I have taken lovers. Countless. Bodies have passed through my bed like sparks through a forge—bright, brief, forgettable.
Desire has never frightened me before.
But it has never felt like this before, either.
Wild. Desperate. Yearning.
Her dark eyes haunt me. The way they meet mine without flinching.
The curve of her body—gods, do not think of that now.
Not while my power still simmers too close to the surface.
But I do think of it.
I think of her softness against my heat.
The way she tastes.
The sounds she made when I claimed her.
The mating night was one thing.
This—whatever this is—feels like a door I cannot close.
Will she let me have her again?
That is the question that burns deepest.
I did not ask for more than the Rite. I did not demand affection or devotion.
I told myself then, that was restraint. Honor.
Or maybe it was cowardice.
Because what if I ask—and she says no.
What if she sees me clearly?
Sees the monster.
The two-face.
The thing that turns to flame and bone when fear or rage takes hold.
My pavilion comes into view, its wards shimmering faintly in the twilight.
I stride forward—and stop dead.
It is empty.
EMPTY.
The air inside is wrong.
Cool. Untouched.
No trace of her warmth.
