The question emerges softer than my earlier aggression, genuine concern surfacing through the possessive display, my thumb tracing a tender circle along her jawline, feeling the faint hum of her hybrid magic responding to mine—vampire blood pulsing with crimson heat, witch incantations flickering like golden sigils beneath her skin.
"Yes," she assures me, meaning it, her voice steady and warm, that softened persona reserved for her bonded ones shining through as she leans ever so slightly into my touch. Whatever that foreign prick stirred up, whatever confusions the morning has produced, she's okay. Fed. Informed. Perhaps more confused about her heritage than ever before, but physically, emotionally... okay. Her hand comes up to cover mine, a gentle squeeze that grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of my shadows' rage.
I nod, accepting her assessment, the tension in my shoulders easing as her words sink in like a balm over my frayed nerves.
Then my expression shifts into something that makes heat pool low in her belly—I can scent it, that sweet, heady arousal mingling with the floral remnants of whatever magic lingered in this library before I arrived.
"Then I'm gonna punish you senseless," I declare, my voice carrying promise that makes her thighs clench with anticipation, the words laced with shadow-essence that curls around her like invisible restraints, teasing the edges of her senses. "And then we're talking."
The giggle that escapes her carries genuine delight, light and musical, cutting through the heavy air like a spark of starlight in the void, her softened side blooming fully now as she looks up at me with eyes that hold both challenge and affection.
"Oh, I love to be punished."
My eyes darken again—not with void this time, but with the particular intensity of desire that has nothing to do with Duskwalker nature and everything to do with the man who has claimed her body and soul. The library around us fades into irrelevance—the towering shelves groaning under the weight of ancient tomes pulsing with forbidden spells, their leather bindings etched with incantations that glow faintly in the dim light; the feast on the table, steam still rising in lazy spirals from dishes infused with ethereal aromas of roasted meats and spiced fruits, each bite seemingly woven with threads of restorative magic; the floating candelabras drifting like lazy fireflies, their flames shifting from gold to silver in rhythmic pulses that mimic a heartbeat none of us can hear. The books that contain knowledge she'll eventually need to access—volumes on Fae lineages, hybrid magics, the chalice's ancient secrets—none of it matters in this moment. Only her. Only us. Only the particular dance of dominance and submission that we've perfected across countless encounters, each one building on the last, each one teaching us more about what we need from each other.
Grim reappears at the edge of my peripheral vision, his tiny form hovering uncertainly as if trying to determine whether intervention is required, his miniature scythe glinting with void-energy that mirrors my own shadows, black smoke puffing from his robes like a concerned sigh.
"Greeee?" The inquiry carries obvious concern, his void-eyes darting between us, the little reaper's protective instincts flaring as he senses the charged tension.
"Out, Grim," I command without looking away from her, my voice a low growl infused with shadow-command, the words rippling through the air like dark waves that gently but firmly usher him away.
"Gree."
The little reaper vanishes with the particular wisdom of beings who understand when they're not needed, his form dissolving into wisps of black smoke that blend seamlessly into the library's dim corners, leaving us truly alone.
My free hand moves then, fingers extending as I run a single nail—sharpened by shadow-magic into a claw-like edge, dark and glistening with void-essence—along the fabric of the dress that cloaks her flesh. The material is exquisite, midnight-black woven with threads of gold that shimmer like captured starlight, transparent panels revealing tantalizing glimpses of her curves, the whole thing humming with residual Fae enchantment that makes my skin crawl with jealousy. It's not her style—not really—but it hugs her body like a second skin, accentuating every line and swell in a way that screams possession by another hand.
"You don't need this," I murmur, my voice a husky rumble as I trace the nail down the center of her chest, the sharp tip slicing through the fabric with effortless precision, shadow-energy infusing the cut so it parts like butter under a hot knife.
Black flames ignite along the path of my nail, not the scorching red of Infernal fire but void-born blaze—ebony tongues laced with silver veins that consume without heat, devouring the dress in a controlled burn that leaves her skin untouched. The flames dance across the material, elemental magic manifesting as hungry shadows that unravel the threads molecule by molecule, the gold embroidery melting into wisps of ethereal smoke that curl upward like departing spirits. The transparent panels shatter like fragile illusions, fracturing into motes of light that dissipate into the air, carrying faint echoes of rose-scented Fae power that I crush under my dominance. The dress crumbles to crisp ash in seconds, flaking away from her body in a cascade of dark embers that float harmlessly to the floor, revealing her bare form beneath—pale skin marked by our bond symbols, her breasts rising and falling with quickenedbreaths, nipples hardening in the cool library air that's now charged with our combined magics.
She pouts, her lower lip jutting out in that softened, playful way she reserves for moments like this, her confidence undimmed as she glances down at the remnants of the dress scattering like fallen leaves.
"It was pretty," she admits, her voice a sultry murmur, eyes meeting mine with a spark of amusement that softens the edges of her words, making her seem both vulnerable and utterly in control.
I counter it without hesitation, my hand sliding up to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the hardened peak with deliberate slowness, sending sparks of shadow-tendrils dancing across her skin like electric caresses.
"It's only pretty because your body is the ruler of it," I growl, leaning in to capture her lips again, the kiss fierce and unyielding, my tongue delving deep to taste her fully, shadows weaving between us to heighten every sensation—cool voids contrasting the heat building in her core.
She moans into my mouth, her hands fisting in my shirt as the kiss deepens, our magics clashing and merging: her vampire essence pulling at my blood like a siren's call, her witch incantations flaring golden against my darkness, creating a symphony of elemental sparks that illuminate the dim space around us. I break the kiss only to scoop her up from the chair, my arms banding around her waist and thighs with possessive strength, lifting her into my arms as if she weighs nothing—because to my riled magic, she doesn't.
She doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair with a tug that sends pleasure-pain shooting down my spine, her softened trust evident in the way she molds against me. Her legs attempt to wrap around my waist, but they don't go the full way—I'm bigger now,taller, my body expanding under the surge of Duskwalker magic that's riling me up, shadows infusing my muscles and bones, lengthening my frame by inches as void-energy courses through me like liquid night. My height stretches to over seven feet, shoulders broadening, every inch of me radiating dominance born of anger and need. I don't like to feel belittled, and right now, with that Fae prick's scent still faintly lingering, I want to show her that she's all I truly need to be satisfied—rather than that douche of a prince whose power I sensed like a coiled serpent, ancient and insidious.
My tendrils shoot outward then, shadows erupting from my back like unfurling wings of pure void, each one thick as a man's arm and pulsing with silver-veined darkness that warps the air around them. They lash through the library, elemental conquest in motion—coiling around shelves and pulling books into swirling vortexes of shadow, reshaping the floating candelabras into twisted sculptures of night-flame, extinguishing their light only to reignite them in ebony glow. The environment morphs under my command, the grand library dissolving like ink in water: walls bleeding into familiar patterns, the towering shelves shrinking into modest dorm furniture, the vast expanse compressing into the cozy confines of our old dorm room where we first made love. The transformation is swift and seamless—shadow-magic manipulating reality at a molecular level, drawing on memories infused with our bond to recreate every detail: the worn wooden bedframe etched with faint claw marks from past encounters, the threadbare rug stained with drops of blood from her vampire feedings, the small window overlooking the Academy's twisted spires now veiled in perpetual twilight. The air shifts too, carrying the faint scent of our mingled essences—shadow and blood, frost-kissed from Zeke's lingering influence, dragon-warm from Mortimer's bond—creating a sanctuary of conquest where my dominance reigns supreme.
In seconds, I'm lowering onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my enhanced weight as shadows reinforce the frame to handle the strain. She straddles my lap, her bare skin flush against my clothed form, the heat of her core pressing against the straining bulge in my pants, making my cock twitch in impatience, throbbing with a rhythm that echoes our bond's pulse. The shadows around us continue their dance, tendrils weaving patterns in the air like living art—some coiling around the bedposts to create makeshift restraints, others pulsing with void-light to illuminate her body in stark, sensual relief, highlighting every curve and mark.
I growl against her lips when she breaks the kiss, needing to breathe, the sound a deep vibration that sends tremors through her body, shadows amplifying it into elemental waves that tease her sensitive skin. But I don't want her to be in control—I'm in control right now, my jealousy fueling a conquest that demands submission.
"You want to be punished like the bad girl you are," I rasp, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave faint bruises that her vampire healing will erase by morning, shadows seeping from my fingers to mark her with temporary void-tattoos—swirling patterns of night that pulse in time with her heartbeat.
"Mhmm," she breathes, but she's giving me those damn doe eyes that make those red eyes dilate and look so fucking submissive, wide and trusting, softened in that way she only shows her bonded, her confidence manifesting as willing surrender that trusts me to push her limits without breaking her.
It makes my cock go hard as a rock, straining against the fabric of my pants with painful insistence, the twitch becoming a throb as her arousal scents the air—sweet and musky, laced with the floral that only heightens my need to claim her fully.
I can't wait to make the flesh of her ass cheeks red, marked by mine—branded with handprints that declare ownership inthe most primal way. With a rough growl, I have her off my lap, my hands and shadows working in tandem: fingers digging into her waist as tendrils erupt from the bed itself, wrapping around her midsection with cool, silken voids that lift her swiftly, effortlessly, their elemental grip firm yet yielding, infused with my will to position her exactly as I desire. The shadows manipulate her with precision conquest—coiling and twisting like living ropes, their silver veins glowing as they lay her across my lap, her stomach pressing against my thighs, her ass presented perfectly, curves arching in invitation.
I can already smell her arousal intensifying, the heady perfume filling the recreated dorm room, mingling with the faint ozone of my shadow-magic and the lingering warmth of the black flames' embers. Knowing she's enjoying this makes me scowl, a rumble of impatience building in my chest like gathering storm clouds, the sound vibrating through her body and prompting her to wiggle in position as if to further taunt me—or to prop her ass up higher, offering herself with that confident, softened grace that drives me wild.
