His jaw was still tight, but his eyes… they were molten now, the fury bleeding into something heavier, more dangerous.
Neither of us moved away.
Alaric’s expression darkened, suspicion bordering on something colder. Not rage. Not yet. But it simmered beneath his skin. “You don’t think about the danger you put yourself in. You dive headfirst off cliffs without looking for the rocks. You take what isn’t yours, walk into rooms that could kill you—and you never stop to think about…” His voice faltered for the briefest moment, like he couldn’t bear to look at my face.
His voice dropped, rough enough to scrape. “I’m watching you gamble with a life I’d kill to protect, die to save.”
He stepped closer until my spine pressed into the edge of the desk, like distance had become intolerable to him. His mouth opened like he had more to say—then shut again. When he finally spoke, it was quieter. “I don’t…” He turned slightly away, like he couldn’t stand to face me while he searched for words that didn’t exist. “I don’t have the language for this. For you. Every time I reach for it, it slips through my fingers—too small, too fragile for what I feel.”
His hand flexed, voice roughening. “If I say too much, I put a target on your back. If I say nothing…” His eyes closed for the briefest heartbeat. “I watch you drift further from me.”
“So I’ll say the only thing I can.” His voice was hoarse, urgent. “For centuries, I’ve been nothing but teeth and hunger, a shadow bound to the sea, to this ship. And then you—” He looked away. “You laugh, and it cuts through the dark. You fight me, and I remember what it feels like to want more than survival. You make me feel alive in a way I thought was gone forever. And if I lose that—lose you—”
He shook his head, the thought appeared to hurt. “You undo me. Every glance, every word—you make it impossible to think of anything else. I don’t care what it costs, what it takes—I’d crawl through the depths, bleed the whole damn sea dry, if it meant I’d still have you at the end of it.”
The crescent mark burned—not with pain, but with awareness. A slow, steady pressure beneath my skin, like it was listening.
“I wasn’t thinking about the Eye,” I said, my voice low but certain. “Not about Morgra, or Vesper, or what it might cost me. I was thinking aboutyou. Savingyou. From the positionIput you in,” The admission felt like stepping into open water, no ground beneath me.
His eyes caught mine, and for a moment, the tension cracked. What showed beneath was raw and unsteady, like something fragile trying not to break.
“I’d do it again,” I added, the words barely more than a whisper.
The space between us closed until all I could feel was the heat radiating off him. And Stars help me, I wanted to close that last sliver of distance. I wanted to touch him, taste him, anchor him to me.
“You make it very hard to hate you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word like a confession torn from him. His eyes burned—not with possession, but with the desperate, aching need of a man who had been dead for centuries and had only just started to feel alive again.
My pulse hammered. I tilted my chin up, refusing to look away. "Guess I’ll have to try harder."
The corner of his mouth curved—dangerous, humorless. “Don’t.”
“What?” I asked, tilting my head, letting the challenge drip from my voice.
His eyes flicked over my face like he was memorizing it against his will. “Don’t make me forget why I should keep my distance.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of that,” I said, smiling just enough to be a provocation.
Something dark and dangerous flashed across his expression. “That’s because you—” He stopped, teeth grinding. “You linger where I cannot afford you to.”
His hand rose, hesitating just long enough to make my pulse stumble, then slid a stray strand of hair from my face.The calluses on his fingertips rasped against my skin, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch.
We didn’t move.
His forehead lowered to mine, his lips hovering just shy of my own. “Say something,” he whispered, his voice both demand and plea. “Tell me this is madness. Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
I didn’t. Instead, I closed the last inch between us, letting my lips graze his—soft, hesitant, charged enough to weaken my knees.
His hands found my waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave me reeling. Mine pressed to the solid planes of his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thrum of his heart beneath my palm.
His mouth moved over mine like a man starved. I matched him, fingers twisting into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like salt and iron, like the sea at midnight. I felt the fine tremor in his arms, centuries of restraint dissolving under my touch.
He walked me backward until the hard edge of the desk met my spine, the cold, unyielding wood a stark contrast to the heat flooding my body. He broke the kiss, the warmth of him lingering against my lips, his forehead resting against mine, eyes closed.
“You drive me mad,” he rasped.
“Good,” I smiled, a little unsteady.
His mouth dragged down my throat, teeth grazing skin—dangerous, inhuman, intoxicating. A low sound rumbled in his chest as his hands slid from my face, down my neck and shoulders, finding the buttons of my tunic. He didn’t fumble. He pulled. The buttons gave way with soft, decisive snaps. Cool cabin air washed over my skin as the fabric parted, raising goosebumps. His eyes followed his hands, dark and full of intent.
