss, putting just enough space between their mouths for his words to land like blows.
"You forget your place," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rasp that vibrated against her still-tingling lips. "I do not come when you call. I take when I wish."
"I don't care." Her voice was a breathless challenge. She fisted her hands in the fine fabric of his shirt, her fingers digging into the hard planes of his chest. Her other hand slid to the back of his skull, tangling in the dark strands of his hair.
The neat tie that held it back gave way. His hair fell loose, a dark cascade that swept over his shoulders and partially veiled the stark gold of his mask, softening its severity for a fleeting, vulnerable moment.
Their mouths fused again, this time deeper, hungrier. As their tongues met, a low sound escaped him—not a word, but a raw exhale of surprise and something darker, more consuming. His hand snapped to her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her gown with a possessiveness that seared through the layers.
He pulled her flush against him, erasing all space, all pretense. His lips trailed from her mouth, running slowly down the line of her jaw to her neck, then lower, to the swell of her chest above the tight purple bodice. The fabric was too tight, perhaps, a frustrating barrier his teeth grazed against.
Her fingers trembled as they traced the edge of his gold mask, then slid into the dark fall of his loose hair. Her lips moved against his, sucking his tongue, tasting the familiar, devastating flavor of him—spice, power, and cold night air.
Control yourself, Aurelia. Control yourself.
Remember. This is the person that killed Gaius. Stop now!
I should stop!
Her mind screamed, a chorus of grief and warning. But her body was a traitor. A deep, pooling heat tightened between her legs, ready, aching for whatever he wanted. She couldn't forget. Not the pain. And not how devastatingly, unforgivably good he had tasted the last time he had claimed her.
The memory of that pleasure was a ghost that now wore his skin, and it was a ghost she was still hauntingly, hopelessly hungry for.
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To be continued...