Our magic.
Our.
Not mine—ours.
I frown, the implications of his word choice unsettling in ways I can't immediately articulate.
His hand rises to my neck.
The touch is gentle—fingers trailing along the column of my throat with pressure that suggests rather than demands. But the effect is anything but gentle. Magic surges in response to his contact, power that has lived dormant beneath my skin suddenly fighting to reach the surface. It feels like being turned inside out, like having every nerve ending activated simultaneously, like pleasure and pain intertwined so thoroughly that separating them becomes impossible.
I shiver.
The response is involuntary, body reacting to stimulus my mind hasn't approved, and I hate how obviously affected I am. Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, spreading through my system with the particular intensity of magical resonance finding its complement.
He leans closer.
His tongue traces along the side of my jaw.
The sensation is electric—wet warmth dragging across skin that feels hypersensitive, nerve endings screaming with input that overwhelms conscious thought. My eyes burn in response, power building behind them with pressure that suggests imminent release, and a sound escapes my throat that I refuse to categorize as anything close to a moan.
And then I see it.
Magic.
Unraveling around us.
Becoming visible in ways that transcend normal perception.
The library's ambient light seems to dim in response, the floating candles lowering their flames as if making way for something more significant. Shadows deepen along the walls,creating darkness that serves as canvas for what's about to emerge.
Vines emerge from my arms—not metaphorical, not symbolic, but actual vines that ooze from my flesh with organic inevitability. They push through skin that parts for them without pain, growing with speed that defies natural law, extending outward with movements that suggest sentience rather than simple plant behavior.
They curl and twist with obvious awareness of their surroundings, leaves unfurling along their length in shades of green that shift toward gold at their edges. Thorns glint where they catch the candlelight—sharp enough to draw blood, beautiful enough to make the threat seem almost inviting. Each vine pulses with its own heartbeat, rhythm slightly offset from mine, creating harmonics that I feel rather than hear.
The green of them shifts through shades I've never seen plants possess—emerald bleeding into gold, gold melting into rose, colors that speak to magic rather than biology. Where light touches them directly, they seem to glow with internal luminescence, the same way bioluminescent creatures shine in deep ocean darkness.
Incantations bleed to the surface of my skin.
Golden symbols I recognize from moments of power, from trials that pushed me past limits I didn't know I had, from the inherited magic that has always lurked beneath my vampire nature. They crawl across my flesh like living things—not painful, but intensely present, each one burning with gentle heat that seems to radiate from somewhere deeper than skin.
The symbols pulse with rhythm that matches my racing heart, each beat making them glow brighter, more defined, more present. Some I recognize from my mother's grimoires, others from the bond marks that tie me to my mates, still others from sources I cannot name but that feel like coming home.
And from the vines?—
Roses.
Buds that weren't there a moment ago suddenly bloom with time-lapse acceleration, petals unfurling in shades of pink and red and gold that make the library's carefully curated beauty seem mundane by comparison. They're gorgeous—each flower a masterpiece of magical crafting, perfect in ways that natural roses rarely achieve.
Pink roses the color of dawn over the Academy's spires. Red roses dark as blood, their petals carrying velvet texture that begs to be touched. Gold roses that seem to generate their own light, shimmering with warmth that extends beyond visual perception into something felt at soul-level.
The fragrances mix with the feast's aromas to create something entirely new, entirely intoxicating—sweetness layered over savory, floral notes dancing with bread and meat and wine, the combination overwhelming in ways that make my head spin pleasantly.
But I'm not the only one transforming.
His flesh bears similar decorations now—incantations that mirror mine in complexity if not in color, symbols that pulse with complementary rhythm. His vines emerge with the same organic inevitability, only the hues differ dramatically. Dark blue that shifts through ombre purple into absolute black, the gradient speaking to depths my lighter magic doesn't possess.
His roses bloom in shades of midnight.
