Not amber. Not the soft, steady glow I've gotten used to over the past few weeks.
Gold.Incandescent. Burning.
The crystalline veins beneath his slate-gray skin ignite like someone just poured liquid fire through his entire circulatory system. The light races outward from his chest—where my hands are still pressed flat against his heart—spreading down his arms, across his shoulders, through the massive wings still folded against his back.
The heat is immediate. Overwhelming.
His skin goes from cold granite to molten stone in seconds, the temperature spiking so fast I gasp and pull my hands back instinctively.
He catches my wrists before I can retreat.
His grip is gentle. Careful. But absolutely unyielding.
"Do not," he says.
His voice is wrecked. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours.
"Cyprian—"
"Do not move."
I freeze.
Not because I'm scared.
Because the look in his eyes is so intense, soferal, that my entire nervous system short-circuits.
This isn't the controlled, disciplined gargoyle who's been carefully maintaining professional boundaries for weeks.
This is something else entirely.
Something ancient. Primal. Desperate.
His hands slide from my wrists to my waist, his palms spanning my entire torso. His claws are fully extended—sharp, deadly—but he's so careful with them, angling them away from my skin even as his grip tightens possessively.
"I need—" He stops. His jaw clenches. The golden veins flare brighter. "I cannot—"
"What?" I ask. My voice comes out breathless. "What do you need?"
His eyes lock onto mine.
"You."
The word hits me like a physical blow.
NotI want you.
NotI desire you.
I need you.
Like oxygen. Like water. Like something essential to survival.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in the pulse points at my neck that I'm suddenly hyperaware of because his eyes keep dropping to them, tracking the rhythm like he can see my blood moving beneath my skin.
"Okay," I say.
It's barely a whisper.
