“What’s wrong?” He glances down at my hands.
“I don’t...” I stuttered, for once at a loss for words. “I don’t want to scare you away. I’m trying to be...” Kyle? The nice guy he should want? Sweet? “Gentle.”
Alaric laughs. He actually laughs at me. “God, you’re stupid.”
“Hey,” I say warningly.
“No, I mean,” he says. “It’s what I—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing, but then he meets my gaze dead-on. “I’m drawn to your fire.”
The admission lands like a hit to the chest. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
He keeps going, voice rough, words spilling like he’s finally too tired to cage them. “That brashness—it’s chaos and confidence, and I can’t stop looking at it. You light up everything around you, and it drives me insane.”
I try to answer, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t want you to dim it for me,” Alaric says, quieter now, almost pleading. “Don’t play soft because you think that’s what I need. I wantyou.The real you. The one who bites back.”
The words break something loose inside me. I’ve spent so long taming the parts of myself that scare people off—too much heat, too much want, too much everything. But this man? He’s asking for it.
“You sure?” I ask, testing him, my voice a low growl.
He nods, breath hitching. “Please, Magnus.”
My grin starts slow, dangerous. “Careful what you ask for, Prince.”
He laughs, but it’s breathless, his pulse visible at his throat. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Then make me.”
That does it.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him closer. The kiss hits like a collision—heat and motion, teeth and breath. Hemoans against my mouth, clutching my hoodie like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I break away just long enough to look at him. His lips are flushed, eyes heavy, pupils blown wide.
“Don’t stop,” he pants.
Every ounce of restraint burns off like fog. I grip the back of his neck, pressing him against me, kissing him until we’re both breathless. His hands find their way under my shirt, nails scraping lightly against my skin. Then, clothes are torn off, thrown to the floor.
“Bedroom,” I whisper, voice rough.
He hesitates, not because he wants to stop but because he’s fighting instinct. I kiss him again, softer this time, just enough to melt that hesitation.
“Show me,” I murmur. “Now, Alaric.”
He exhales shakily, then gets up and starts down the hallway. I follow close behind, my hand sliding up his back, fingers tracing his spine. Every few steps, he turns to kiss me again, harder each time, until we’re stumbling through the half-lit corridor, laughing into each other’s mouths.
By the time we reach his bedroom door, my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat. He fumbles the handle, and we fall through the doorway in a tangle of limbs and laughter and heat. The air between us crackles, full of everything we’ve been pretending not to feel for months.
He pushes me back onto the bed and climbs over me, breath shaking, eyes wild. “This,” he says, voice low, trembling with hunger. “This is what I’ve been trying not to want.”
“This is exactly what I’ve been needing,” I whisper.
He kisses me again—deep, desperate, and entirely unguarded. His fingers twist in my hair; my hands find his waist. We move together like the world’s already burning down around us, and neither of us cares.
11
Alaric
