: 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑙𝑢 diaries :

Original works below | smut & fluff Mostly fantasy here 27 | she/her Main account: ap-writings

[spicydelusion]

Twenty-seven | she / her | fantasy fiction writer

My blog will have fantasy fiction that contains adult content. It can range from regency era, to werewolves, to vampires, to angels and demons, and so on. I will keep my masterlist organized, and I will update it as I post.

My work is not to be copied, translated, or placed anywhere without my permission.

Main: @ap-writings | Wattpad: ap-writing

I am not looking for beta readers!

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A Lady for Two . 18+

C. Soon - Loathed by the Duke . 18+

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The Alpha’s Mate is a Vampire

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The Midnight Cafe

& more coming soon….

Thank you so much for looking / reading 🖤

[spicydelusion]

Bound by Shadow and Sight

Genre: Supernatural / Fantasy Romance

Subgenres / Tropes: Enemies to lovers / Forbidden pairing / “Fated but fighting it” / Opposites (light vs shadow) / Forced proximity / forced partnership / Run away together / “us vs the world” / Prophecy / prevent-the-future plot

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings: Mild swearing mentions of blood, death, super angsty, arguments, and a semi fluff ending.

Main blog: @ap-writings / Wattpad: ap-writing

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The faint ticking of a clock threaded through the room, barely audible over the professor's droning voice and the low hum of restless conversation.

No one was really listening.

The witches sat to the far right, irritation flickering across their faces as they took turns erasing the chalk lines the warlocks, spread across the far left, kept lazily sketching across the board with quiet amusement. A cluster of vampires murmured among themselves, debating lunch like it was a fine art, blood types, sources, preferences, voices low and measured.

Down front, the werewolves huddled together, passing around a broken claw from last night's training, inspecting it like a badge of honor. Along the very back wall, the shadow assassins stood in a line of near-perfect stillness. Silent. Watchful. Some tracked movement across the room, others kept their attention fixed on exits and shadows. Not one of them had spoken since arriving.

To the right, near the front, the fae leaned close together, soft laughter slipping between them as they scrolled through glowing images on a phone, arguing over which colors best brought out the shimmer of opal wings. Closest to the tall windows, the sun-blessed healers tilted their faces toward the light, quietly drawing in energy from the thin rays that slipped through the glass, recovering from a night spent nearly powerless.

And at the center of it all, the light oracles sat in composed silence. A sea of silver-blonde hair and softly glowing skin, heads bent over parchment as they took careful notes. They were the only ones paying attention. The only ones who hadn't forgotten that, at any moment, the results of the project partner questionnaire would be announced.

Elira, seated among the light oracles, let her attention drift, not to the professor, but to the fae.

"Truly, Posy," one of them chimed, voice dripping with sweetness, "that violet hue draws the eye so sharply to the fractured light within your wings. It makes the delicate cracks of opal almost impossible to ignore."

Lie. Elira's eyes narrowed slightly, gold flickering brighter as the truth slipped cleanly into place, That color is so loud it drowns everything else out. Your wings look cracked. Worn. Like they're falling apart, and everyone's going to notice.

A quiet scoff left her lips. "What a little backstabbing fae."

"What did you say?" another oracle murmured beside her, not looking up from her notes.

"Nothing," Elira said smoothly. "Just... fae being fae. You know how they are."

Right then, the door opened. The secretary entered like a shadow that had learned how to walk in heels—tall, thin, sharp in a way that made people sit up straighter without knowing why. Conversations died almost instantly, every head turning as she glided to the front. "The results for your projects, Mr. Hargenbal." She handed over the envelope with practiced ease. As she turned, her gaze swept the room, cool, assessing. "Good luck to you all." And then she was gone. The silence she left behind lingered a beat too long before the room exhaled all at once.

"All right," Mr. Hargenbal said, holding up the envelope. "Inside are your assigned partners. As you all know, these were determined by the academy's compatibility questionnaire. I don't want anyone coming to me afterward with complaints.. I have no control over the results." His gaze swept the room. "Any questions before I open this?"

They stared at him like he held something far more dangerous than paper.

"No?" He nodded once. "Fair enough." With a flick of his hand, the envelope split open. "First pairing: Sun-blessed healer Torrina, and fae Meadow."

A squeal cut through the tension as Meadow practically floated out of her seat, darting toward Torrina.

"Next: Light Oracle Lucinda, and Sun-blessed healer Shawnee."

Chairs shifted. Movement resumed. The room began to breathe again. Elira waited, patient, but her eyes began to glow, faint at first. Then brighter. The vision hit without warning.

A dark room. Heavy and still. A single maroon lamp burned in the corner, casting low, suffocating light. A figure stood near the window, unmoving, swallowed in shadow.

She couldn't see his face. Only the slow inhale, the measured exhale, then sudden motion. He turned, grabbed the lamp, and hurled it.

Elira blinked hard, her body leaning back slightly as the weight of it dragged its way out of her chest.

"Whoa—hey." Daisy turned to her, concern breaking through her focus. "What did you see?"

Elira shook her head, still catching her breath. "I don't—I don't know. A man... a room... he threw a lamp, I—"

"—Daisy, and Sun-blessed healer June."

Daisy's head snapped toward the front. Then to June, already making her way over. Then back to Elira. "We'll talk later?"

"Yeah," Elira nodded. "Yeah, of course." She watched her go, then turned back, drawing in a slow breath as she fixed her attention on the professor again, waiting. Names continued. Pairings fell into place easily, predictably.

Healers with fae. Oracles with healers. Vampires with wolves. Shadow assassins with their own kind, as always.

Order. Balance. Expectation.

Until it stopped when two names remained. The kind of silence that followed wasn't loud, but it was wrong. Like the room itself had caught on.

"Uh..." Mr. Hargenbal frowned down at the page. "This... this can't be right."

A ripple moved through the class.

"Professor?" someone called. "Everything okay?"

"Yes—yes, of course." He cleared his throat quickly. "I just need to make a quick call. Sit tight." His eyes flicked up, just for a second, to Elira. Gone so fast most wouldn't notice. But she did. And she knew.

Lie.

The room slowly filled with noise again, speculation, laughter, curiosity. People comparing partners, guessing outcomes, already planning. Some even started wondering aloud who Elira would be paired with. They hadn't noticed that there was one other name that hadn't been called.

Mr. Hargenbal rose from his chair, the movement alone enough to pull the room back into uneasy silence.

"Okay," he said, voice tighter than before. "There was no mistake." He stepped out from behind his desk, the paper held a little too carefully in his hand. "Light Oracle... Elira." A pause, one long enough to feel wrong. He glanced down again, as if hoping the ink might rearrange itself. "And..." His hesitation deepened. "Shadow—"

Gasps cut through the room immediately. Then silence.

Heavy. Absolute. Silence.

"Shadow assassin," he finished, quieter now. "Kael."

It landed like a dropped blade. Every head turned toward Elira. She didn't move, she couldn't.

Along the back wall, the shadow assassins shifted, not loudly, not chaotically, but with purpose. A subtle closing of ranks. Bodies angling just enough to block, to obscure. 

To hide him.

"Surely that's a mistake, Professor..." Daisy's voice broke through first, sharp with disbelief.

"That's like throwing gasoline on a fire," another student added. "There's no way that's safe—"

Voices began to rise, overlapping, tension bleeding into panic, and Elira's vision hit again.

A rooftop this time, cold air and open sky. The same figure sat at the edge of the academy, hood pulled low, shadow clinging to him like a second skin. A blade flicked between his fingers, effortless, precise, controlled.

A voice, distant. Not his. "Is it done?"

"Not yet," the man replied, calm. Certain. "Soon. Give it time."

"There isn't much left to give."

The knife stilled and the head of the hooded figure turns ever so slightly, not enough to see face.

Elira gasped softly as the vision snapped away, her chest rising and falling as the weight of it dragged through her. The room rushed back in.

Voices. Questions. Judgment.

Him.

They were talking about him. About how it wouldn't work, how it couldn't work.

"Everyone, settle down," Mr. Hargenbal called, raising a hand. "I spoke with the Dean. The questionnaire does not make mistakes."

"Oh, what does he know?" Daisy shot back. "He sits in his office all day like he's allergic to the sun."

"Hey," a vampire muttered flatly, "that's a real condition, thanks."

"Not the point," Daisy snapped, already pushing forward. "There has to be something you can do. We all know this—" she gestured toward Elira, then vaguely toward the back of the room, "—isn't right."

Mr. Hargenbal exhaled slowly, tension lining his face. "I know. Believe me, I do. But there's no changing it. The project assigned to them will likely explain the reasoning."

"And what project is that?" Daisy pressed. "Do you even have the topics yet?"

He shook his head. "They'll be distributed later today. And no, I don't control that either."

Murmurs spread again, quieter now, more unsettled than before. Elira barely heard them. She sank back into her chair, dragging a hand through her silver-blonde hair, her pulse still uneven.

Kael Vireth.

The name settled heavily in her mind.

A shadow assassin, which is the exact opposite of a light oracle. He was everything she wasn't, unseen, untraceable, lethal. Trained to kill without a sound, without a witness.

While she was always seen. Always watched. Studied. Praised. Placed on a pedestal she never asked for, expected to be flawless simply because of what she was.

And she hated it.

She carried the weight of futures that hadn't happened yet, guilt for outcomes she hadn't caused while he existed as nothing more than a file in a drawer. A name. A face. A weapon.

"Elira..." Daisy's voice cut in softly. "Elira."

Elira blinked, turning her head slowly. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Daisy said immediately. "You just had another vision, and you look pale. That's not normal."

Elira closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. "The academy doesn't make mistakes. It never has." Her eyes opened again, still gold, but dimmer now. "I'll be fine. Kael—" She stopped because the name felt heavier out loud, then with a quiet sigh, "I'll be fine."

Daisy studied her, gaze flicking toward the back wall where shadows still gathered unnaturally, then back again. "You call me if you need anything," she said. She moved to bump Elira's shoulder, then caught herself, pulling back slightly. "If anything goes wrong, me and the others, we'll be there. Immediately."

Elira nodded. "I know." A small, practiced smile. "Have fun with June. I hope your project is... easier than mine."

Daisy snorted. "Doubtful. She's so self-obsessed I'll be doing all the work while she stares at her reflection in a pen." She shook her head. "I hope you get an easy one."

The bell rang.

Lunch. Chairs scraped. Voices rose. The room emptied in a rush of movement and conversation.

Everyone left. Almost, Kael didn't move. Still against the back wall, half-swallowed by shadow, he watched as Elira finally stood—watched the way she gathered her books, the careful, controlled way she moved. Then he stepped forward. "You know this is a problem for me too, yeah?"

Elira's movements slowed. She looked up at him. 

Nothing. No flicker. No shift. No quiet pulse of wrongness.

He wasn't lying.

"When did I say it wouldn't be?" she replied evenly.

For a moment, her light shifted his shadow for her, bending it just enough against him to catch part of his face. Not all of it.

But enough. Sharp lines. Controlled stillness. Grey eyes that didn't soften. He noticed, stepped back, and the shadow closed over him again. "You were going to," he said. "When you said my name, and stopped." He tilted his head slightly. "You also told Daisy you hoped hers was.. easier than ours, so."

Elira's eyes flickered, gold flaring just a touch brighter.

The same movement and the same angle from the vision.

Her breath caught, just for a second.

It could be him... Or it could be coincidence.

She forced the light in her eyes to dim, blinking it away as she inhaled slowly. "We don't have to talk now," she said. "We can wait until we get our project." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "I'm late for lunch." She didn't wait for a response. Just turned, pushed the doors open, and walked out, leaving him standing in the quiet classroom.

Watching like he always does. He inhales, a finger tapping the desk beside him before walking towards the door. 

Lunch was quieter than usual.

Elira sat with Daisy and a few of the other oracles in the courtyard, the noise of the academy softened by open air and distance. For a moment, it almost felt normal. She tilted her face toward the sun, letting the warmth settle over her skin as she inhaled slowly.

Peaceful, almost.

"You know something's going on." The voice cut through the calm like a blade. Elira's eyes didn't open, but she listened.

"What do you mean, Rey?"

"What I mean—" Rey took a loud bite of her apple, chewing like she had all the time in the world, "—is that the academy doesn't just pair two polar opposites for a stupid class project."

"It's not stu—"

Rey talked right over her. "There are two outcomes here. We can place bets now if you want, I'll happily collect later, but either they fail, spectacularly..." A pause. "...or one of them ends up dead."

Elira's fingers curled slightly in her lap, Daisy inhaled slowly, eyes glued on Rey. 

"And honestly?" Rey added, voice lowering just enough to carry, "that would suck for her, considering she'd probably see it coming. Imagine watching your own dea—"

"Rey." The warning snapped sharp through the air. One of the wolves shot her a look, gesturing not-so-subtly toward Elira and the oracles.

Rey froze. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shifting awkwardly. "Hey, look, I didn't—"

"Lying already?" Daisy cut in smoothly. "That might be a new record, even for you."

Elira opened her eyes. The sunlight felt dimmer now. Daisy stood, brushing off her uniform before glancing down at Elira. "Come on."

There was no room for argument in her tone. Elira rose without a word, the other oracles following quickly. As they passed, the tension lingered, thick and uncomfortable. Daisy didn't look back.

But Elira did. Just for a second, and Rey looked away first.

"Way to go," one of the wolves muttered under their breath once the oracles were out of earshot. "Now we're all going to have to watch what we say around them."

"Yeah," another added quietly. "Like they weren't already doing that."

A few floors above the courtyard, the shadow assassins occupied the shaded balcony overlooking it. They didn't gather like the others. No loose circles. No easy laughter. Just scattered stillness, each of them positioned with purpose, backs to walls, eyes on exits, on movement, on everything.

"Leave it to the queen mutt to make this worse than it already is," one muttered, glancing sideways at Kael. "You good?"

Kael didn't look at him.  His gaze stayed on the railing below, where students moved in clusters, unaware—or pretending to be. "Queen mutt isn't wrong," he said quietly. He shook his head once. "Not even close." There was a shift in the air at that. Subtle, but there. "Something's coming," Kael added. "Been feeling it for days."

"Yeah," another voice chimed in from the far end of the balcony. "Same here. They never tell us anything until it's time to suit up and ship out."

Kael gave a small, humorless nod, leaning his shoulder back against the wall. "Who knows," he muttered. "This place is a joke."

"Tell me about it," the first one scoffed. "I'm only here because my dad drilled it into me, 'assassin blood, assassin legacy.'" He rolled his eyes. "Told him once I just wanted to be Brian." A low whistle followed. "If looks could kill? I wouldn't be sitting here right now."

A few quiet snorts broke the tension, but not for long. It never lasted. Kael didn't join in, his attention had shifted to the courtyard down below.

The oracles had already gone, but he had seen her before she left. The way she moved. The way the light bent around her. Different from the other oracles.

His jaw tightened slightly at the full thought of her. Of all people, she had to be his partner. His problem.

His gaze lingered a second longer before he pushed off the wall. "Bell's about to ring," he said flatly. But he didn't move right away. Because that feeling, the one sitting heavy in his chest, wasn't going anywhere.

Back inside, the room lit up with the sharp chorus of notifications, phones buzzing, laptops chiming in near unison. A ripple of reactions followed, claps of excitement. Groans of disappointment. Immediate chatter as everyone compared results.

"June and I got the Light Amplification Experiment," Daisy read off her screen. "We're supposed to enhance oracle visions using healing light, boost clarity and duration safely." She hummed, tilting her head. "That's... actually kind of interesting."

"Rainey and I—" another oracle leaned forward, scanning her phone, "—we have Preventative Healing Based on Prophecy." She blinked. "I have to predict injuries before they happen, and she has to treat them before they occur." A pause. "...We're basically testing if you can heal something that hasn't even happened yet."

A low chorus of intrigued hums circled the group. Daisy glanced sideways at Elira. "Did you get yours and Kael's yet?"

She shook her head, eyes already on her screen. "No."

She refreshed. Nothing for a second, and then it appeared. "Oh. Wait." She clicked it, and stilled.

Elira Solenne,

Access to your assigned project has been restricted.

You and Kael Vireth are required to be physically present in the same room, unaccompanied, in order to unlock and view the contents of this message.

This condition is mandatory.

Be advised: Kael Vireth has received identical instructions.

No further access will be granted until these requirements are met.

Her shoulders dropped slightly, tension settling in where curiosity had been. "...Kael and I have to open it together," she said quietly. "I can't just—" She exhaled, shaking her head once. "Is anyone else getting a bad feeling about this?"

"Thank you," one of the other oracles said immediately. "I didn't want to be the first to say it."

A few others nodded, unease threading through the group now. Elira gave a small, humorless shrug. "Yeah. I get it." Her gaze dropped back to her phone, the unopened message still glowing on the screen like it was waiting for something. "I need to find Kael."

Right as she stands, her eyes glow and she takes a step back. A vision hits, but this time, it's not the same figure.

It's the Dean.

He's laying flat on the floor of his office, a blade buried deep in his back, blood pooling slowly beneath him.

"It's done." A voice says, cold and impatient. "Now let me leave this fucking place."

Elira gasps, blinking hard as the vision snaps away. "Shit—" A hand flies to her chest, her breathing uneven, "The Dean—he—" She looks up quickly, panic slipping through, "You need to make sure nothing happens to the Dean." She's already moving, the panic behind her fading. As she is pulling her bag higher onto her shoulder as she rushes forward, she rounds the corner and slams into someone. "Sorry! I'm in a bit of a rush."

His hands lift instinctively near her arms, hovering, not quite touching, and his familiar voice cuts in, "I was coming to find you."

"Yeah, well you found me," Elira snaps, stepping back, shrugging her bag into place. "We have to open—"

"I know." He cuts in, sharp and immediate. There's no hesitation. "Come on." He steps around her, barely brushing past, already moving down the hall like he expects her to follow.

And for a second it feels like he already knows something she doesn't. Elira follows, close, but not too close. He pulls open the door to one of the meeting halls, pausing just long enough to scan the room before motioning her in. She walks past him, setting her bag on the table as she pulls out her phone. "Do you know something?"

"No." He answers instantly. Certain. "I don't."

Not lying. Elira narrows her eyes, studying him for a brief second before shaking her head. "Fine. Let's just—"

"We have to open it at the exact same time."

She looks up at him. His shadow lags, just for a second, catching the light wrong, giving her a fleeting glimpse of half his face. It was gone as quickly as it came.

"Are you counting, or am I?"

He nods toward her.

She exhales once, steadying. "One... Two... Three."

They open it.

Elira Solenne. Kael Vireth.

Your pairing has been designated under restricted parameters.

This assignment is not optional.

You have been selected to operate in tandem for a specialized directive beyond standard academic scope.

Your objective:

To identify, track, and prevent a future catastrophic event.

Elira Solenne—your role is to observe, interpret, and report through prophetic vision and truth-seeing.

Kael Vireth—your role is to act, utilizing concealment, infiltration, and elimination where necessary.

You are to rely on one another.

You are to trust the function of this pairing.

Failure to complete this assignment will result in consequences deemed appropriate by the Academy.

Further details will be disclosed as the future clarifies.

Proceed accordingly.

Elira lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "This..." She rereads it, slower this time. "This is crazy."

Kael doesn't respond right away. His eyes stay fixed on his screen. "I fucking knew it."

Elira's head snaps up. "You fucking knew what?"

His gaze cuts to her, sharp, assessing. There's a flicker there. It's brief, gone just as fast. He didn't expect that language. Not from her, or any oracle for that matter. They weren't known to curse, not even when repeating phrases from a vision. "Nothing." He looks back down at his phone. "Let's just figure out how we're going to start this."

She stares at him, disbelief creeping in. "You—" she scoffs softly, shaking her head, "You think this is just a project? Kael, we have to—"

"I know what we have to do," he cuts in, voice flat. "I read it. Twice."

She inhales. "Fine. You want somewhere to start? Tell me what you knew."

"Tell me what the visions you had were."

"No. I asked you first."

"Your visions are more important, Elira."

Elira.

The way he says her name sends a spark, and a chill, down her spine.

He's right. And she hates that he's right. She inhales again, her eyes flickering faintly, gold catching, slipping, like light struggling to stay steady. He notices, of course he does. He's seen it before. But he says nothing, he doesn't let on that he's already clocked the pattern, when it happens, how it happens.  When she's about to slip. "Elira," he says again, quieter this time. "Tell me."

"The Dean," she starts, voice tighter now. "I think... something's going to happen to the Dean."

"The Dean?" he repeats, watching her carefully. "Do you know why?"

She shakes her head. "I—no."

There's a brief moment of silence. His head tilts slightly. "Mm." It's subtle. Almost thoughtful. "You know," he says, voice low, measured, "you're not the only one who can tell when someone's lying."

Her eyes flicker again.

"I might not get some glowing truth spelled out and dropped into my head," he continues, "but I'm very good at reading people." He steps just a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to press. "Spill."

She keeps her eyes on his shadowed face. "I think it's one of your guys... I've—" she swallows slightly, steadying herself, "the visions... they've been shadowed." She gives him a pointed look. "I haven't seen a face. But in the first one, it was a room. Dim. The figure standing by the window, and then they threw a lamp." Her breathing starts to pick up. "The second... same figure, I think. Sitting on the edge of the academy roof. Someone asked if it was done yet—they said no. Said to give them time. But... there isn't much left to give." A pause. "And the one right before I ran into you—" her voice tightens, "—the Dean. Dead."

Kael doesn't react the way she expects. "How?"

Elira blinks, thrown. "What do you—" She exhales sharply. "A blade. In his back. Blood pooling under him."

"What did the blade look like?"

"I don't—I didn't focus on that," she snaps, frustration bleeding through. "The Dean was dead, Kael. D.e.a.d dead!"

"Keep your voice down, alright?" He steps closer, voice dropping. "There are bloodsuckers in this place that could hear you from across the damn school."

"I'm sorry if that offends you," she shoots back, "but this is serious." She scoffs, shaking her head. "We're talking about the person who keeps this place running. The one who makes all of this—" she gestures vaguely, the academy, the balance, "—even possible."

"What if you're wrong?" he snaps. The words land harder than anything else. "You ever think of that?"

"I'm not wrong," she fires back instantly. "When have I ever been wrong?"

"You haven't been yet," he says, just as quick. "But that doesn't make you perfect."

They stare at each other, each of them rapidly questioning each other in their own heads.

"Everyone fucks up," he adds, quieter now. "Some just later than others."

"I am not wrong." She states low, cold, "Something is happening, you even said so yourself, which speaking of.. Your turn to tell me what exactly you meant by, 'I fucking knew it'."

Kael inhales through his nose slowly, "It's not what you think."

She doesn't budge, just waits for him to continue, which he does, "My director, the one just for the assassins, has been quieter, lately. We all picked up on it. We're mostly silent, yes, but he-" He glances over his shoulder then slowly back to her, "He's been different."

Again, not lying. Which pisses her off more because she does not trust him, every alarm bell is going off in her mind and body, and yet, no truth being spelled out.

"I feel like you're lying." She breathes out, "I just- There's no truth coming out of it."

"Because it is the truth, Elira." He holds his eyes on her, watching her watch him, "What the hell do you want me to do?"

The door opens. Another student freezes instantly in the doorway, eyes widening as they take in the room. "Uh—s-sorry." They clear their throat, shifting awkwardly. "I thought Miss Cleyvers was holding the meeting here."

"Clearly not," Kael says smoothly, voice edged in ice. "Close the door on your way out."

The door shuts almost immediately with a heavy click, and silence follows for a moment.

"Answer the question."

Elira scoffs, shaking her head. "I don't know, Kael. I don't—"

Her eyes flicker again, growing brighter.

"Elira." Kael steps forward, tension snapping tight in his voice. "You're having a vision."

"No. No, I'm not." The lie falls apart the second it leaves her mouth.

The vision hits anyway.

The shadow assassin director stands in a dim room, hands clasped behind his back as he looks out the window.

Two figures stand behind him. Shadows. Unclear. Watching.

"You do this," the director says calmly, "and you can walk out of this place free."

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" one of the shadows asks. "We do this, and what, just trust you, or someone else won't turn on us after?" 

He lets out a low chuckle. "You should know by now," the director says, "I always keep my word."

Then the second shadow speaks, voice quieter and colder, "Everyone fucks up." He scoffs, almost inaudible, "Some just later than others."

Elira gasps, the sound catching, choking in her throat as she's dragged back.

Kael's hand is around her wrist, firm, grounding. "Elira. Hey—hey."

She looks up at him slowly, breath uneven. "Everyone fucks up... some just later than others..." Her voice trembles, just slightly. "That's what you just said to me." She shakes her head, almost in full disbelief.  "And that's what one of the shadows in my vision just said."

Something shifts in his expression. Small but very real. Kael swallows. "Elira, let me explain—"

She yanks her wrist free. "No." The word comes sharp, cutting him off instantly, her hand raised between them like it can stop him. Her next breath breaks. "It's—it's you—" Her voice cracks, too, but she doesn't stop. "You're..." she shakes her head slightly, like she wishes the words would change before she says them, "you're the catastrophe I have to stop."

He doesn't move, his hand still hanging where her wrist was freed, "Elira-"

"Don't. Do not.. say my name like that, don't even say it at all." She steps back, bumping into the table, but her eyes stay on him, "I can't- they knew I couldn't- they knew-" She inhales sharply, "Why?" She asks, voice cracking again, "I'm not- I'm not.. yours.. I don't deal with death, not like this, i see it, i tell the right people, i stop it before it happens, I don't-"

Kael doesn't say a word. His hand slowly drops back to his side. Elira turns away, he watches her pace a step before stopping and facing him again. "The truth, Kael..." her voice wavers, then steadies, "I want—no, I need it."

He says nothing. Her frustration snaps when he doesn't speak like she wants, "Now!"

Kael flinches.

It's small, barely there, but she sees it. And it hits her just as fast, "I—" The anger drains, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Guilt.

It spreads slowly, uninvited, settling heavy in her chest. And she hates it.

Why does she feel guilty? She shouldn't. Not for him. Not for something this. He's the one she's supposed to stop. The one at the center of something awful, something that hasn't even happened yet, but will. So why does it feel like she's the one who crossed a line?

"Kael..." she says, softer now.

"Don't." He turns his head away from her, jaw tight, like even looking at her is too much.

She doesn't say anything. Her eyes do all the talking. That flicker, the sudden brightening of gold, is a dead giveaway.

She's thrown into another vision.

It's Kael.

Younger. Sixteen, maybe. Not hidden by shadows and a hood.

He stands in a room, cement, not big but not small. It's bare, and very cold.

"Again." The voice comes from a shadowed corner, deep, sharp enough to make him flinch hard. "We are not stopping until you get this right. You should have it by now, boy."

Kael exhales shakily. "I—I'll get it... I swear, I just—"

A dagger flies from the opposite shadow. Fast, and it sinks into his shoulder.

He groans, folding forward, breath hitching. His hand shoots up, gripping the hilt before ripping it free with a sharp inhale and he hurls it back toward where it came from. "I'm not meant for this life, dad."

The shadow moves closer now. An arm extends, and a gloved finger presses into the wound in his shoulder. "You healed instantly, boy."

Kael's breathing fills the space, heavy, uneven.

"You were chosen for this life." Another press into the wound. "And you will do it the honor by becoming the best."

Elira stumbles back. The corner of the table slams into her side, knocking the breath from her as her balance gives out.

Kael is there instantly. One hand at her back, steadying, the other at her hip. "Easy," his voice is lower now, controlled, but there's something under it. "That was a big one, wasn't it?"

She doesn't answer, just goes still for a second, breath coming in uneven pulls.

He helps her upright slowly and carefully. Then steps back just as slow, like the contact itself means something he won't acknowledge. "Thought so."

Her eyes flick towards him, then his shoulder, then away. He caught it, "Just say it." He keeps his eyes on her, "Tell me what you saw."

She doesn't answer right away.  A part of her is hoping someone comes in again, enough to break the tension, for even just a second. The moment stretches, and she realizes that no one is coming.

"Elira."

He barely finishes her name before she cuts in. "You."

"Me," he repeats, slower. "What about me?"

"You were... training, I think." Her voice falters slightly. "But it looked more like torture..."

His jaw tightens. "Mm."

Her eyes flick up to him, then drop again. "Your d—"

"Don't call him that." The words come quick, then softer, almost pleading, "...please."

She nods once. "He made you flinch," she continues, quieter now. "And you took a dagger to the shoulder and pulled it out like it was nothing."

"I did," he says. No hesitation. "That—" He drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Fuck. Yeah. That was training." "I started when I turned eleven." His voice hardens again, like he's forcing it back into place. "My—he..." He cuts himself off, frustration flashing across his face. "They called it conditioning." He shakes his head slightly. "I had to learn how to read hidden targets. Move faster than whoever was in front of me. Not hesitate."

Elira's eyes gloss over, the gold dimming to something softer, something him, nor anyone else ever seen before. His gaze locks onto hers and that makes his chest tighten.  "Don't look at me like that," he says, sharper now, almost defensive. "Don't look at me like I'm some kind of bullshit pity project."

"I-"

"Or something you need to feel sorry for." He adds, half turning away from her. His eyes dart around the room in front of him, like he's debating something.

"I didnt-" She sighs, for once, the first time in her life, stumped on what to say or do next.

Kael beats her to it anyway, "You were seeing me in those visions."

Her heart skips a beat, hard. It makes her gasp.

He continues before he can second guess it, "I met with my director today with Brian. We both want out, a lot of us do.. so we came up with a plan.. we take out the top dog, the Dean. Everyone will be so focused on that, that I'll have enough of a head start to get the fuck out of here, but this.." He sighs, "I'm going to be honest here, Elira.. This whole thing feels like a whole set up, against both of us."

He wasn't lying. Or maybe he was, and somehow still keeping her from reading him.

She didn't know. Her brows furrow, frustration flickering across her face. "You think that—" She exhales softly, the pieces starting to settle in a way she doesn't like. "They know how powerful I am."

Kael's head turns fully toward her now. Then he speaks, slow and measured, "Just how powerful are you, Elira?"

Elira doesn't look at him. She just shakes her head.

"Elira."

"I'm the top oracle," she says, the words coming out tighter than she expects. "I took over for the High Seer, Marcie, four months ago because she's sick, really sick. The vision I had of her dying..." her voice dips, "it's next week." She finally looks up at him, and it all starts spilling out. "I didn't tell anyone. None of the other oracles know. I used my magic to conceal it, from everyone who can read me. I'm not supposed to, but—" She exhales sharply, frustrated, overwhelmed. "Fuck, I am so sick of this." Her voice trembles now. "I am so tired of being treated like I'm something to be feared, or something that needs to be put on a pedestal, because I'm not."  Her chest rises and falls unevenly. "I'm here because, just like you, it was drilled into me at such a young age. This is all I know, and I fu—"  Her voice breaks. "I fucking hate it, Kael."

Kael just stares at her. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but he stops himself. He knows she doesn't like to be touched, also knows that it could trigger another vision, and she's had enough of those today. "Elira..." His voice is quieter now. "I didn't—"

"Of course you didn't know," she cuts in, wiping at her cheek. "Why would you?" She inhales, forcing herself back together. "We just need to focus on this. Figure out what we're going to do because Rey was right... There's only two outcomes."

"No, there's not," he says instantly. "There's not just two. Screw that mutt for even saying that shit."

Elira blinks. "You heard her?"

"Of course I did," he scoffs. "And if you think I'm going to let a dog that loses her mind every full moon be right about us, then you're just as wrong." He glances around the room, checking, always checking. "If you're not going to turn me in like you oracles love to do, then—"

"It's in our nature," she snaps. "We're bound by the light to—"

"And I'm bound by the shadow," he cuts in. "Polar opposites, remember?" He gestures slightly toward the far wall. "There's a tunnel behind that bookshelf. You start going. I'll find Brian, bring him with us—we call the plan off, and we leave."

Elira just stares at him like he's grown another head. "You—"

"Yeah," he cuts in, already moving, already decided. "I'm doing the thing I swore not to do."  He looks back at her, something sharp, and almost urgent behind his eyes, "Don't make it a big deal. If we're going, we're going now. So make up your mind." He walks over, breaking off the leg of a chair and shoving it through the handles to the door.

Elira inhales sharply. "What i- they can track us? Right? Don't you remember what they did on our first day here? We—what if—Kael, we can't—"

"Elira. Listen to me." He cuts her off, turning toward her sharply. "If we don't go now, you're stuck here. I'm stuck here. And I won't have a choice but to kill the Dean." The words land heavy. "And that's the last thing I want. For either of us." He turns, moving to the bookshelf, gripping the edge and pulling at it.

"Why do you suddenly care?" she asks.

That makes him stop. His hands tighten against the wood. He turns his head slightly, but he doesn't look at her, "Why are you suddenly against leaving?" he shoots back, not looking at her. "You were just.. bawling about how much you fucking hate it here."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." He yanks at the shelf again, harder this time. "If you're not going, then I'll get Brian. We'll leave." The shelf shifts slightly. "And you can send everyone on a wild fucking goose chase." He glances back at her, eyes sharp, certain. "Because mark my words, Elira.. When I'm gone..." His voice drops. "No one is seeing me again."

 His words make something in her chest tighten. Before she can think better of it, she steps forward and lays her hand against his cheek. His skin is warm, she was expecting cold. Her breath hitches, and her eyes flare gold. She pushes herself into a vision.

Kael gasps, "Wait—no, what—"

Kael and Brian are running.

Fast. Silent. Sharp turns through a narrow tunnel, boots barely making a sound against the stone.

Behind them, there's shouting, echoing off the tunnel walls.

"Stop them!"

"They're getting away!"

"Kael Vireth! Brian Swellow!"

"Go, go—" Kael shoves Brian forward, urgency cutting through his voice. "We're almost there."

They pick up the pace, moving faster and a light at the end of the tunnel becomes visible, its dim, moonlight.

But they cross through. 

It suddenly snaps, shifts to another vision, one later.

The sound of water floods in before the picture does. When it hits, a waterfall crashes somewhere close, mist catching in the air.

They're sitting near it, somewhere far, somewhere unknown.

Safe for once in their lives, and for the first time, since he was seventeen, Kael's hood is down.

Allowing the sunlight to touch his face, really touch it.

And also for the first time, he looks still. He wasn't tense or watching.

He was just breathing.

His silver eyes are dim, unfocused in a way that almost looks peaceful.

His fingers turn something slowly.

A necklace.

Her necklace. The one resting against her collarbone in the present.

"You miss her?" Brian asks, glancing over.

Kael doesn't look at him. "Every day."

Elira exhales sharply as the vision drops, and her hand slides slowly from his cheek. "You—" Her voice is quieter now, almost unsteady. She looks up at him. "You'd miss me..."

Her fingers lift, gripping the necklace at her throat. "You took this. I stayed here... you and Brian—"

Kael doesn't pull away, in fact he doesn't move at all. "Is that your choice?" he asks, voice low, controlled, but there's something tight underneath it. "Is that what you're doing, Elira?" He exhales through his nose, tension barely contained. "I need to know."

Her mouth moves but no sound comes out.

"Elira!"

"No!" The word slips out before she can stop it, startling even herself. "I—" She shakes her head quickly, trying to steady it. "You went through more than I did." She swallows. "You deserve to go."

He just stares at her, like that wasn't the answer he expected. "What..." He exhales slowly. "You—" He doesn't blink. Barely breathes. "A-Are you sure?"

The hesitation in his voice throws her off and makes something in her chest twist hard. "I—Kael, don't—don't do this to me..." She drags a hand through her hair, frustrated, overwhelmed. "I saw you, the vision. You were happy. Your hood was down, and you—" Her hand moves to her neck and she snaps the necklace free. "You had this." She places it in his hand, folding his fingers over the gold chain. "Go. I'll find Brian. I'll send the board the other way, you have time."

His hand stays loose around it as he swallows once. "I ca—"

"You can. And you will." She steps closer, lifting her hand to push his hood back just enough for her light to bend his shadow.

And for the first time, she sees him.

Fully.

He's beautiful. Dark hair falling into his eyes, soft in a way that doesn't match anything else about him.

Grey eyes, rimmed with silver.

Freckles scattered across pale skin, faint but there.

Human.

She tilts her head slightly, her own eyes glossing over. "That..." her voice softens, almost fragile, "is the face of someone who deserves to be happy, Kael Vireth."

He sucks in a sharp breath, "Elira."

She steps back. "Go. Now. I'll give you time." She turns toward the door, glancing back at him once before moving the chair leg out of the way and slipping out.

"Elira!" he calls after her, but she doesn't come back.

The door shuts, and Kael turns, slamming his palm into the books on the shelf once, the sound echoing sharp through the room. He pauses, just for a second, then moves to pull his phone out, typing a quick encrypted message to Brian.

Office with the bookshelf. Now. Not much time left.

The response comes almost instantly.

On my way. Bringing a few others like we planned.

Kael pockets his phone, glancing at the door, then down at the necklace in his palm. "Fucking hell," he mutters. "I can't just—" He exhales sharply, then starts moving. He slips out into the hall, scanning like normal, then stills.

Brian and a few others already heading toward him. Kael pushes the door open, letting them file in. Brian's last. He stops just inside, eyes locking onto Kael. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just go." Kael nods toward the room. "I'll catch up."

Brian grabs his arm. "We don't have to do that anymore."

Kael looks at him. "That's not what I'm doing." He pulls his arm free and walks off without another word. Behind him, Brian hesitates, then turns, ushering the others into the tunnel. Kael doesn't look back because he already knows where he's going.

Elira paces her dorm room, wiping at tears that won't stop, no matter how much she wants them to. She mutters under her breath, cursing herself for feeling this much, for letting him get under her skin, for everything. After a moment, she exhales sharply and moves to the door.

She pulls it open and freezes.

Kael stands there, fist raised like he was about to knock. He freezes too.

"Kael?" She breathes. "What—"

"I'm not leaving you here to clean up my mess." His jaw tightens slightly.

"Let's go."

Thank you so so much for reading my work!

[spicydelusion]

Genre: Supernatural / Fantasy / Romance

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: quick mention of blood drinking, death, supernatural creatures, human x vampire, mostly fluff

Main blog: @ap-writings / Wattpad: ap-writing

Eliza was a night owl. She was always awake when the world was asleep, and asleep when the world was awake.

She sat in her apartment with her dimming laptop resting on her lap, her head leaned against the window as she watched the passing cars far below. At this hour, the streets were quieter, but never truly empty. She often wondered about the people inside those cars.

Were they taking a break during a long night shift? Driving to visit someone who needed them? Or simply wandering the city because they were insomniacs, just like her?

She let out a quiet sigh and turned her head, glancing around the interior of her small city apartment. A single lamp lit most of the room, casting warm light over the modest space. She had come to the city hoping to make it big. Hoping a news outlet, a magazine, maybe even a library would take one look at her writing samples and see something worth publishing.

But she had been here for almost a year now, and nothing had happened.

A small part of her was starting to lose hope.  Maybe my sister was right, she thought. Maybe moving to this city was a huge mistake.

Her gaze dropped back to the half-written chapter on her laptop screen. The cursor blinked patiently at the end of an unfinished sentence. Once. Twice. Three times.

With a tired breath, she reached up and slowly closed the laptop. She set it aside and stood, stretching slightly before walking over to the small kitchen tucked beside her living room. Opening the cupboard, she reached for the tea box, only to pause when she realized it was empty. She stared at it for a moment before letting out a quiet groan, "Perfect." She tossed the empty box onto the counter and turned to grab her jacket. After pulling it on, she snagged her keys from the hook by the door and shoved them into her pocket.

As she stepped into the hallway, she pulled her unbrushed hair free from the collar of her jacket and made her way toward the elevator.  A few moments later, the elevator doors slid open to the quiet lobby below. The cool air greeted her immediately, brushing across her skin and making her shiver once. She crossed the dark wooden floors, pajamas and all, and she pushed open the front doors and stepped out into the night. She stepped out, arms wrapped around herself as she walked aimlessly down the sidewalk.

Two blocks in, she paused when she noticed a sign, one she was certain hadn't been there before. Her head tilted slightly. "That's new." A quiet huff of amusement left her as she stepped closer and pushed the door open. She stopped just inside. The café was dim and rustic, warm light pooling softly over dark wood tables and aged brick walls. It smelled like coffee—rich and familiar—but there was something else beneath it. Something she couldn't quite place.

She didn't question it. Instead, she made her way up to the counter. A tall, light-haired man stood a few feet back, wiping down the latte machine. "Haven't seen you in here before."

Eliza nodded slowly. "Yeah... you haven't. I—this is actually my first time seeing this place, which is weird, because I walk a block or two around here almost every night..." "Night owl, huh?" "Insomniac, if we're being specific." She let out a small laugh, eyes drifting up to the limited menu above. "But night owl sounds cuter."

A low chuckle left him, his gaze briefly flicking past her to the woman seated in the corner, who glanced up from the papers in front of her, before returning to Eliza. "What can I get you?" She looked back at him. "I ran out of the tea I usually drink to help me settle down, and the market I get it from is closed for the night. I was hoping you might have something similar... it has lemon balm and valerian in it." She gave a small shrug. "But I'm desperate, so I'll take anything close."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Lemon balm and valerian..." His head tilted slightly. "What size?" "Uh... large. That way I can sip it on the walk back. I have a habit of chugging it otherwise."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smirk. "We all have something like that, don't we?" He pulled a large cup from the stack. "I'll have it right out." Turning, he stepped away to fill it with hot water. Eliza watched him for a moment before her attention drifted, taking in the café more carefully this time.

The tables were dark, worn with age. The chairs matched. The grey brick walls made the old paintings stand out, along with the menu hanging above the counter. It felt... cozy. Quiet. Her eyes flicked to the woman in the corner, slowly sipping something dark from a mug. Then to the tall window beside her—fogged over, though she barely thought twice about it. Just the contrast between the cold outside and the warmth within. And then to a man seated alone with an almost absurd number of pastries spread out in front of him.

Her attention snapped back to the counter as a cup was set down in front of her. "Drink it slow," the man said. He paused briefly. "I added an extra scoop of valerian. It should take care of that insomnia tonight."

"Oh, gosh. Thank you." She laughed softly, lifting the cup to her lips. She took a careful sip, then blinked. "Oh." A small nod followed as she licked her lips. "Yeah... you definitely did." A smile tugged at her mouth. "I'll drink it slow. And—" She paused. "How much do I owe you?"

He waved a hand dismissively, lifting his own teacup for a sip. "On the house. New customers." She stared at him for a second. "I—thank you." Another sip. "If that's a trick to get people to come back... it's working." He smiled faintly. "Good." He gave a small nod. "Get home safe. Or... stay a while. No one will bother you here." Her gaze drifted around the café again before she let out a quiet breath. "Maybe tomorrow. Might be a placebo effect, but I think those two sips are already working." He shrugged lightly. "Still working." He lifted his cup in a subtle salute. "Safe travels..." His voice trailed off, waiting. "Eliza." His head tilted just slightly. "Eliza," he repeated, softer this time. "I'm Lucian." A small pause. "And you're welcome here any night you can't sleep."

She gave a small, tired smile and turned, walking toward the exit. As soon as the door closed behind her, the woman in the corner chuckled. "Someone has a crush."

Lucien shot her a look. "No, I do not. I was simply being nice." "Oh, come on," the man with the pastries mumbled around a mouthful of raspberry danish. "Since when do you tell a human they're welcome here anytime they can't sleep?" Lucien stared at him, then let out a small, exasperated sigh. "Don't grill me with your mouth full, wolf." The man wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "It was a long night—" he swallowed, "—betas won't train themselves." "It's only two a.m., and you got here at one-thirty, Fritz," the woman added without looking up. "Now leave Lucien alone." "Thank you," Lucien sighed. But she wasn't finished. "He needs to spend another sixty years brooding over a woman."

Fritz snorted, taking another bite of his danish, and Lucien scoffed. "Oh my g— that was one time, and I don't know why I tell you creatures anything." "That's what happens when you have regulars, Lucie." She finally glanced up at him with a smirk. "Besides, I charm your coffee to always taste better." "Don't call me that, Willow— and you what?" Lucien frowned. "Since when—" "Since you burned those two pots trying to impress that fairy who passed through here four months ago." A voice drifted in from the table by the fogged window. "She was very pretty, so... I don't really blame you."

Lucien's eyes flicked to the chair that appeared completely empty. "Go back to fogging up my windows, Neil." Without missing a beat, the glass beside him clouded over further, and a heart was drawn neatly into the condensation. "As you wish." A quiet round of laughter moved through the café. Willow leaned back in her chair, setting her pen down. "Alright. In all seriousness... she seems sweet. If you want, I can do a spell and find out everything about her?" For a moment, Lucien considered it. Then he shook his head. "No. Go back to grading your papers, Willow."

"He thought about it," Fritz chuckled. "I know that look. C'mon, just a peek... you know she's going to do it anyway." "No, I don't— no. Just..." Lucien finished his cup of warmed blood and set it aside. "If she comes back, she comes back." He gave a small shrug. "You saw her. She has no idea what we are."

There was a brief silence before Willow spoke again. "You think she believes in us? Witches, werewolves, vampires—" "And ghosts," Neil cut in. "I'd appreciate not being left out this time." "I was getting to you," Willow said flatly. "Jeez." Fritz leaned back in his chair. "Time will tell." A small grin tugged at his mouth. "And if Willow finds anything that's like silver to a werewolf..." he added, glancing at Lucien, "she'll let you know."

The next night, it was just before eleven-thirty when the door opened and Eliza stepped inside. Willow, who wasn't grading papers tonight, watched her over the rim of her mug. Neil, completely invisible to her, let out a quiet huff of laughter that fogged the window again. Lucien ignored them both, gently setting a cup down as he looked up, "Ah," he said softly. "You came back." Eliza nodded, stopping at the counter. "I came back."

"Lemon balm and valerian again?" he asked. "Or are we feeling something different tonight?" Her gaze drifted from him to the menu. "Hmm..." She tilted her head. "That tea last night did the trick. I was out like a light the second my head hit the pillow." Willow coughed, pointedly. Eliza glanced over, and Willow waved a hand. "Sorry. Wrong pipe." Eliza laughed softly. "I'm a pro at that happening." Willow smiled into her mug, taking another sip, then murmured just low enough for Lucien to hear, "She's funny. Who would've thought?" Lucien inhaled slowly through his nose, ignoring her.

"So," he said, turning back to Eliza, "what'll it be tonight?" She leaned her hip against the counter. "I'll do another lemon balm and valerian... but hold the double scoop." She motioned toward one of the tables. "I'll stay a little longer tonight." He nodded once. "Make yourself comfortable." He turned, grabbing a cup and stepping away to prepare her tea.

Eliza settled into one of the worn leather chairs, letting out a quiet breath as she got comfortable. "You said your name was Eliza?" Willow spoke up. She looked over and nodded. "Yeah, that's me." A small smile. "And you?" "Willow." She returned the smile. "You live in the city?" "I do... about a year now." Eliza paused. "Honestly, it kind of sucks I found this place now. It makes it harder to want to leave." She gave a small laugh. "I know that sounds crazy, considering it's only my second night here..."

Lucien returned then, setting her tea down in front of her. "Not crazy," he said. "Certain places have that effect." Willow nodded slightly. "I was thinking about leaving too, once. Then I found this place, met Lucien... and now I'm here every night." Eliza's gaze shifted between them. "Are you two—" "No," they said at the same time. Willow laughed, clearly amused, while Lucien's answer was calm but firm. "He is far from my type, honey," Willow added, grinning. "I'm more into tan and rich, not pale and vampire-esque." That earned her a sharp warning look. Willow waved it off. "Oh, come on, Lucian. I just mean you're pale, always inside this café. I like being outside, not people who look allergic to the sun." Another warning look.

But before Lucien could speak, Eliza cut in with a soft laugh. "I get it. I'm kind of the same way. I'm awake when everyone else is asleep, and asleep when the world is awake." She shrugged lightly. "I spend most of my time writing... and hoping someone from one of the agencies I send my samples to finally picks me up." Her smile faltered just a little. "It's been a year," she added. "I'm starting to hear my sister's voice in my head telling me it was a mistake to move here." She let out a quiet scoff. "But... it's an experience."

"An experience indeed," Neil murmured.

Lucien and Willow both glanced toward the fogged window. Eliza's brows knit slightly as she looked around. "Okay... on that note, I think the tea's working." She stood, reaching into her pocket and placing a five-dollar bill on the counter. "It's only three-something," Lucien started, "you don't—" "I'm paying this time," she said with a smile. "Or consider it a tip." She lifted her cup in a small mock salute. "Thank you. Again."

Then she turned and made her way out. The door shut softly behind her.

Lucien looked between Willow and the space where Neil sat. "I don't even know which one of you was worse." He turned, trying,and failing,not to smile as he walked to put the money in the register. "Willow basically outed you," Neil said, the window fogging as an arrow formed, pointing directly at her. "That whole 'vampire-esque' comment? Subtle." "I was joking," Willow shot back. "Well, to her, I was. At least I didn't make her think she was losing her mind, Mr. I Can Speak But You Can't See Me." She rolled her eyes. "She'll be fine. She'll probably be back tomorrow night."

She came back the next night. And the night after that. And the next four nights after that. Each visit a little longer than the last.

On the most recent night, Eliza walked in wearing the same pajama pants from the first time. Lucien leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter. "Well, look at that. She returns in the infamous pajama pants." A smirk tugged at his lips. "Got your regular right here." He slid a cup toward her. "Held off on the double scoop. Figured you'd be staying again." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal.

Eliza took the cup, smiling. "You know, for only knowing me for, what... a week? You catch on pretty fast." She glanced around. "No Willow tonight?"

He watched her take a sip, his head tilting slightly before he straightened again. "Nah, she had some co—" He caught himself quickly. "Company tonight, as she said." A small pause. "Don't tell her I told you that. She'll glue my doors shut."

Eliza laughed softly as she pulled a chair up to the counter. "Secret's safe with me." She lifted her cup in a small cheers before taking another sip. "So, if you don't mind me asking... what made you want to open a midnight café?" Lucien leaned back slightly. "You remember the first night you came in? You ran out of tea and your usual place was closed." She nodded. "Well... it's kind of like that." He paused. "People always need caffeine. So I figured I'd be there. What do those stupid stickers say? 'Caffeine dealer' or something?" Eliza laughed. "Oh yeah, the cliché ones? Yep, caffeine dealer." She tapped the side of her cup. "That's actually kind of... sweet, in a way. I sit at my window and watch cars pass by. Third shift looks exhausting. I don't know how you do it."

He knew she was joking, so he let out a quiet laugh, shrugging. "Years and years of the same schedule, I guess." "Mm. Makes sense." Her gaze drifted toward the window, catching the familiar fog. "Is there a vent over there or something? That spot's always foggy when I come in."

Lucien's eyes flicked toward where Neil usually sat, silently giving him a don't you dare look. "Yeah, when I—uh..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "When I bought the place, the previous owner said they couldn't figure it out either. Just... some weird air vent, I guess." Neil scoffed under his breath, just loud enough for Lucien to hear. "Weird air vent? I'm offended."

Lucien ducked his head slightly, hiding a smirk behind a quick rub of his jaw. "So," he said, shifting the conversation, "you hear anything back from that publisher? Or whatever it was called?" Eliza's face lit up instantly. "Oh my gosh, actually yes. I did." She leaned forward a little, excitement bubbling through her voice. "They read my sample and want me to send over my finished novelette by Friday."

Lucien smiled, genuine and warm. "Eliza, that's amazing." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I bet your sister's going to be eating those words she used to doubt you with, huh?" Eliza nodded, a grin spreading across her face. "Oh, she definitely will be. I haven't told anyone yet, though. I want everything finalized first... then I'll send her a picture of my published book." "Very smart." He nodded once. "Very in-your-face." A faint smirk returned. "I like it. What's the book about?"

Eliza laughed softly behind her cup. "You're going to think I'm a total loon." "Try me." Lucien smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. "Come on—I run a midnight café. I see weird things all the time." Eliza stared at him for a second, then sighed in defeat. "Okay, yeah... I can't argue with that."

She set her cup down. "It's a short book, a novelette, about this woman who moves into an old house and ends up..." She huffed out a laugh. "...falling in love with a ghost who lives there." At the table by the window, the small menu card suddenly tipped over. Eliza's head snapped toward the sound. She watched, frozen, as it slowly lifted... and set itself back upright. "...Did—" She turned her head toward Lucien, eyes narrowing slightly. "Did you see that?" Lucien let out a quiet sigh, clearly giving up on finding a cover. "Yeah. I did." A small pause. "That's Neil."

"Neil?" Eliza repeated, a disbelieving laugh slipping out. "Are you serious?" "As serious as the heart attack that took me out, sweetheart," a voice said from the empty chair. "I'm the fog you asked about earlier."

Eliza turned back toward the spot, staring at what looked like nothing. "I—okay..." She let out another breathy laugh, somewhere between shock and disbelief. "So you're... what? A ghost?" "Guilty as charged. And for the record, I'm a very good-looking ghost. You just can't—" "Neil," Lucien cut in, a warning threaded through his voice despite the hint of a laugh. "Don't scare her." He glanced back at Eliza, something almost apologetic in his expression. "I— I don't even... I'm sorry."

Eliza blinked at him. "You're sorry?" She shook her head lightly. "You don't have to be. I kind of figured something was up the night you almost panicked when the sun started coming up." She gave a small shrug. "I didn't think you were actually allergic to sunlight. I just..." Another soft laugh. "I figured you wouldn't want me treating you differently, so I ignored it." A pause. "I don't know," she added, quieter now. "I just knew you weren't normal... and I liked that."

Lucien stared at her.  His eyes flicked briefly toward Neil's invisible presence, then back to her again. "...Wow," he said under his breath. "Okay." A small, almost disbelieving huff of air left him. "I've never had a human walk in here and put that together that fast."

Eliza smiled, giving a small shrug as she laughed softly. "Well... now you have." She took another sip of her tea. "So... is everyone here something?"

"Oh, Lucie, I like her," Neil said, the smirk clear in his voice. "Willow was right." Lucien sighed. "When I told Willow not to call me that, that applies to you too." He shook his head before looking back at Eliza. "But... yeah. We're all different." He nodded slightly toward the window. "Neil's a ghost. Willow's a witch—you saw her grading papers the first night. She teaches newer witches—" "There's a whole school," Neil cut in. "Same with the werewolves."

Eliza's brows shot up so fast it was almost comical. "Oh, damn." A laugh slipped out. "A whole school? That's... wow." Lucien smirked faintly. "Neil's very... direct." He shifted a little closer to her. "But yes. Fritz, the man with all the pastries, he's a werewolf. He trains new betas. Helps them learn control." "So he's an alpha?" she asked. "Is that— I like reading about... folklore, I guess."

"I like her more," Neil chimed in. "She reads about us." Lucien nodded. "Yeah. She reads about us. And yes, he's the alpha of his pack."

"An alpha who stress eats," Neil added with a snort. "Lucien's always making raspberry danishes for him." Eliza laughed. "You really are just like us. I stress eat too." She let out a relaxed breath, settling more comfortably. "So Neil's a ghost, Willow's a witch, Fritz is a werewolf..." Her eyes moved back to Lucien. "What does that make you?"

If Lucien had a heartbeat, it would have skipped. "...Vampire." Eliza nodded slowly. "Vampire," she repeated, like she was trying the word out. "Can I ask... how old you are?"

"Older than dirt," Neil quipped. "Neil," Lucien sighed, shaking his head. "I mean... he's not wrong." He looked back at her. "I'm eight hundred and twenty-seven years old."

Eliza took that in. Eight hundred and twenty-seven.

"You've seen empires rise and fall... you—" She exhaled slowly. "You don't look a day over twenty-seven." Lucien snorted softly. "Hey, I'll take that."

"Oh, she flirts back," Neil sing-songed. "This is better than being alive." Lucien ignored him, "I was turned at twenty-nine," he continued. "It was 1199. I was in England, fighting alongside the king's men. I saw Richard I fall in battle—crossbow wound. I helped carry him from the field." His voice softened slightly. "When I left the quarters to clean up..." He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. "It happened fast. I was thrown back into a wall, and then—" His jaw tightened faintly. "Teeth in my neck." A pause. "I passed out." A small huff. "Died, technically." He gestured to himself. "And woke up... like this."

Eliza didn't interrupt once. When he finished, she shook her head softly. "Oh, Lucien..." Before she could overthink it, she reached out and placed her hand over his. Her breath caught slightly at how cold he was, but she didn't pull away. "That sounds awful," she said quietly. "I'm really sorry you had to go through that alone." Lucien froze. He couldn't remember the last time a human had touched him like this. "I..." His mouth lifted faintly. "You don't have to apologize. I've had... a long time to come to terms with it." His thumb brushed lightly against hers, instinctive, drawn to the warmth of her skin. "I've learned that holding onto things like that..." he added quietly, "doesn't get you very far."

"I beg to differ," Neil scoffed. "Grudges are a personality trait." That earned a soft laugh from both of them. "To each their own," Eliza said with a small nod. She pulled her hand back slowly, though not reluctantly. "So... do you get other creatures in here? Or humans?"

"You're the first human who hasn't run out screaming," Neil started, "or became someone's di—" "Neil," Lucien cut in sharply. "Please. Go back to fogging up my window." He exhaled, then looked at Eliza. "He didn't mean it. Or—" a pause, "—he did, but not the way it sounded." Another pause. "I don't drink from the neck," he added, more quietly. "I take from the wrist. Into a cup. And then I... compel them to forget."

Eliza blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. "That's... honest," she said, a small laugh slipping out. "Really honest. I didn't expect you to just... say that." Lucien's lips curved slightly. "You seem like someone who prefers the truth." He gave a small shrug. "I do too."

"Flirt alert," Neil chimed in brightly. "Adorable. But can I get another coffee, please, Lucie?" "Not if you keep calling me Lucie, Neil."

"Fiiine," Neil groaned. "May I please order another coffee, Lucian?" Lucien glanced at Eliza, a smirk slipping through as he shook his head. "Yeah," he said, turning slightly. "What do you want?"

A few hours later, it was an hour until sunrise. The streets outside had begun to stir, more people passing by, more life creeping back into the world, but none of them ever came in.

Neil had settled down for the night. Not that he had anywhere else to go. The café was where he stayed. Where he would always stay. Eliza stood from her seat, finishing the last sip of her tea. "So," she said, glancing at Lucien, "do vampires ever take nights off?" "Rarely," he replied with a soft chuckle. "Why?"

She shook her head lightly. "Just wondering. I'd hate to come in here and not see you." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Goodnight, Lucien." He held her gaze for a moment longer than usual. "Goodnight, Eliza." A slight pause. "See you tonight?" She nodded. "Of course. But... if you ever do take the night off, let me know." Her smile lingered a second longer. "Bye."

Lucien watched her walk out of the café, the door closing softly behind her. "Bye..." he murmured. There was a moment of silence. "Bye," Neil echoed in a mockingly soft tone. "My little love-struck vampire." He let out a quiet, dramatic sigh. "So sweet."

"I thought you were done for the night," Lucien said, already reaching for a cloth to wipe down the counter. "Me?" Neil scoffed. "I'm never done. I just wait for the right moment." Lucien shook his head, though there was no real annoyance behind it. "She's different, okay? And I don't mean because she's human, I mean—" He trailed off, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. "I can see it on you," Neil said, his tone shifting—still light, but a little more honest now. "She's got a hold on you I've never seen before. Not even with that fairy." A quiet chuckle followed. "But yeah... she is different. Didn't run when I knocked something over. Figured things out before anyone said a word." A pause. "And she keeps coming back. What is this, the seventh night?"

"Eighth," Lucien corrected softly. "It's the eighth night." Neil hummed. "The eighth night..." A beat. "That means something." Lucien's gaze drifted to the door she had just walked through. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It does."

Back at her apartment, Eliza didn't go to bed. Instead, she opened her laptop. And for the first time in her entire writing career, the words came easily. Her fingers moved quickly across the keys, barely keeping up with the thoughts forming in her mind. She paused only once, just long enough to smile.

Then she typed: Steeping Love After Midnight.

Thank you so much for giving my story a read! Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

[spicydelusion]

🜲 Title: The Marquess is a Rake | original short story

🜲 Genre: Historical Romance (Regency/Bridgerton-era) | Slow-Burn Romance | Enemies-to-Lovers Romance | Regency Romance / Historical Fiction Romance

🜲 Word Count: 9.6k

🜲 Main Characters: Mari Rosenly | Lord Cassian Ashford

🜲 Tropes: Reformed Rake | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn / Tension-Filled Courtship | Rake Pursues Guarded Heroine | Virgin Heroine / Experienced Hero | Forced Proximity / Almost Caught Moments (alone on terraces, in alcoves, risking scandal | Protective Family / Brothers as Obstacles | Public Courtship After Private Tension | He Falls First, and harder, – his pursuit becomes obsession; she slowly admits the pull | Opposites Attract

🜲 Content Warnings: Discussions of the hero’s past promiscuity / sexual history | Angst and emotional vulnerability | Mild risk of scandal / reputation damage | Power imbalance themes | Family pressure / disapproval | Potential for mild jealousy/possessiveness from hero during reform arc

🜲 Synopsis: In the glittering ballrooms of Regency London, the infamous Lord Cassian Ashford, Marquess of Beresford, 32, a titled rake known for his effortless charm and trail of broken hearts, sets his sights on the one woman who refuses to fall at his feet. Mari Rosenly. At 26, Mari is sharp-witted, fiercely independent, and deeply distrustful of men like him, preferring her paints, published writings, and solitary life to the marriage mart. When Cassian’s persistent pursuit sparks heated clashes and stolen, scandalously private moments, Mari’s icy defenses begin to crack, revealing a pull she cannot deny. But with her protective brothers watching, her family’s reputation at stake, and Cassian’s notorious past looming like a shadow, he must prove he can forsake his rakish ways for one woman alone. What begins as enmity ignites into an angsty, slow-burning courtship, where every refusal hides longing, every glance risks ruin, and surrender might be the greatest scandal of all.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

Lord Cassian Ashford, Marquess of Beresford. 32.  

He is tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless athleticism that comes from years of boxing, fencing, and riding hard across his estates. Raven-black hair worn slightly longer than strict fashion dictates, always tousled as if he's just come from some private indulgence. Piercing green eyes that seem to see straight through polite facades, framed by dark lashes and a perpetual hint of wicked amusement. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw often shadowed with a day's growth, and a mouth prone to smirking, full lips that promise sin even when he's silent. He dresses impeccably in dark, tailored coats that accentuate his form, favoring deep charcoal and midnight blues that make him look like danger wrapped in elegance. A faint scar runs along his left eyebrow from a youthful duel, adding to his roguish allure. 

He is a rake.  

London's most dangerously charming rake, that is. 

Cassian has left a trail of broken hearts and whispered scandals across the ton. He's witty, effortlessly seductive, and never without a quip or a knowing glance that makes debutantes blush and matrons fan themselves. He dances attendance on beauties at every ball, but never commits, marriage is a trap he's studiously avoided. Beneath the polished exterior lies a man haunted by family tragedy, one he makes sure no one has any knowledge on, making him cynical about love and convinced that passion is fleeting.  

He pursues pleasure to drown out deeper restlessness, earning his 'rake' title through countless liaisons, yet he's never cruel, only careless.  

When challenged, his temper flares hot and sharp. He gives as good as he gets in verbal sparring, and he finds sharp-tongued defiance far more intoxicating than simpering compliance. 

It is at a ball, hosted by the family of a newly debuted young lady, that his attention is first captured by Miss Mari Rosenly. 

She is not tall, standing at perhaps five-and-three inches, yet there is nothing small about her presence. Her chestnut hair, when left unpinned, falls in a soft cascade just past the middle of her back, and her eyes, an arresting shade of storm-blue, hold a depth that is difficult to look away from once noticed. Society, in all its predictability, has already marked her as the very picture of a "perfect" bride, well-formed for childbearing, as the more vulgar whispers would have it. A notion she openly disdains. Miss Rosenly is known to meet such commentary with a sharp tongue, quick to remind any who dare suggest it that a woman's worth extends far beyond the breadth of her hips. 

She is, instead, recognized for her mind. A painter. A writer, published, no less. A woman who does not simply accept the world as it is handed to her, but questions it, reshapes it, challenges it. She is sharp, quick-witted, and often keeps to her own company, as though the trivialities of society fail to hold her interest for long. 

And it is precisely for these reasons, Lord Cassian Ashford, cannot look away. 

The ballroom at Lady Harrington's grand estate glittered under a thousand candles, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the low thrum of violins. Lord Cassian stood at the center of a small admiring circle, three debutantes in pastel silks and one widowed countess whose fan moved far too slowly to be innocent.  

Their giggles rose and fell like practiced notes. He answered with the easy, devastating smile that had ruined reputations and reputations alike. 

Yet his gaze had already wandered, not a surprise to most.  

Across the room, near the tall French doors that opened onto the moonlit terrace, stood Mari Rosenly. She looked like a storm cloud in a sea of confectionery gowns. Dark emerald silk hugging her curves, the corset cinching her waist with quiet defiance.  

Her fan moved lazily, but her eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd with the bored precision of someone who had already judged every soul present and found them wanting. When those eyes flicked toward him, one dark brow arched in unmistakable disdain before she turned and drifted toward the open doors. 

Cassian felt the pull, like a hook behind his ribs. 

He murmured something charming and vague to the countess, enough to make her flutter, and excused himself with a bow that promised he would return — he wouldn't. The crowd parted for him without thought, and he moved through it like water finding the lowest path. 

By the time he reached the terrace doors, the night air had already claimed her. She stood just beyond the threshold, half in shadow, the cool breeze lifting strands of her hair not pinned with pearls. The ballroom's glow framed her silhouette, accentuating the hourglass line of her body against the darkness outside. 

He stopped a careful three paces away, yet close enough to speak, far enough that propriety could still pretend to hold, "Miss Rosenly." He said, voice low and velvet-edged, carrying just enough amusement to irritate, "You flee the festivities so soon? I had hoped to claim at least one dance before you declared the entire evening beneath you." 

She glances at him, eyes flicking over his stance, waiting for a polite bow that never comes. She raised her brows, lips staying together.  

She knows who he is.  

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes tracing the line of her profile with deliberate slowness, "Or is it only certain company you find intolerable?" 

She continues to stay quiet, just for another moment, then she sighs softly, "Did you find yourself rather bored with the four who were throwing themselves at you?" She tilts her head ever so slightly, "They made it all quite easy for you, did they not... or do you prefer a challenge?" 

Cassian's lips curved, not quite a smile, more a slow, predatory acknowledgment of the barb. He straightened just enough to close half the distance between them, though he still kept to the edge of propriety. The night air carried the faint scent of roses from the gardens beyond and the warmer spice of his cologne. 

"Easy is forgettable, Miss Rosenly." He replied, voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to her, "And I have never been accused of lacking appetite for difficulty." 

"So I have heard." She replies, glancing out at the moonlit garden as her fan resumes its gentle, unhurried rhythm. 

His eyes held onto her without flinching, tracing the faint challenge in the tilt of her head, the way her fan resumed in her hand as though she refused to give him even the small victory of nervous movement. 

He took one measured step closer, still respectable, still scandalously near for two people who were supposed to be strangers in all but name. 

She glanced at him, noting how close he was standing, but she still stays put, still doesn't give him the satisfaction he's clearly searching for.  

"You mistake boredom for indifference." He continued, softer now, the amusement edged with something darker, "Those ladies offer compliments the way shopkeepers offer wares, predictable, polite, and entirely without bite. You, however..." His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of her mouth, then returned to her eyes,"You wield silence like a blade. It's far more interesting." 

Her brows raise slowly as she inclines her head, "Mm."  

A beat of quiet stretched between them, thick with the distant swell of the orchestra and the unspoken question hanging in the air — how far would she let this game go before she cut him down entirely? 

He inclined his head, the barest mockery of a bow this time, "So tell me truthfully, am I wasting my breath, or have I finally found a partner worthy of the dance?" 

Her lips twitch, threatening a smirk of mild amusement,"I do not make a habit of associating with men who have the title of rake so conveniently attached to their own, regardless of rank."  

"Oh?" His lips twitch, wanting to smirk at how honest she really is, but he bites it back when he hears that small inhale as she steps closer, continuing, "If I am to be entirely honest, and I am, you are wasting your breath where I am concerned. I will not be another name added to your list of conquests, or a passing distraction to keep you from facing the realities of the world."  

His eyes never leave her face, jaw tensing as she offers him a polite, almost dismissive nod, "Enjoy your evening, my lord."  

With that, she steps around him, and makes her way back into the ballroom. The terrace doors seemed to narrow as Mari stepped past him, her emerald skirts brushing the barest whisper against his leg, enough to send a flicker of heat through the cool night air between them.  

Cassian did not move to stop her, though every instinct urged him to reach out, to catch her wrist or block her path with nothing more than the breadth of his shoulders. Instead, he let her go, turning slowly to watch the line of her back as she reentered the ballroom's golden glow.  

Her words lingered like smoke, sharp, deliberate, and far more cutting for how calmly they had been delivered.  

Not another name on your list. The dismissal stung more than he cared to admit, pricking at the carefully cultivated indifference he wore like armor. 

For a long moment he remained where she had left him, one hand braced against the doorframe, green eyes narrowed on the crowd that had already swallowed her up. The music swelled, couples swirled past in a kaleidoscope of silk and candlelight. Somewhere in the throng, she would be returning to her family's watchful circle, her protective brothers, her favored younger sister, the mother who no doubt despaired of her eldest daughter's stubborn solitude. 

Cassian exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement or irritation, perhaps both.  

She thought him shallow, predictable. A rake chasing skirts because he had nothing deeper to pursue. Perhaps she was half right. But she was wrong about one thing, he did not collect conquests so much as he collected moments, fleeting, bright, and gone before they could demand anything lasting of him. 

And she had just handed him the most intriguing one yet. 

He straightened his cuffs with deliberate care, then stepped back into the ballroom. The admiring circle he had abandoned earlier had already reformed around someone new. He paid them no mind. His gaze found her almost at once, standing near the edge of the dance floor now, fan once more in lazy motion, expression schooled into perfect, polite boredom. 

He did not approach. Not yet. 

Instead he drifted to the opposite side of the room, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman without ever taking his eyes from her. Let her think the encounter was over. Let her believe she had won the round with a few well-placed barbs and a graceful exit. 

Cassian raised the glass to his lips, the faintest smirk curling as he watched her over the rim. 

The night was young. 

And he had never been one to walk away from a challenge worth winning. 

Mari now stands beside one of her oldest friends, Deandra — tall, golden-haired, and forever too perceptive. The ballroom pulsed around them, a glittering cage of silk and laughter, but Mari felt the weight of unseen eyes even as she spoke. 

She inquired about what transpired on the terrace, and Mari gives a small shake of her head, "Nothing worth mentioning. I merely called a rake what he is, a rake... and I do not believe he appreciated it."  

Deandra leaned in slightly, her fan half-hiding the knowing curve of her mouth, "A rake indeed." She murmured, her voice laced with amusement, "Though from the way Lord Beresford has scarcely looked away from this corner since you returned, I'd wager he appreciated your honesty more than you think." 

Mari's gaze flicked involuntarily across the room, and there he stood, half-turned toward a cluster of gentlemen, yet clearly detached from their conversation.  

His champagne glass dangled forgotten in long fingers, his attention was fixed on her with the steady, unblinking focus of a predator deciding whether the prey was worth the chase.  

When their eyes met, he did not smile. He simply held her stare, blue storm meeting green heat, long enough that the air between them seemed to tighten, even across twenty paces of crowded parquet. 

Then, deliberately, he lifted the glass in the faintest salute, a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone else. But not by her. The corner of his mouth quirked, not in mockery this time, but in something darker, more patient.  

A promise. 

Mari's eyes narrowed, a slow inhale being pulled through her nose. Deandra's soft laugh pulled her attention back, "You've pricked his pride, darling." She said, nudging Mari's arm lightly, "Men like him are accustomed to surrender, not resistance. Be careful. He looks like the sort who enjoys the hunt far more than the kill." 

Mari doesn't say anything, her eyes flick back to him and then she turns her body towards Deandra, hoping if she ignores him, he'll dissolve on his own.  

But that was not the case at all.  

Across the floor, Cassian set his glass aside on a passing tray. He murmured something to the gentlemen beside him, then began to move, not directly toward her, but in a slow, meandering path that would inevitably bring him nearer. The crowd parted for him without realizing they had done so, like they've been doing all night.  

Mari felt the first stir of something unwelcome beneath her ribs, not fear, not quite anger. Anticipation, perhaps? Or the sharp edge of a challenge she had not meant to issue. 

He was coming closer. 

"Is he coming this way?" She ask Deandra under her breath, "That look in your eye suggests he is. Why can he not simply take a hint?" She inhales, attempting to steady my growing irritation, "I refused him once. If this is to become a recurring nuisance, I swear to the gods above..." 

Deandra's fan snapped open with a soft click, shielding her mouth as she leaned closer to Mari, her voice a conspiratorial murmur beneath the swell of the orchestra, "He most certainly is, darling." She whispered, eyes gleaming with barely contained delight, "And with that particular stride, like a wolf who has scented something far more interesting than the sheep he usually chases. You've wounded his vanity, and now he means to make you pay for it... or reward you. With men like Beresford, it's always a fine line." 

Mari's fingers tightened around her own fan, the ivory sticks pressing into her palm as she forced her breathing to even.  

Across the ballroom, Cassian moved with predatory grace, no longer pretending to be distracted by the gentlemen or the passing debutantes. His path carved a deliberate arc through the crowd, never hurried, never obvious, yet closing the distance with inexorable certainty.  

Every few steps, a lady would turn hopeful eyes toward him, only for him to offer the barest nod before continuing on.  

His gaze never left her corner. 

Deandra gave a tiny, delighted shiver, "Oh, he's not taking the hint because you have made it a gauntlet, not a door politely closed. Look at him." She juts her chin subtly, "He's enjoying this far too much." 

Mari groans lowly, so low if her friend wasn't as close as she was, she wouldn't have heard it.  

Cassian reached the edge of their small circle at last. He stopped just outside the intimate radius of family and friends, close enough that the heat of him seemed to cut through the cool draft from the open windows.  

He inclined his head to Deandra first, polite, perfunctory—before his eyes settled fully on Mari, "Miss Rosenly." He said, voice smooth as dark velvet, carrying just enough warmth to make the words feel intimate despite the public setting, "I find myself in need of air once more. The ballroom grows... stifling."  

"That tends to happen in ballrooms with no airflow and ladies layering on far too much perfume," Mari says dryly, and that pulls a faint, knowing smile to his lips, "Perhaps you would care to join me on the terrace again? I promise not to bore you with idle flattery this time." 

His tone was light, almost teasing, but the look in his eyes was anything but. It was patient. Relentless.  

A silent dare, Refuse me again. See what happens next. 

Deandra's fan fluttered faster, hiding what was surely a grin. Mari's chest rose and fell slowly, taking in the act of him attempting once more, which she should not be surprised by.  

The music shifted into a waltz, couples beginning to pair off around them, and the air between Mari and Cassian seemed to thicken with the unspoken tension of everyone nearby pretending not to notice the marquess standing far too close to the Rosenly wallflower who had just publicly dismissed him. 

She straightened subtly, the movement small but unmistakable, a quiet assertion of control even as the waltz music swirled around them. Her tone remained dry, edged with that familiar bite, "If I say no, how long will it be before you inevitably try again, my lord?" 

Cassian's gaze did not waver. If anything, the question seemed to please him, the faint curve of his mouth deepening into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.  

He took the smallest step forward, just enough that the space between them felt charged, intimate, though no one watching would call it improper, "An excellent question, Miss Rosenly." He replied, voice low and unhurried, meant for her ears alone, "The honest answer? Not long." 

He let the words settle, let the orchestra's strings fill the brief silence that followed. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her chin, before returning to meet her silent stare, "I am not accustomed to surrender." He continued, softer now, almost confiding.  

"Clearly." She states, but he did not waiver, "And you..." A brief pause, as though he were choosing his next words with unusual care, "You do not make surrender easy. That alone guarantees I shall return, tomorrow, the day after, at the next ball, the next musicale, wherever the ton conspires to place us in the same room." 

Her brows shot up, even thought his tone carried no threat, only a quiet certainty that bordered on inevitability. Yet there was something else beneath it, a flicker of frustration, perhaps even respect, that he could not quite mask. 

"Say no tonight if it pleases you." He murmured, "I will bow, retreat, and allow you the victory of the evening. But know this—" He leaned in the barest fraction, close enough that she could catch the warm spice of his cologne again. "—I do not chase what bores me. And you, Mari Rosenly, are anything but boring." 

Her breath defied her, hitching softly in her throat as he straightened, offering her the shallowest, most elegant bow, perfectly correct, perfectly infuriating. When he rose, his eyes held hers one last moment longer, a silent promise wrapped in challenge, "Until the next inevitable encounter, then." 

With that, he turned smoothly on his heel and melted back into the crowd, leaving the faint echo of his words hanging between them like smoke.  

Deandra's fan had gone still; she stared after him with wide eyes before turning to Paige, barely containing her glee, "Well..." She whispered, voice trembling with suppressed laughter, "That was... decisive. Darling, I do believe you've just made yourself the most dangerous sport in London." 

Mari scoffs softly, "Do not say that. I have no desire to be regarded as sport. Though, I cannot decide which is worse, being looked upon as if we are livestock, or being pursued by a rake who cannot take a simple hint."  

Deandra's eyes sparkled with mischief as she lowered her fan just enough to speak without being overheard, "Livestock or sport? Darling, with Beresford staring daggers across the room, I'd say you've graduated to something far more perilous, obsession." 

Mari tapped her fan against her forehead with a sigh, mumbling to herself under her breath.  

Deandra pressed her lips together to stifle another laugh, but her gaze darted once more toward the far side of the ballroom. Cassian had not retreated far. He stood now near a marble pillar, conversing with an elderly viscount, yet his posture betrayed him, shoulders angled toward their corner, head tilted as though every word the old man uttered was merely background noise to the true conversation he wished to have. When the viscount finally turned away, Cassian's eyes found Mari again, steady and unapologetic. 

He did not approach this time. 

Instead, he lifted two fingers in the barest salute, acknowledgment, not mockery, before turning toward the card room doors. The movement was deliberate, almost theatrical.  

A tactical withdrawal that promised return. Several heads turned to watch him go, and of course, whispers followed like ripples across a pond. 

Deandra exhaled dramatically, "There. He's given you a reprieve, for the moment, maybe. But mark my words, Mari, that man does not surrender the field so easily. He's merely regrouping." 

"That is what I am afraid of." Mari says lowly, her words nearly drowned out by the orchestra striking up a lively quadrille, and the dance floor filled once more.  

Mari's younger sister, fresh-faced and eager, twirled past on the arm of a pleasant but unremarkable baron's son, casting a curious glance toward her elder sister and Deandra as though sensing the undercurrent of tension. 

Deandra nudged Mari lightly, "Come. Dance with someone harmless before your brothers start interrogating us both. Or better yet, let us find the refreshment table and plot your next devastating set-down. Because if I know anything about Lord Cassian Ashford, he will be back before the supper interval, and this time he may not be so gallantly restrained." 

Across the room, just before he disappeared through the card-room doors, Cassian paused. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking her out one last time. When their eyes met again, he offered the ghost of a smile, small, private, and entirely too knowing. 

Then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the adjoining rooms. 

But the promise lingered in the air between them, sharp as a drawn blade, this was far from over. 

"I do not—" Mari cuts herself off, giving a small shake of her head, "No, forget it." She inhales, then gestures with her fan toward the refreshment table, "Do move along." 

Deandra paused mid-breath, her fan stilling as she studied Mari's face, the abrupt cut-off, the quick shake of the head, the sudden shift to dismissal. For once, the irrepressible blonde held her tongue instead of pressing.  

She gave a small, understanding nod, then tucked her arm through Mari's with gentle insistence. 

"As you wish." Deandra murmured, voice softer now, devoid of its earlier teasing lilt, "Refreshment table it is. Perhaps a glass of lemonade will cool that flush on your cheeks... or at least give us an excuse to escape the prying eyes." 

Mari rolled her eyes as she let her friend guide her away from the pillar where Cassian had last stood, weaving them through the edges of the dancing crowd toward the long table laden with crystal bowls, delicate pastries, and pitchers sweating with chilled punch. The movement drew a few curious glances, mostly from matrons who had noticed the marquess's unusual attention, but no one dared approach.  

Not yet. 

As they reached the table, Deandra busied herself taking two glasses from the footman, handing one to Mari without comment. The liquid was tart and cold, a small mercy against the ballroom's heat. 

Deandra sipped, then spoke quietly, eyes on the glass rather than her friend, "You needn't finish that sentence if it stings to say aloud. But if it ever does, if you want to tell me what 'I do not' was about, I am here. No judgment. No gossip. Just ears." 

Mari nods, taking a sip of her lemonade, "That has a high likelihood of falling into the maybe column."  

She glanced sidelong at Mari, offering the faintest, most genuine of smiles, "And in the meantime, we shall fortify ourselves with sweets and pretend the rest of the ton does not exist. Deal?" 

Mari nods, already plucking a macaron from the tray, "Yes ma'am."  

From the card-room doors, Cassian had not reemerged. Yet the weight of his absence felt heavier than his presence ever had, as though the space he left behind was still watching, still waiting. 

The quadrille ended. A new set began to form.  

Somewhere in the throng, Mari's younger sister laughed brightly, carefree and untouched by whatever storm brewed at the edges of the room. 

Deandra nudged Mari's elbow lightly, "One more thing before we hide behind the potted palms... if he dares show his face at the supper dance, promise me you'll let me watch you cut him down again. It was positively delicious the first time." 

Her tone was light, but her eyes were kind, giving Mari the room to breathe, to decide, to say nothing at all if that was what she needed most. 

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ 

The week that followed passed in a haze of deliberate avoidance and unavoidable encounters.  

In Grosvenor Gardens, Cassian appeared twice, once on horseback along the wide promenade known as Willow Walk, tipping his hat with that infuriating half-smile as he murmured, "A morning ride suits you far better than a stuffy ballroom, Miss Rosenly. Care to join me?" She had turned her mare away without a word, though her pulse had betrayed her with an unsteady gallop of its own.  

At Lady Wentworth's intimate musicale in her Mayfair drawing room and the Haverfords' twilight garden soirée in their Belgrave Square townhouse, he found her again, each time with a new, carefully worded invitation to walk, to talk, to dance, "One turn about the garden." He'd said at the soirée, voice low against the strains of a distant harp, "And I shall cease pestering you for the evening." Each refusal came sharper from her lips, "No, my lord, I find your company unnecessary."  

Yet, each one tugged at something deep and unfamiliar inside her chest, a pull that felt less like irritation and more like confusion, like the first crack in ice she had long thought unbreakable. 

Now, another grand ball unfolded at the Duke of Ashbourne's residence in St. James's Square, the chandeliers blazing brighter than memory, the air thick with anticipation. Mari stood near a gilded column, her dark sapphire gown catching the light as she scanned the room with practiced detachment.  

Across the sea of dancers, Cassian's gaze found hers almost at once, steady, patient, and unmistakably intent. 

He crossed the floor without haste, stopping just close enough that the warmth of him cut through the cool draft from the open windows, "Miss Rosenly." He said, the words carrying the faintest trace of weariness beneath their velvet polish, "Seven days, four refusals, and yet here we are again. One might think the ton conspires to torment us both." 

She met his eyes, chin lifted, though the strange ache in her chest had returned, sharper now, "Or one might think you simply refuse to accept defeat, my lord." Her voice is quieter than she intended, "Some battles are not worth winning." 

His mouth curved, not quite a smile, something softer, almost rueful, "Perhaps." He murmured, stepping a fraction closer, "But I have never been very good at knowing when to quit." 

Mari kept her gaze fixed upon the swirling crowd, scanning the dancers and clusters of gossiping matrons with deliberate idleness, as though the man beside her were no more consequential than a passing footman, "I do not understand why you fail to comprehend my refusal." She said, her voice cool and measured, "I believe I made myself quite clear, did I not?" 

Cassian remained where he stood, close enough that the faint warmth of him brushed against the cool air between them, yet never so near as to invite scandal.  

He tilted his head slightly, studying the sharp line of her profile, the way the candlelight caught the sapphire silk at her shoulder, the stubborn set of her jaw, "You were crystalline, Miss Rosenly." He replied, the words low and unhurried, carrying that same velvet edge that had begun to feel dangerously familiar, "Each refusal sharper than the last. I heard every syllable." 

"Did you? Because from where I am stood, it seems you did not."  

He didn't respond, he let the music fill the space his silence left behind, a slow, aching waltz that seemed to mock the tension coiling tighter with every breath. 

"And yet..." He finally continued, softer now, almost confiding, "Clarity does not always mean finality. You say no with the conviction of someone who has convinced herself it is the only answer worth giving. But your eyes..." His gaze flicked to hers when she finally turned her head, just enough to meet it, "They tell a different story. They linger. They question. They burn." 

Her eyes narrow slightly, and she slowly turns slightly towards him, "They do not."  

He did not smile this time, the expression that touched his mouth was something quieter, more serious, almost weary, as though the game had begun to cost him more than he had anticipated, "I am not here to force your hand." He murmured, "I am here because every time you send me away, I find myself wondering what it would take to make you say yes. Not out of duty, not out of flattery. Just... yes." 

"You truly do not get it, do you?" She asks lowly, the waltz reached its final, lingering note. Couples began to drift apart, the floor emptying in slow waves, "You-"  

Somewhere nearby, a matron's fan snapped shut with pointed disapproval, which made her stop, but Cassian paid it no mind. His attention remained locked on Mari, patient and unyielding, "Tell me to leave." He said quietly, "Truly leave, not retreat for the evening, not regroup for tomorrow. Tell me you wish never to see my face again, and I will go. I will vanish from every ballroom, every garden, every promenade where you might be. No more pursuit. No more questions." 

Mari doesn't say anything, but her eyes remain on him.  

Torn. She knows what he is, how many women he's potentially been with, how capable he is of hurting her, and yet, she cannot speak those words for the life of her.  

He waited, eyes steady on hers, the faintest crack of vulnerability showing beneath the polished surface, "But if you cannot say those words, if some part of you hesitates, then perhaps we are both fools standing on the same unsteady ground." 

The orchestra struck the opening chords of the next dance. The crowd shifted, expectant. Cassian made no move to claim her hand. 

He simply waited, for the cut, for the dismissal, or, against all odds, for something else entirely. 

Mari's breath grew heavier, slow still, but heavier, as though the words themselves weighed more than she had anticipated. "This is not a conversation we should have with curious eyes and ears." 

Cassian's gaze never left her face. He studied the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her fingers had tightened around the edge of her fan until the ivory creaked. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting the orchestra's lively reel fill the charged silence between them. 

Then, quietly, he inclined his head toward the shadowed alcove half-hidden by heavy velvet drapes at the far end of the ballroom, barely ten paces away, concealed enough for discretion, yet not so secluded as to scream scandal, "Somewhere quieter, then." He murmured, voice pitched for her alone, "No locked doors. No closed rooms. Just enough distance from prying tongues that we might finish this without an audience." 

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unyielding. "No." 

The single word cut through the air like a blade. She glanced at him, really looked, blue eyes flashing with something raw beneath the cool composure she wore so well, "Do you know what it would do if I am caught, alone, with someone like you?" 

Cassian exhaled once, a sound that might have been frustration or resignation or both. He did not step closer, if anything, he eased back the barest inch, giving her the space her words demanded even as his presence still filled it, "I know precisely what it would do." He replied, low and steady, no trace of mockery now, "Your name whispered behind fans for weeks. Your mother's disappointment carved deeper. Your brothers sharpening their blades, figuratively, I hope. Whispers of 'the Rosenly girl and the Beresford rake' trailing you like smoke until the next scandal mercifully eclipses it. And you..." His gaze softened, just fractionally, "You would bear the brunt of it, while I would be congratulated for my conquest and quietly forgiven by morning."  

"Astounding differences between a man and a woman, yes?" She spoke dryly, scoffing as she looked away from him.  

He paused, letting the truth of it settle between them like frost, "I am not asking you to risk that." He said quietly, "I am asking you to tell me, here, now, with every eye in this room still able to see us, whether there is any part of you that wishes I would stop trying. Because if there is, say it plainly. I will bow, walk away, and make certain our paths never cross again by accident or design." 

The reel ended. Applause rippled through the room. Couples separated, laughter rising anew. 

Cassian remained perfectly still, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the picture of restrained elegance. But his eyes held hers with an intensity that made the rest of the ballroom fade to distant noise. 

"Tell me to go, Mari." He said, softer than before, her given name slipping out unguarded for the first time, "Or tell me why you haven't already." 

Mari blinked once, the motion slow and deliberate, as though steadying herself against the tide of her own words. Her voice lowered, barely carrying over the opening strains of the country dance, "You are labeled a rake, my lord. Rakes are men with enough wealth and standing to gamble, to drink, to do precisely as they please without consequence, because they simply do not care, and their title shields them from it." 

Her gaze hardened slightly, blue eyes turning to steel beneath the chandelier light, "They pass through women as though they are disposable. And I will tell you plainly, I am not." She straightened, shoulders squaring as though the confession cost her something vital. Her voice broke on the final words, soft and raw, like it almost hurt her to speak them aloud, "I am not a woman willing to risk her heart on a man who cannot content himself with one." 

The music swelled around them, couples forming lines on the floor, laughter and chatter rising in cheerful counterpoint to the sudden, aching quiet that fell between them.  

Cassian stood motionless, the easy charm stripped from his expression. For the first time since their first meeting on Lady Harrington's terrace, he looked, unguarded. The bright green in his eyes that had always held a glint of amusement or challenge now reflected something closer to pain, brief, fleeting, but unmistakable. 

He drew a slow breath, as though the air itself had grown heavier, "You are right.” He said quietly, the words measured, stripped of their usual velvet polish.  

"Do not tell me-"  

He tilts his head, speaking over her like she needs to hear it, "I have lived precisely as you describe. I have taken what was offered, given nothing lasting in return, and told myself it was freedom. The ton forgives a man his excesses so long as he smiles while committing them. I have never pretended otherwise." 

He took half a step back, not retreat, but for space, giving her room to breathe, to strike again if she wished.  

His hands remained at his sides, fingers flexing once as though resisting the urge to reach for her, "But hear this, Mari." He continued, voice low and rough-edged now, her name again slipping free like something he could no longer contain, "I have never stood before a woman and asked her to believe me capable of more. Not once. Because until you, I did not believe it myself." 

"How can I believe that?"  

His gaze held hers, unflinching, though the faintest tremor ran beneath the surface, vulnerability he had spent years burying beneath smirks and scandal, "I do not ask you to trust me tonight. I do not ask you to risk anything at all. I ask only that you see this truth, for the first time in longer than I care to count, I want to be the man who could content himself with one. With you." 

A beat of silence stretched taut between them. The dancers spun past in bright circles, somewhere nearby, a matron's fan fluttered with pointed curiosity.  

Cassian ignored it all, "If those words mean nothing to you, if they are only another rake's pretty lie, then tell me now. Send me away for good, and I swear on what little honor I possess that I will go. No more pursuits. No more stolen glances across ballrooms. You will be free of me." 

He waited, chest rising and falling a fraction too quickly, the polished mask cracked open just enough to reveal the man beneath, "But if even a part of you wonders, if that ache you feel when you turn me away is not only anger, then let me prove it. Not with grand gestures or promises I cannot yet keep. With time. With patience. With showing you, day by day, that I am capable of choosing one woman and meaning it."  

Her eyes hold on his, his searched hers, raw and steady, "Say the word, and I am gone. Or... give me the smallest chance to show you I am listening." 

Her eyes remained locked on his, blue and unblinking, until the weight of her own question forced the words out, "You... you have been with countless women. How—" Her voice cracked, raw and thin. She closed her eyes, turning her head sharply to the side as though the admission itself burned. A slow, steadying breath lifted her chest, when she looked back at him, her composure had returned, fragile but intact, "You have been with God knows how many women, experienced women. I have not even allowed a man to kiss me. How am I to know that you will not grow impatient with me, or grow bored of me?" 

The confession hung between them like smoke, quiet, devastating, and utterly unguarded for the first time.  

Cassian felt it strike somewhere deep, a blow he had not braced for. His throat worked once, the polished mask slipping further.  

For several long seconds he said nothing, letting the country dance's cheerful rhythm mock the stillness that had fallen over them. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rougher than before, stripped of every trace of flirtation or challenge, "Because I have never stood before a woman and felt this particular fear." He said quietly, "Fear that I might ruin something rare simply by touching it. Fear that my past, every careless night, every fleeting face, might poison the one thing I suddenly want to protect more than I want to possess." 

He took the smallest step closer, not to crowd her, but to make certain no stray ear could catch the words meant only for her, "I have chased sensation." He continued, eyes never leaving hers, "I have collected moments because they were easy, because they asked nothing of me beyond the night. But you..." His gaze traced the line of her cheek, the stubborn curve of her mouth, the faint tremble she could not quite hide, "You ask everything. And that terrifies me more than any scandal ever could." 

"I do not wish to settle." She states lowly with a small shake of her head, "I will not."  

A muscle flexed along his jaw, "I cannot erase what I have been. I will not insult you with lies that I was waiting chastely for the right woman, or that my history means nothing. It means something- it means I know precisely how hollow those nights were. How forgettable. How utterly unlike this." 

She swallowed, lips staying pressed together.  

He exhaled, slow and controlled, as though steadying himself now, "You have never been kissed. That is not a flaw, Mari. It is a gift no one has yet earned. And if.. if, you ever allow me near enough to try, I would not treat it as another conquest. I would treat it as the beginning of something I have never had the courage to want before. Permanence. Patience. Learning you, slowly, without rushing, without demanding more than you choose to give." 

His voice dropped to a near-whisper, raw with something he had never allowed himself to feel aloud, "I cannot promise I will never falter. But I can promise this... I will not grow bored of you. Because boredom requires indifference, and I have been anything but indifferent since the moment you looked at me like I was beneath your notice. You challenge me. You anger me. You make me question every choice I have ever made that led me here, standing before you, asking for a chance I know I do not deserve." 

He paused, searching her face, "If that is not enough, if the shadow of my past is too long, too dark, then tell me. I will walk away tonight and carry the regret alone. But if there is even the smallest part of you that believes a man can change, not for the ton, not for propriety, but because one woman has made him want to be better... then let me prove it. One step. One day. One moment at a time." 

The music slowed toward its final bars. Couples began to drift from the floor, laughter rising anew. 

Cassian made no move to touch her, no move to claim her hand or press his advantage. He simply stood there, tall, shadowed, and for once utterly without artifice, waiting for the verdict she alone could deliver. 

Mari’s eyes flicked between his, searching the green depths as though they might betray him before his words could. The debate played out across her face, push further, or let the fragile thread between them snap under its own weight.  

Reluctantly, she asked, voice barely above the fading notes of the dance, "My brother saw you the other night, after the musicale. He said you were leaving with a dark-haired woman in a maroon dress, said he has seen you with her before." She paused, searching his face with an intensity that made the ballroom feel suddenly too small. Her voice went quieter, almost a whisper, "Did you take her to bed that night?" 

Cassian did not flinch.  

He did not look away.  

But something shifted in the set of his jaw, the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth, like a man bracing for a blow he had known was coming. 

For several long seconds he said nothing, letting the question settle between them like lead. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of every ounce of its usual velvet charm. 

"Yes." 

The single word landed like a stone in still water.  

No hesitation. No evasion. Just the truth, plain and brutal. He watched her face as it registered, watched the flicker of hurt, the quick hardening that followed, the way her breath caught and held. He did not try to soften it with excuses or pretty lies, "Not that night, but I have prior... That night, I walked her to her carriage." He continued quietly, eyes never leaving hers, "She is a widow of long acquaintance, someone who has never asked for more than an evening's distraction, and whom I have never pretended to offer more. We spoke in the street for a moment. Then I sent her home alone. I returned to my own house. Alone." 

He drew a slow breath, as though the admission cost him more than he had anticipated, "I will not lie to you, Mari. Not now. Not when you have finally asked something real. That night I did not take her, or anyone, to bed. But as I have stated, I have done so in the past. With her. With others. I have lived exactly the life you accused me of living, and I will carry that until the day I die." 

Mari's jaw clenches once, she looks down, eyes closing for a mere second before her head lifts again.  

His hands flexed at his sides, the only outward sign of the tension coiling through him, "But since the night you first looked at me with that cool disdain on Lady Harrington's terrace, I have not touched another woman. Not once. Not her. Not anyone. I told myself it was pride at first, refusing to prove you right. Then it became something else. Something I could not ignore." 

He stepped the smallest fraction closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper meant only for her, "I am not asking you to forgive what I was. I am asking you to see what I have not done since I met you. If that is still not enough, if the truth of one night three weeks ago outweighs every night I have spent alone since, then tell me. I will accept it. I will go." 

She swallows, "It is not.. I-" She cuts herself off, eyes growing glossy with emotion she's not exactly used to feeling.  

His gaze held hers, raw and steady, the storm in his eyes no longer hidden behind amusement or challenge, "If you want more than my word, if you need proof beyond what I can give in a crowded ballroom, then ask me anything. Demand anything. I will answer. I will show you. Because I am done pretending this is a game I can walk away from." 

The orchestra struck up the supper dance. Couples began to pair off, the room shifting around them like a tide. Cassian made no move to claim her hand. He simply waited, exposed, patient, and for the first time utterly without armor, while the weight of her next words decided everything. 

Mari's voice faltered, the words tumbling out in fragments as though each one cost her more composure, "I do not know what to ask—or how to—" She stopped, shaking her head, hair shifting against the sapphire silk of her gown, "I have never felt a pull toward someone like this." She drew in a breath, trying to steady herself, "But I am fiercely loyal to my family. I do not wish to bring scandal upon their name, especially if I am to take yours. I just..." She hesitated, searching for the right words, blue eyes flickering with something raw and unguarded, "Tell me something, anything, you have never said or felt before, because I—" She inhaled shakily, "I feel as though my head is spinning." 

Cassian stood utterly still, the noise of the ballroom, the laughter, the clink of glasses, the lilting strains of the supper dance, fading to a dull roar in his ears. Her admission struck him harder than any refusal ever had.  

Not anger. Not disdain. Something far more dangerous, vulnerability. From her. 

He swallowed once, the sound audible only to himself.  

When he spoke, his voice was quieter than it had ever been in her presence, low, rough, almost reverent, "I have never been afraid of losing before." He said, the confession slipping free like a secret he had kept locked behind every smirk, every careless night, "Not truly. I have lost fortunes at cards, duels, reputations, none of it ever kept me awake. I told myself nothing mattered enough to fear its absence. Until you." 

"Me?" She questions, like she still cannot believe this is even happening.  

His gaze held hers, stripped bare, no trace of the rake's practiced charm left to hide behind, "I lie awake thinking of your refusals, not because they wound my pride, but because each one reminds me how easily I could lose the one thing I suddenly cannot imagine living without. I have never felt this... ache. This certainty that if you walk away tonight, if you choose safety and family and the quiet life you have always guarded, I will spend the rest of my days wondering what it would have been like to be the man worthy of your yes." 

Her breath hitches, and if feels like her knees are about to give out as those words slammed into her.  

He drew a slow, unsteady breath, the first time she had ever seen his composure truly fracture, "I have never wanted to be better for anyone. Not my father, not my title, not the ton's good opinion. But for you... I want to be the man who deserves to stand beside you at supper, at dawn, at every quiet moment no one else will ever see. I want to learn how to wait. How to listen. How to prove, not with grand declarations, but with every small, unglamorous choice that says I choose you. Only you." 

"Only me?"  

His hands remained at his sides, fingers curling once as though fighting the urge to reach for her. But he nods, "I do not ask you to decide tonight. I do not ask you to risk scandal or your family's name. I ask only that you let me stay near enough, properly, publicly, patiently, to show you I mean every word. Let me court you the way you deserve, slowly, honorably, without pressure. Let me earn the right to be the man who never makes you question whether you are enough." 

The music swelled to its close. Couples began drifting toward the supper rooms, the crowd thinning around them, yet neither moved. 

Cassian's voice dropped to the barest whisper, meant only for her, "If my head is spinning too, Mari, it is because I have finally found something, someone, worth being terrified of losing. And I will wait as long as it takes for you to decide whether I am worth the risk." 

He offered no bow, no flourish. He simply stood there, tall, shadowed, and heartbreakingly honest, waiting for whatever she would give him next, another refusal, a fragile opening, or silence that might mean everything. 

She inhaled slowly, blinking away the gloss that had gathered in her eyes. She nodded once, the motion small but resolute. Her voice was barely there, fragile as spun glass, "Okay." 

His eyes widened a little bit, but he doesn't rush her. He lets her explain what that okay means.  

She draws another breath as though testing the weight of the word she had just given him, "Okay. If you wish to prove that you can court someone properly, then court only me. See only me. One woman, no others." 

Her gaze steadied, locking onto his with a clarity that cut through the lingering haze of emotion, "No more of that rake debauchery." 

The supper dance had ended, the room was emptying toward the long tables set with silver and crystal, yet Cassian felt the world narrow to the space between them. Her words settled over him like a vow he had not expected to hear, not tonight, perhaps not ever. Relief and something sharper, more profound, moved through his chest in the same breath. 

He did not smile triumphantly. He did not reach for her hand or press any advantage. Instead, he bowed, slowly, deeply, the gesture formal and reverent, the first time he had offered her such unadorned respect without a trace of mockery. 

When he rose, his gray eyes were steady, unguarded in a way they had never been before, "I accept your terms, Mari." He said quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear, "From this moment, there is no one else. No other woman. No late-night visits, no whispered assignations, no fleeting comforts to fill the hours I once spent so carelessly. Only you." 

She nods, and he straightened fully, shoulders squaring as though the promise itself reshaped him, "I will call upon you tomorrow afternoon, if your family will permit it... Properly, with a card and a chaperone and every expectation of decorum. I will walk with you in the gardens, sit across from you at tea, listen when you speak of your paintings or your writings or the things that make you brood and laugh in equal measure. I will prove it not with grand declarations in crowded rooms, but with every ordinary, unglamorous day that follows." 

A small smile twitches at her lips, and that pulls a faint, almost tentative curve to touch his mouth, not the rake's smirk, but something softer, more honest. 

"And if I ever falter, if even once you suspect I have strayed from the path you have set, I give you leave to end it. No explanations owed. No second chances begged. I will disappear from your life as completely as I once promised." He glanced briefly toward the supper rooms, where her family would soon be gathering, then back to her, "For tonight, I will not ask for your hand at the table, or for a dance, or for anything more than this single word you have given me. I will escort you to your mother and brothers if you wish it, or I will withdraw now and let you breathe." 

His gaze searched hers once more, tender in its intensity, "But know this, I have never wanted anything as much as I want to be worthy of that 'okay.' Thank you for giving me the chance to try." 

He waited, patient as he had promised to be, for her to decide what came next, whether she would take his arm for the short walk across the room, or send him away until tomorrow, or simply stand there a moment longer while the weight of their new beginning settled between them like quiet dawn light. 

Mari straightened, her fingers smoothing the sapphire silk of her skirts in a small, deliberate motion that betrayed the lingering tremor in her hands. She exhaled softly, the sound almost lost beneath the murmur of departing dancers and the clink of silverware from the adjoining supper rooms, "I would like to sit with you at supper." 

Cassian's breath caught, only for a heartbeat, but she saw it, the brief flicker across his features, surprise giving way to something warmer, quieter, more profound than triumph. He did not smile broadly, instead, the curve of his mouth was slow, almost careful, as though he feared startling the fragile agreement between them. 

"Then we shall sit together." He said, voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a promise renewed, "Properly. In full view of the ton, with your family nearby if they wish it. No shadows. No secrets. Just supper, conversation, and the beginning of whatever this may become." 

She gives him a nod, "That is right."  

He offered his arm then, not with flourish, but with quiet formality, elbow bent just so, palm open in invitation rather than demand. The gesture was correct in every way the etiquette books required, yet it felt heavier, more intimate, than any touch they had shared before. 

"If you will permit me..." He murmured, eyes meeting hers with gentle steadiness, "I will escort you to the supper room now. Your mother and brothers will see us approach together. They will have questions, I expect them, and I will answer whatever they ask with the truth."  

She takes his arm, shifting to stand next to him, "And what truth would that be, my lord?"  

 "That I have asked for the privilege of courting you, and you have granted me the chance to prove myself worthy." Then did he turn, guiding her toward the wide double doors that led to the long tables aglow with candlelight and crystal. 

As they walked, he kept his pace measured, matching hers perfectly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, to pull away. But he spoke again, softer, for her ears alone. 

"Thank you, Mari. Not for the supper, for the trust you are extending, however small it may feel in this moment. I will not squander it." 

The supper room opened before them, tables laden with cold meats, glistening fruits, delicate pastries, and decanters of wine. Heads turned as they entered, matrons with raised brows, gentlemen exchanging knowing glances, whispers threading through the air like silk ribbons.  

Near the center, Mari's family had already claimed a long table, her mother's sharp gaze found them first, followed by Elijah's narrowed eyes and Vincent's protective frown. Her younger sister looked up with wide, curious delight. 

Cassian paused at the threshold, giving her one last quiet look, reassuring, patient, before leading her forward. 

"Your family awaits." He said gently, "Shall we face them together?" 

Thank you so much for reading!

[spicydelusion]

🜲 Title: A Lady for Two | original short story

🜲 Genre: Regency Romance | Historical Romance | Erotic Romance | Spicy Historical Fiction

🜲 Word Count: 11.7k

🜲 Main Characters: Emilia Hartwell, Elias Ravenshire, Julian Ravenshire

🜲 Tropes: Brothers in love with the same woman | Forbidden romance | High-society scandal | Family friends-to-lovers | MFM threesome | Shared partner | "We shouldn't do this" tension | The London Season | Reputation at risk Noble brothers

🜲 Content Warnings: adult content (18+) | Consensual MFM relationship | Threesome implications / polyamorous undertones | Unprotected sex | Regency-era societal taboo themes | Brothers romantically involved with the same woman | Jealousy and possessive behavior | Emotional tension and conflict | Mild family/societal pressure | fluff ending

🜲 Synopsis: Miss Emilia Hartwell never intended to charm the esteemed Ravenshire brothers, yet both Elias' quiet intensity and Julian's irresistible charm draw her into a hidden world of forbidden longing. As the Season unfolds, the three find themselves entangled in a bond that can exist only behind closed doors. With reputations at stake and desire pulling them ever closer, they must decide whether their secret passion is a fleeting risk... or a devotion worth defying society for.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

It was no secret that the Hartwells and the Ravenshires were a close group of people. For years, the mothers of the families had been the dearest of friends, an alliance formed in girlhood, strengthened by marriage, and cemented by countless afternoons spent taking tea and exchanging confidences. Their children had grown up in one another's parlors, running through the same halls, attending the same lessons, and sharing the sort of familiarity that only comes from years lived side by side.

Yet, familiarity did nothing to steel Emilia Hartwell's nerves the morning the Ravenshires returned to London.

Her mother had insisted she wear the pale-blue muslin that made her eyes 'look more lively', though Emilia suspected her mother's real aim was to present her in the best possible light. After all, the Ravenshire brothers had been away, Elias managing the estate in the country, and Julian returning from a naval commission, and time had a way of altering people in unexpected, sometimes disarming ways.

The Hartwell carriage drew to a stop before Ravenshire House, its grand white façade gleaming in the late-spring sun. Emilia smoothed her gloves, suddenly aware of her reflection in the window: steady breath, chin lifted, cheeks warming despite her efforts to remain composed.

"Do remember to smile, darling." Her mother murmured as the footman opened the door, "They have not seen you in nearly two years. You've grown beautifully."

Which did absolutely nothing to steady Emilia's heartbeat.

Inside, the Ravenshire foyer was just as she remembered, sunlit marble, portraits of stern ancestors, the faint scent of lavender polish. But the moment she stepped through the threshold, a familiar voice reached her.

"Miss Hartwell? Is that truly you?"

Julian Ravenshire stood near the staircase, his dark hair tousled as if he'd run a hand through it moments before. He looked older, broader, with a smile that could still unravel her far too quickly. His eyes swept over her, warm, surprised, lingering a heartbeat too long.

Before she could form a proper greeting, another figure appeared beside him. Elias Ravenshire. Taller, quieter, composed as ever. But there was something new in the way he regarded her, something thoughtful, almost unreadable, as though assessing a woman he no longer recognized.

"Miss Emilia." Elias said with a slight bow of his head, "Welcome."

Her pulse fluttered. They had said her name the same way when they were boys, yet somehow it sounded entirely different now that they are fully grown.

The mothers rushed in with delighted exclamations, drawing everyone into an embrace of chatter and nostalgia, but Emilia felt suddenly caught, one brother smiling at her like she was a sight worth returning home for, the other watching her with a quiet intensity that hummed beneath her skin.

And for the first time in her life, Emilia Hartwell wondered if the closeness of their families would prove to be her greatest blessing... or a complication she was entirely unprepared to face.

The moment slipped back into reality at Teresa's delighted exclamation, "Oh! It is such a joy to have all the children under one roof again after two years." She cast a fond look toward her sons, then to Emilia, "Come, children! I have sent ahead for the finest tea to be prepared." She links her arm with Lady Hartwell's, and they sweep down the corridor, the two women already speaking over one another in cheerful excitement.

Emilia smiled at the familiar scene and moved to follow. Julian fell naturally into step beside her, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"And where are your father and young Thomas this morning, Miss Emilia?" He asked, glancing down at her with an easy warmth, "I confess, I am surprised your father is not escorting you and your mother himself.

A soft laugh escaped her, light, unguarded, and it struck both brothers with surprising force.

"They shall arrive shortly. Thomas now studies under our father, and once their lessons conclude, they will join us. Thomas missed you dreadfully, you know. He pined at the window for weeks after you all left London."

Julian chuckled, shaking his head, "Did he indeed? Poor fellow."

From behind, Elias, quiet until now, spoke at last, his tone even, though something unspoken threaded through it, "It seems.." He said, eyes lingering a fraction too long on Emilia before returning forward, "That London was not the only thing left behind worth pining for."

Julian shot his brother a knowing look, one brow lifting in silent amusement.

Elias ignored him entirely.

Emilia felt a gentle warmth rise in her cheeks, though she could not account for why. She cast a brief glance at Elias, then at Julian, "And where are your sister and father? I had expected they would be here as well."

Elias answered before his brother could speak, "We traveled in two carriages. Father sent us ahead with Mother so we might begin reviewing the notes left for us during our two years away. As for Clarissa, she and Mother quarreled before our departure, and she elected to remain with Father."

Julian added lightly, "They should be arriving at any moment. They were no more than half a day behind us." He steps aside as they reach the drawing room, motioning gently, "After you, Miss Hartwell."

Emilia gave a small nod and stepped into the drawing room. Teresa immediately began admiring the pale-blue gown, confirming what Lady Hartwell had insisted that morning, the color suited her perfectly.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Elias halted Julian with a hand to his arm, his voice lowered so the passing servants would not overhear, "What precisely are you about, brother?"

Julian blinked with exaggerated innocence, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "Whatever do you mean? I was merely engaging in conversation with a lifelong friend, Elias." He paused, lifting a brow, "What is it you believe I am doing?"

"You do not look at a lifelong friend in that manner, brother."

Julian's expression sharpened, his eyes narrowing, "If we are speaking of looks, you might examine your own, Brother." With that, he stepped back, turned on his heel, and entered the drawing room.

Elias exhaled once, straightened his coat, and followed.

Julian sat upon the settee beside his mother, positioned directly across from Emilia. His gaze followed her with quiet fascination as she lifted her teacup with perfect grace, taking a polite sip. Elias, standing near the fireplace, watched his brother for a lingering moment before allowing his eyes to drift, almost reluctantly, toward Emilia as well.

"Julian, darling, tell the Hartwells about your time in Paris." Teresa insisted, resting a hand fondly on her son's arm, "The story in your letter had me in tears from laughter." She turned her attention upward. "Elias, sweetheart, do sit, please."

Elias inclined his head but remained where he was, posture impeccable.

Julian cleared his throat, his smirk already forming, "Ah. Paris." He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other with easy confidence, "Well, Miss Emilia, Lady Hartwell, I assure you it was far less glamorous than my mother makes it sound."

Teresa swatted his arm lightly, "Nonsense."

Julian continued, eyes flicking toward Emilia with a spark of mischief, "We had anchored just off the coast, and I had been sent ashore to deliver a sealed dispatch. Simple enough, or so I believed. Unfortunately, I had not accounted for the fact that my French is... well, let us say adequate, but hardly elegant."

Emilia raised a brow, intrigued, "What happened?"

Julian grinned, "I attempted to request directions to the governor's office. Instead, due to a most unfortunate similarity between two words, I accidentally informed a very startled elderly woman that I wished to borrow her geese."

Lady Hartwell laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth, "Oh dear. I assure she was not happy?"

Julian nodded gravely, "She chased me, a twenty seven year old man, down the street, with a broom, shouting what I can only assume were insults of great creativity. My commanding officer did not find it nearly as amusing as the rest of the crew."

Even Elias's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but very close.

Julian shrugged, "In my defense, I maintain the fault lies with the French language, not with me."

Emilia laughed softly, a sound that seemed to brighten the entire room, and Julian's expression warmed at once. From the fireplace, Elias finally stepped forward, his tone mild, "Paris survived him, somehow."

Julian shot him a look. Elias merely folded his hands behind his back, as though entirely innocent.

As the laughter from Julian's tale finally softened, Lady Hartwell dabbed the corner of her eye and gestured proudly toward her daughter, "If you find yourself in need of proper French lessons, Julian, my Emilia is quite fluent."

The words drew an immediate reaction from both Ravenshire brothers. Elias' head tilted almost imperceptibly, his attention sharpening. Julian's smile widened at once.

"My dear Lady Hartwell." Julian said, hand pressed to his chest in theatrical gratitude, "I would be considered a madman to decline French lessons from someone so..."

"Brother." Elias murmured warningly.

"...fluent." Julian finished, undeterred. He cast a slow, unmistakable glance toward Elias before adding lightly, "I was offering her a compliment.”

Teresa let out a delighted hum, patting Julian's arm, "And a gracious one! Emilia would make an excellent tutor, would she not, dear?"

Emilia felt warmth touch her cheeks but kept her composure, "I should be glad to assist." She said gently, though her eyes briefly flicked to Elias, who stood far too still for a man unaffected.

Lady Hartwell beamed, "There, you see? It is settled." Teresa clapped her hands softly, "How charming it will be! A Ravenshire learning French from a Hartwell, just as our families were meant to intertwine."

Julian's brows lifted in playful intrigue; Elias's jaw tightened by the smallest degree; and Emilia, caught between them, suddenly found her teacup very fascinating indeed. She studied the dark purple tea in her glass, only for the front door opening to capture everyone's attention.

"Is she here? Emilia?" Clarissa's voice carried down the hall before she appeared, breathless, in the doorway. Lady Hartwell swiftly reached for her daughter's teacup, cleverly anticipating a spill from so much enthusiasm.

Emilia rose at once, "Clarissa!"

"Emilia!"

They met in the center of the drawing room, two young women of six-and-twenty embracing with all the unrestrained joy of childhood. Clarissa laughed, twirling Emilia once before holding her at arm's length, eyes bright.

"My goodness, you have not changed at all." Clarissa declared.

"And you have." Emilia replied warmly, "You look radiant.”

Teresa clasped her hands together, "Oh, how I have longed to see you two reunited! It is as if no time has passed." Lady Hartwell nodded, misty-eyed, "They were inseparable from infancy." The mothers watched them with fondness. The servants paused in the doorway, smiling at the reunion.

The room itself seemed to brighten. But for the Ravenshire brothers, the moment struck deeper.

Julian's gaze softened as he watched Emilia laugh, truly laugh, with Clarissa, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her cheeks flushed with delight. A warmth spread across his chest, startling in its clarity. He had known her as a girl, charming and sweet. But now.. now she was a woman who lit an entire room without realizing it.

Beside the fireplace again, Elias stood utterly still. He had seen Emilia smile many times in their youth, but not like this. Not with this unguarded joy that made something inside him tighten, almost painfully. There was grace in her every movement, a quiet strength he had not noticed, or perhaps had refused to recognize until now.

As Clarissa and Emilia clung to each other, laughing softly at some shared memory, Julian glanced toward his brother.

And Elias was already looking at him. Their eyes held, just a breath, but long enough. Julian's expression shifted, his usual levity dimming into something more serious. Elias's jaw set, a flicker of resignation, or warning, or shared understanding passing between them.

They did not speak.

They did not need to.

Both men knew, in that moment, with complete and unnerving certainty, they had fallen for the same woman. And nothing, not family history, not brotherly loyalty, not propriety, would make this uncomplicated.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

After some time had passed, and after Elias had dutifully reviewed the notes left for them and reported their contents to their father, he found himself alone at the large mahogany desk. Yet the solitude brought no clarity. His thoughts wandered restlessly, circling the very thing he wished to steady himself against.

Emilia... and whatever storm lay ahead between himself and Julian.

The heavy door groaned open, pulling him from his reverie. Elias lifted his gaze just as Julian slipped inside, closing the door with a soft click.

"What is it?" Elias asked, leaning back slightly in the chair while trying, and failing, to school his expression.

"Mother sent me to find you." Julian replied, hands sliding casually into his pockets, "She fears you are avoiding the celebration she has so carefully arranged for our return." Elias exhaled sharply, though not quite a laugh. His eyes dropped back to the papers before him, "I am... thinking."

Julian's brow arched, "About her?"

Elias's head snapped up, his gaze cutting to his brother, sharp as a blade, "And you are not?"

Julian's smile faltered, and for a long moment, neither brother spoke. The silence settled thickly between them, heavy with the truth neither wished to admit aloud but both could feel tightening like a noose.

"Yes." Julian answered quietly, "I tried not to, but she-"Elias cuts him off as he stands, voice low but full of fire, "You stared at her as you thought you forgot the rest of the room exists."

Julian laughs once under his breath, incredulous, "You dare say that to me? Elias, you could hardly tear your eyes from her. Every time she shifted, every time she breathed-"

Elias stepped around the desk, "Mind yourself."

"No." Julian snaps quietly, lifting his gaze, "I will not. Not when we are speaking plainly for perhaps the first time." His throat bobs, "You.. feel something, for her, yes?"

Silence. Heavy. Unyielding.

Elias' jaw tightens. but yet he does not deny it, "And you?" He counters, "Do not pretend your affection is mere admiration. I saw you, Julian." Julian looks away, breath shaking just a little more, "I do not wish to pretend. Not anymore."

The brothers stand in a taut stillness, not hostile, but charged, as though the truth between them hums like a drawn bowstring.

Elias is the first to break it, "We cannot both-"

"But we do." Julian's voice is soft now, aching, "We do, Elias."

Elias closes his eyes, just once, and a quiet, frustrated exhale shudders out of him.

Above them, the house settles. The soft murmurs of Emilia's voice drifts faintly from the library, brightening not only Clarissa's evening, but theirs as well. And the two Ravenshire brothers, breath tightening in their chests, know one thing with an absolute certainty:

They are no longer only competing with the chance; they are competing with each other.

Emilia's laughter follows her voice, also drifting down the corridor, bright, warm and unguarded. It hits both brothers at once. Elias' head lifts sharply, eyes flicking towards the door as though the sound alone pulls at something inside his chest. His breathing steadies, but only just.

Julian's reaction is softer, his shoulders ease, lips parting in an involuntary smile before he presses them together, trying and failing to hide it.

Elias notices.

"You see?" Julian murmurs, voice low, almost defeated, "It is impossible not to react to her."

Elias steps nearer, tension coiling through him like a held breath, "I am not denying what she evokes." He says, tone taut, "But this..." He gestures between him and his brother, "..Is untenable." Julian's eyes flick back to him, "Then do you propose brother?" He pauses, "Pretend neither of us feels anything?"

Elias exhales slowly, deliberately, "For her sake, perhaps we should.”

Emilia's laughter rings out again, louder this time, followed by Clarissa's voice overlapping with hers in an animated excitement over some book, probably.

Julian closes his eyes, letting the sound wash over him like a tide he is helpless to resist. Elias looks away as if it physically pains him.

"She is.. remarkable." Julian whispers, half to himself. Elias' gaze hardens, not in anger, but in a fierce fort of restraint, "She is." He admits, voice dangerously soft, "And that, is precisely why this cannot become.. reckless."

Julian's jaw tightens, "You speak as though you are capable of controlling your feelings for her."

Elias' eyes snap to him, "And you speak as if you are not."

Silence. Thick, charged, stretching until another ripple of her laughter breaks it apart again. The brothers stand there, hearts pulled towards the same gravity, each too honest now to deny it, too restrained to reach for it.

And yet.. Julian inhales, "We cannot ignore this forever."

"No." Elias replies, his voice barely above a whisper, "We cannot."

Emilia's laughter fills the hall's once more, causing them both to stiffen like they were struck but the most beautiful lightening bolt. Julien breaks the silence, he squares his shoulders, no longer able to sit behind his brother's restraint, "Elias." His voice clear, "I am done pretending this is merely admiration. I want her."

Elias goes still.

Julian steps closer, meeting his brother's eyes without flinching, "I want Emilia." He continues, "And I am offering the truth of it now, plainly, before it festers into bitterness between us."

The words land like a struck match.

Elias inhales sharply, his jaw tightening, not with anger, no, but with the effort of keeping control. Emilia's laughter drifts again from the library, soft this time, but enough to make his throat work around a swallow he cannot disguise. He closes his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is low, roughened by something he can no longer deny himself, "You are not the only one who wants her."

Julian's breath stumbles, and Elias, he steps closer, only a pace, but enough that the air between them tightens, crackling with everything unsaid until now, "You offered truth." He murmurs, eyes dark with a fierce vulnerability he rarely allows anyone to see, "Then here is mine: I have wanted her longer than I ever should have. Longer than I intend to confess aloud again."

The silence that follows is thicker than it had been, more electric than it has been.

Julian's hand slides to grip the back of the chair he is standing besides, tightening his grip before loosening it slowly. His fingers tremble, but only for a mere second, and then he steadies them, "So.." He whispers, "What do you intend we do?"

Another soft ripple of laughter drifts into the study, as if the house insists on reminding them what they are fighting over, what they are holding back from.

Elias's jaw worked once, as though the words tasted dangerous before they were even spoken. "We choose..."He began carefully, his voice low,measured, "Whether we intend to compete..."

A long, fraught silence fell.

"...or whether there is another way.”

Julian's breath stilled in his chest, and he swallowed hard, the weight of society pressing against his ribs, "You realize..." He murmured, "That what you are hinting at would ruin us all, should anyone so much as suspect."

Elias did not deny it. His gaze remained fixed on Julian, steady but haunted, "I realize..." He said quietly, "That losing her may ruin me more."

Julian's composure slipped, just a fraction. Because he understood. Too well. They were standing on the precipice of a decision that could bind them together or destroy everything between them.

And though neither brother voiced it, both were thinking the same thing. There is no path forward that society would bless. Only the one they choose for themselves.

"The only other way..." Elias states quietly, "Requires a level of honesty, and restraint, that I am not certain either of us possesses."

Julian's eyes search his brother's face, expression shifting from wary, to realization, to something far darker, far more dangerous, "You mean, not competing." He pauses, "Not choosing."

Elias' gaze flickers just once towards the sound of Emilia's laughter as Clarissa goes into another dramatic monologue, then they go to his brother, "I am saying..." He murmurs, voice dropping into something rough and low, "That she is extraordinary enough that choosing between us, might not be the only solution."

Julian's breath stutters out of him, "You would allow such a thing?"

For in Elias's eyes, normally so controlled, so disciplined, there flickered a thought neither of them had dared give shape to. A possibility so unorthodox, so ruinous, that to utter it aloud would crack the very foundation of their upbringing.

They both knew the truth of it; Two brothers harboring affection for the same woman was a scandal in itself. To pursue her openly, either of them, while the other still cared for her would fracture their family. To fight over her would invite whispers across the ton, disgrace upon their mother, disappointment from their father. And anything beyond that, anything shared, anything untraditional, would be unspeakable. A threat to reputation, legacy, propriety, everything they had been raised to protect.

Elias steps closer, not threatening, but intense, eyes burning with a truth he has kept hidden far too long, "I would allow what she desires." He pauses, "Even if it tears me apart." His jaw tightens, "But you and I, we have already begun tearing at one another. And she has done nothing but walk into a room."

Julian's lips part, shock mingling with hunger, with understanding, with something that borders on relief, "So... you believe that together-"

"I believe." Elias cuts in, "That we cannot keep pulling in opposite directions. Not when it is her at the center."

A breath leaves Julian, slow and trembling, "And if she wanted both of us?"

Elias' eyes darkened, "Then we should give her both."

More silence.

Hot. Charged. Forbidden.

"This conversation stays between us." Elias' voice is barely above a whisper. Julian nods, "Of course."

"As will anything else that comes of it." Elias adds. Julian nods, standing straighter once more, "And when it comes, we do not falter."

A charged silence settled, the kind that sealed an unspoken pact. Whatever they had just agreed upon, whatever dangerous hope had taken root between them, would remain here, within these four walls.

A knock sounded, sharp, hurried.

Both brothers straightened at once, instinctively erasing all signs of the storm that had just passed between them. Elias swept the papers on the desk into a neater stack; Julian stepped back, adopting an expression of mild curiosity rather than the tension still humming in his chest.

The door creaked open before either could answer.

Thomas Hartwell poked his head in, curls disheveled from the carriage ride, eyes bright with the alertness of a man long accustomed to carrying responsibly, yet never quite having lost his youthful spark, "Ah! There you are!" He announced, pushing fully into the study, "Mother said you had gone missing, Elias. And Julian, she was quite certain you had been dragged into whatever brood he was doing."

Julian forced a light grin, "Not dragged. Merely... locating him."

Thomas raised a brow, "In the study? On your first day back? Truly, the two of you are hopeless."

Elias closed the ledger with a calmness he did not entirely feel, "Someone must attend to the estate matters before the house fills with guests."

Thomas waved a hand dismissively, "Well, the guests are already arriving, and you are both expected. Emilia said so herself. And if Emilia has spoken, you know the drawing room will not settle until you appear."

At her name, both brothers stilled, only for a heartbeat, but enough for Thomas to glance between them with a faint crease of confusion. Julian quickly stepped forward, clapping Thomas lightly on the shoulder, "Lead the way then, Hartwell. We wouldn't dare keep your sister waiting."

"Good." Thomas said, though a flicker of curiosity lingered in his expression, "For a moment, you all looked dreadfully serious. What were you discussing?"

Julian and Elias exchanged a fleeting look, one that held warning, understanding, and the echo of the decision they had just made. Elias answered first, smooth and steady, "Nothing that need concern anyone else."

Thomas shrugged, satisfied enough, and turned toward the door. The brothers followed, but the conversation, the decision, and the forbidden possibilities they had considered remained behind them, locked in the quiet of the study.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

The hum of music and laughter signaled that the welcome-home festivities were in full flourish. The drawing room and adjoining halls brimmed with well-wishers, family friends, neighboring gentry, and curious members of the ton eager to greet the Ravenshire sons after their long absence. Servants carried trays of sparkling punch and delicate pastries; the chandelier glowed warmly over the gathered crowd.

Elias and Julian positioned themselves near opposite ends of the room, by unspoken agreement, each attempting to attend politely to the guests who approached them. Yet their efforts were pitiful things against the gravitational pull Emilia seemed to exert without meaning to.

She moved through the crowd with Clarissa at her side, her blue gown catching the light as though it had been chosen for this evening alone. Her laugh carried softly above the conversation, light and unstudied. Every time she smiled, the brothers felt it, separately, sharply.

Julian's gaze drifted to her first. He caught himself, forced his eyes back to the gentleman speaking to him, only to feel his attention slip again moments later.

Across the room, Elias's hand tightened around the glass he held. He kept his posture impeccable, his expression composed, but his restraint strained each time Emilia glanced in his direction, purposefully or not, he could not tell.

They were losing the battle they had sworn to fight only minutes earlier.

At last, Emilia broke free of the cluster of ladies around her and threaded her way toward the edge of the room. Her eyes found Julian first, perhaps because he was nearer, or perhaps because his gaze, once more, had found her.

She smiled as she approached him, unaware of the effect it had, "Julian." She said softly, hands folded before her, "Where did you and Elias disappear to? Clarissa said she thought you had slipped away entirely."

Julian straightened, pushing aside the sudden warmth in his chest, "We had business to attend to for a moment." He replied lightly, "My mother is convinced we fled her celebration."

Emilia laughed, shaking her head, "She asked me to retrieve you both, you know. Then promptly forgot she had asked the moment someone mentioned the new linens in the east wing.”

Julian's smile deepened at that, though behind it lay a tension he could not entirely hide. Over Emilia's shoulder, Elias watched, from too far to intervene, too near to ignore, his expression flickering with something taut and unreadable.

And for a breath, Julian wondered whether the 'Other way' Elias had hinted at in the study was already dissolving beneath them. Elias starts crossing the room, slowing his steps when he is close enough to hear her over the bustling setting.

"I am glad you both returned safely." She said, sincerity softening her features, "I worried. Especially when your letters grew shorter." She tilted her head, looking between them as though she truly saw only two childhood friends, "It is a comfort having the house full again."

Julian's breath hitched despite himself. She meant it, every word, yet the warmth behind her tone ignited something he struggled to keep buried. His smile wavered before he steadied it, "We are... fortunate to be home." He managed, and Emilia stepped a bit closer, too close for Julian's composure, too close for Elias's sanity.

Her attention drifts over Julian's shoulder to where Elias stood, "And you, Elias?" She asked gently, "You have hardly said a word all evening. Did we overwhelm you already? You always did prefer quiet rooms." The smallest, most disastrous smile touched her lips.

Julian felt it like a blow.

Elias felt it like a confession.

Elias's posture stiffened, his eyes fixed on her as though trying and failing to gather himself back into the polished gentleman he was meant to be, "No." He said quietly, "Not overwhelmed. Simply... observing."

Emilia laughed lightly, unaware her laughter felt like a hand curled around both their ribs, "You always observe. Even as children. Clarissa used to say you saw everything."

"I see enough." He replied, his gaze flickering briefly, helplessly, to her mouth before snapping away.

Julian caught it.

And Emilia, still blissfully unaware, turned back to Julian with an affectionate shake of her head, "You two never change." She teased, "Always so serious, both of you, when we reunite. It is as though you forget we are meant to enjoy ourselves."

She laid a gentle hand on Julian's arm, light, fleeting, polite.

But Elias noticed.

And Julian, for one startled moment, wished he hadn't.

Emilia withdrew her hand without thinking twice, "Clarissa and I were about to escape to the terrace for some air. You both look as though you could use a breath as well." She smiled, bright and untouched by the tension suffocating the room, "Do join us, if you like."

And with that, she drifted back toward Clarissa, her skirts sweeping softly behind her.

The brothers remained where they stood, completely motionless.

Julian let out a low exhale, murmuring, "She has no idea." Elias's voice was quieter, "No. And that is what makes this dangerous."

Their gazes locked again, wariness, longing, and something like resignation swirling between them. Because Emilia Hartwell, without trying, without even knowing, had managed to unravel them both.

Julian dragged a hand through his hair, glancing toward the doorway where Emilia had disappeared, "If this continues..." He said under his breath, "We will unravel long before she realizes anything at all."

Elias said nothing at first. His gaze lowered, brows drawn as though he were calculating some impossible equation. At length, he spoke quietly, each word deliberate, "We cannot go on pretending there is nothing to address. Not when our reactions betray us at every turn." He clasped his hands behind his back, posture rigid, "At some point, we must decide how to tell her."

Julian gave a startled laugh, soft but strained, "Tell her? Elias, what exactly do you propose we say? 'Good evening, Miss Emilia, we fear we have both developed an affection society would consider astonishingly improper'?"

Elias's jaw tightened, but he did not retreat from the idea, "Better we decide our course than let misunderstanding destroy us."

Julian stilled, because beneath Elias's composed tone was an edge, fear, longing, and something he had never heard from his brother before, vulnerability.

"How?" Julian asked quietly, "How does one tell a woman something that could ruin her? Or us?"

Elias exhaled, the breath unsteady, "We approach her with honesty. Gently. And we allow her the choice neither of us should force upon her."

Julian studied his brother, "You think she could choose between us?"

A muscle in Elias's cheek twitched, "I think..." He said, voice low, "That whatever she chooses, she deserves the truth."

Julian's expression softened, though tension still pressed at his shoulders, "And if the truth is... more than society allows?" Elias held his gaze, and for a heartbeat the study conversation echoed between them, dangerous, fragile, unresolved. Before Julian could answer, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"There you are!" Thomas strode toward them, coat slightly askew, his expression impatient but amused, "Honestly, the pair of you vanish more than foxes in the countryside. Emilia has been asking after you both."

Julian straightened at once. Elias's expression shuttered into practiced calm.

Thomas gestured sharply toward the terrace doors, "Come along. Clarissa insists you join them for a breath of air, and Emilia said something about needing your opinion on, oh, I don't know, something about the lanterns? I stopped listening once the ladies began discussing aesthetics."

Julian shot Elias a glance, half dread, half inevitability. Elias returned it with a slight nod. A silent acknowledgment.

The moment was upon them sooner than expected.

Thomas didn't wait, "Truly, gentlemen, move. If I return alone, I will never hear the end of it." He turned toward the terrace, waving them forward. The brothers followed, each step taut with anticipation.

Through the gleaming glass doors, Emilia stood beside Clarissa under the lantern light, her profile illuminated in soft gold, her laughter floating into the evening air.

Julian inhaled sharply.

Elias's eyes softened despite every effort not to. And together, though neither knew precisely what would come next, they stepped toward her.

"Oh! Finally!" Clarissa exclaimed as the brothers stepped onto the terrace, "I was beginning to think you two had run off again. You know..." She paused dramatically, "You keep disappearing like that and Mama will sign you up for, what did she call them? Ah, yes. Obedience classes." She nodded solemnly, "Rather like dance lessons, but significantly worse."

Thomas snorted, "I did tell them the two of them vanish more often than foxes in the countryside."

Julian mustered a low laugh. "I am in the Navy, Clarissa. Mother need not send me to obedience classes; I have survived captains far stricter than she."

Elias arched a brow. "Perhaps if Mother had not insisted on throwing a celebration the very evening we returned, we might not be quite so... tense."

"Ah." Emilia interjected gently, her tone warm but perceptive, "So you are overwhelmed, Elias. I knew something was troubling you."

Elias's gaze lingered on her, too long, too revealing, before he looked away and stepped fully onto the terrace, "You have uncovered my lie, Miss Hartwell." He admitted quietly, "I am, indeed, a bit... overwhelmed."

Emilia's expression softened. "It has been a long journey for both of you. No one would fault you for needing a moment."

Before Elias could respond, a voice called sharply from inside, "Thomas! Thomas Hartwell. Your father wishes a word!"

Thomas looked heavenward, thoroughly put-upon, "He never wishes a word until I have a drink in hand..." He gave the group a rueful smile, "I shall return shortly, if I survive." He disappeared back inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

Clarissa clapped her hands, "Well! That is my cue as well. Mama says the lemonade is too sweet, and I must taste it myself to be sure she's not imagining things." She looped her arm through Emilia's briefly, "Will you be all right without me for a few minutes?"

Emilia laughed, "Clarissa, I think I can manage."

"Excellent. If the lemonade is dreadful, I shall blame Mama. Or Julian." She winked at her brother and slipped indoors.

The terrace fell quiet.

A warm breeze stirred the lantern light, brushing softly against Emilia's dark hair. She turned back to Elias and Julian, unaware of the shift her presence caused in both of them, unaware of the questions, dangerous, heavy, still lodged in their throats.

"You truly did disappear earlier." She said lightly, folding her hands before her, "If I did not know better, I would think you were avoiding us, or me."

Julian and Elias exchanged a single, loaded glance.

This, finally, was their moment.

"We were not avoiding you." Julian said, his voice low but steady. "We were simply..."

Elias stepped in, his tone firmer, the truth pushing past restraint, "Avoiding the thought of doing something rather foolish."

Julian exhaled sharply, "Brother.."

But Elias only shook his head, "No. She has the right to know, Julian. This concerns her every bit as much as it concerns us."

Emilia looked between them, catching the way Julian's jaw tightened, yet he did not contradict him. She still has no idea the decision they had made in the study, unspoken, fragile, undeniably real, hovered between them like a struck chord.

But she was about to.

Elias continued, quieter now, though no less resolved, "We have found ourselves... conflicted. And it can no longer remain unspoken."

Julian nodded once, gravity settling upon him, "Before anything progresses, before assumptions are made or feelings deepened, we must be honest. With each other... and more importantly, with you."

He glanced at his brother, and Elias gave the barest incline of his head.

Their pact was sealed. And now, at last, they would give voice to the truth.

Emilia straightened, her brow softly knit with concern, "Very well." She said gently, "Do tell, then. We have known each other since we were in infant clothes, you may speak freely. You do trust me... yes?"

Julian's breath eased out slowly, "Of course we trust you."

Elias added, "Entirely."

They exchanged a brief glance, one last check of resolve, before Julian continued, his tone dropping to something more serious than Emilia had ever heard from him, "What we must say... it is not for an audience. And there are far too many ears about tonight."

Elias nodded once, eyes steady on Emilia, "We would ask if you are willing to hear us, fully and without interruption, somewhere private."

Emilia hesitated only a heartbeat before her chin lifted, "Yes. I want to hear it. Whatever it is."

Both brothers stilled.

That one word, yes, settled heavily between them.

Julian glanced toward the lantern-lit terrace doors, where guests drifted in and out in conversation, "The difficulty." He murmured, "Is that this house is full. Every corridor watched, every doorway passed."

"And disappearing again tonight would rouse suspicion." Elias added under his breath, "Mother already believes we are hiding from her celebration."

Julian huffed softly, rubbing a hand across his jaw, "We must find a way to slip upstairs unnoticed. Just long enough for a private exchange." Elias leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice, "The upper gallery is empty this hour. If we are clever, we might reach it through the west staircase, no one uses it during gatherings."

Julian's eyes flicked to Emilia, searching her expression, "If you are willing." He said quietly, "We can escort you there. But only if you feel comfortable."

Elias inclined his head, all formality despite the tension simmering beneath, "Say the word, Miss Hartwell... and we shall make it so."

Emilia gave a decisive nod, "Very well. I shall go first. If anyone stops me, I will say I need a moment to freshen myself. Everyone knows I make free use of Clarissa's dressing room." Her gaze shifted between them, steady, "Where shall I meet you?"

"My chamber." Elias said at once, his tone brooking no argument, "No one enters without invitation. They know better."

Julian inclined his head in agreement. "Yes, Elias's chamber is the safest place for a private conversation."

Emilia exhaled, smoothing her skirts, "Then that is where I shall wait." With practiced grace, she slipped back toward the open terrace doors. No one paid her more mind than a passing smile or nod; she moved through the gathering easily, vanishing into the crowd with the confidence of someone who belonged in every room she entered.

The moment she disappeared from view, Julian released a tension-filled breath, "We must not follow too soon."

"No." Elias agreed quietly, "But not too late, either."

They waited a careful span of minutes, until the guests' attention drifted elsewhere. Then Julian touched Elias's shoulder subtly, and the two made for the west staircase, keeping to the edges of the room where servants moved more freely and no one questioned a gentleman's purposeful stride.

Julian led at first, pausing only when a distant aunt called his name. He offered a polite bow, a murmured greeting, and continued on without pause. Elias followed silently, every footfall measured, the weight of what they were about to do pressing against his ribs.

At last, they reached the shadowed corridor that fed into the lesser-used stairs. A pair of footmen passed below, unaware. The music from the drawing room muffled into a distant hum.

Julian glanced back, "Now." Together, the brothers ascended, quiet, quick, unseen.

When they reached the landing of the upper gallery, the hall stood empty, the sconces glowing softly against the polished wainscoting. Elias led the final steps to his chamber door, pausing only long enough to exchange a brief, tense look with Julian.

Whatever awaited them inside...

it would change everything.

Elias set his hand to the latch and opened the door.

Emilia stood near the window, hands folded before her, the soft glow of the sconces tracing the edges of her silhouette. At the sound of the latch, she turned. The brothers stepped inside, and Julian closed the door with a quiet, resolute click.

She looked between them, her expression open, steady, "We are here." She said softly, "No curious ears, no wandering eyes. Tell me what you must... please."

Julian and Elias exchanged a brief, weighted glance, the final silent agreement before stepping past the point of return. Elias was the first to speak, "Emilia... you must forgive our hesitation this evening. We have struggled with a matter most delicate, one we can no longer keep to ourselves." His voice was controlled, yet there was something vulnerable beneath it, "We hold you in great affection. Both of us. And more deeply than friendship."

Julian stepped forward, his tone gentler but no less earnest, "This is not something either of us expected. Nor something we wished to burden you with... but it is the truth. And you deserve the truth above all else."

Elias's jaw tightened for a heartbeat before he continued, "We will not quarrel. We will not deceive one another. Nor will we presume upon you." His gaze met hers squarely, "We offer you a choice, Emilia. Whom you favor, whom you might... return affection to."

Julian nodded once, the motion slow, pained, "Whatever your heart chooses, we will honor it."

Emilia's breath caught. She stared at them, first Elias, reserved and steady, then Julian, warm and earnest, and emotion welled in her eyes, unbidden as she whispered, "I could never choose between you."

Both brothers stilled, again.

Emilia stepped closer, her voice trembling but sure, "I care for you both. Deeply. Differently, perhaps, but just as strongly. How could I ever say one is worthy of my affection and the other is not? It would feel like tearing something in two."

Elias closed his eyes briefly, the truth of her words striking him with quiet force. Julian swallowed hard, "Emilia, are you saying... you return our feelings?"

She nodded, one small, devastating motion. "Yes. I do."

The room fell utterly silent.

A revelation neither brother had dared allow themselves to imagine, spoken aloud by the very woman who bound their hearts so tightly.

Julian exhaled slowly, emotion hitting him squarely in the chest. Elias's composure faltered, not visibly, but enough that Julian saw it. For the first time since their return, hope lay between them, shining and impossible.

And yet, how such a thing could exist in the world they lived in, none of them yet knew.

Elias opened his eyes, and the look he fixed on Emilia was nothing she had ever seen from him before, still disciplined, still restrained, but shaking at the edges, as though a single exhale would let everything inside him break free, "Emilia." He said softly, voice deepening, "You do not know what you are offering."

Julian stepped closer, moving behind her, close enough that she felt his warmth, the tremor in his breath, "She knows." He murmured, and Emilia shivered at how his tone wrapped around her, "She would not have spoken it otherwise."

Elias's gaze dropped, just for a moment, to her mouth, and a hush settled over them, but it wasn't uncertain anymore.

It was charged. Waiting.

Emilia tried to speak, but nothing came, only the rise and fall of her breath, too fast, too bright. Her fingers curled at her sides, but Julian's hand found hers first.

Warm. Steady. Unmistakably intimate.

"Then let us be honest with you." Julian whispered at her ear, his breath brushing the sensitive place just beneath it, "If you cannot choose between us, it will not keep us from wanting you."

Elias inhaled sharply, just once, a controlled break in an otherwise perfect composure, "And wanting you." He said, stepping forward until he stood directly before her, "Is already, very nearly beyond my ability to restrain."

Emilia's knees weakened and Julian's hand tightened around her hand as though he felt the shift in her body.

She looked between them, Elias, so close she could see the rapid beat in his throat, and Julian behind her, his chest brushing her back with each breath.

"I do not wish for restraint." She whispered, and that was the moment the air truly snapped. Julian's breath hitched against her nape. Elias's jaw flexed, slow, deliberate, devastating.

"Emilia..." Elias murmured, the warning in his voice dark and undone, "If we take one step further, propriety will not follow us.”

Julian's fingers slid lightly over the inside of her wrist, a touch she felt everywhere, "Then let it stay outside the door, brother. It is not needed in here unless she asks for it."

Emilia exhaled, shaken, trembling, choosing, and they had barely even touched her yet, "I want you." She said, voice barely there, but still honest, "Both of you."

The confession struck the brothers differently. Julian closed his eyes as though the words overwhelmed him, and Elias's breath stilled entirely, like a man struck in the chest by something holy, forbidden, irresistible.

Then Elias lifted a hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And touched her cheek.

Not chaste.

Not hesitant.

But reverent, like he was finally allowing himself to feel everything he had denied.

Her lips parted.

Julian's hands slid to her hips.

And the room, Elias's guarded, secret, safe room, became the only place in the world where such a thing could happen.

"Tell us..." Elias whispered, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, "How far you wish this night to go."

Julian's lips grazed her neck, "Or..." He breathed, voice rough and low, "If you would rather, let us show you."

Her breath hitched, head tipping back ever so slightly, "Will we not be mis-" Elias cuts her off, "Do not worry about that right now, darling." His eyes stayed on her as Julian's lips brushed her neck again, slower this time, deliberate, savoring. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise whispered against her skin.

Elias watched her react.

Watched the way her breath shivered.

Watched the way her lips parted.

Watched the way she leaned, just slightly, toward Julian's mouth.

A muscle in Elias's throat tightened, the sight fracturing the last of his restraint. He slid his hand from her cheek to her jaw, guiding her gaze up to his, "Look at me." He murmured, and she did, breathless, wide-eyed, already undone by nothing more than their closeness.

"Good." He whispered, voice unsteady in a way he had never allowed before. Julian's hands traced her waist, then higher, palms skimming the curve of her ribs through her gown. She gasped, hips shifting back against him involuntarily. He exhaled sharply at the contact, his breath hot at her ear, "She's trembling."

Elias stepped closer, so close their bodies brushed, "So are you." He replied without looking away from her.

Julian's laugh was soft, breathless, "She does that to us."

Emilia felt heat pool deep in her stomach, wanting, needing, overwhelmed. Elias lifted her chin gently, his thumb stroking the soft line beneath her lower lip. His voice soft, but no less full of heat, "If we touch you, truly touch you, you must tell us if anything is too much."

She shook her head, breath breaking, "It won't be."

"Even so." Elias said, leaning in until his forehead touched hers, "We will still ask."

Julian's fingers found the small row of buttons at the back of her gown. She went still, not in fear, but in anticipation so sharp it stole her breath. Julian felt it and bent to her ear, "May I?" He whispered, his lips ghosting over her skin.

Emilia nodded, small, barely controlled, "Yes. Please."

The first button came undone with a soft, intimate sound. Elias's eyes darkened. Julian kissed the newly bared skin at her nape as he moved to the next button, then the next, each one loosening the boundary between her and their hands. Her gown softened around her frame, slipping just enough that Elias could slide a fingertip beneath the loosened fabric at her shoulder.

Her breath hitched violently.

"Beautiful." Elias whispered, the word meant only for her, "Utterly beautiful."

Julian's hands drew the gown lower, baring her shoulders completely. He pressed his lips to the delicate curve where shoulder met neck, and Emilia's knees weakened so suddenly Elias had to catch her waist, "Easy, darling." Elias murmured, steadying her, "We have you."

Julian's hands framed her hips from behind.

Elias's hand slid to the small of her back. She was surrounded, held in place not by force, but by desire so encompassing it felt like gravity itself.

Elias lowered his mouth to hers.

Slow.

Inevitable.

The kind of kiss that felt like the first deep breath after being held underwater.

Emilia gasped against his lips, wanting, aching, and her hands went up to frame his face, kissing him back. Elias answered the sound with a low, involuntary groan he immediately tried to swallow.

Julian pressed closer behind her, his breath rough with the need to join that kiss, to feel her react like that again.

When Elias finally drew back, a whisper of a breath between them, Emilia swayed. Julian's voice was raw when it came, "Let me taste her too."

Elias didn't speak, he simply stepped aside half a pace, his hand still on her waist, anchoring her.

Julian turned her gently in his arms and captured her lips in a kiss that was different, hungrier, warmer, less disciplined. She melted, fingers sliding to grip his shirt, and when she gasped Julian deepened the kiss with a soft sound in his throat, as though he'd waited years to do exactly this.

Elias watched, breathing hard, eyes dark, desire carved into every line of his face.

When Julian finally broke the kiss, Emilia was trembling. Elias stepped in again, his mouth at her ear, "Come, darling." He murmured, voice low enough to shiver through her, "Sit on the bed."

Her pulse thundered, but not from fear. From the certainty that once she did, the brothers would not let the night remain gentle.

Not anymore.

Julian's fingers slipped from the last loosened fold of fabric as Emilia stepped away from them. Then slowly, almost dreamlike, the gown, slid down her arms in a whisper of silk.

Julian froze.

Elias forgot to breathe.

The gown pooled at her feet, a soft, decadent heap of color on Elias's carpet, and Emilia stood in the dim candlelight wearing only the delicate, impossibly thin layers beneath, pieces meant for modesty, but now doing the opposite entirely.

Her breath trembled.

So did both brothers.

She lifted her chin, not out of confidence, but surrender. Her hands brushed the last straps from her shoulders, letting them fall.

The air seemed to stop.

And then Emilia, bare, trembling, luminous, walked toward Elias's bed. Each step was quiet. Sure. Wanting.

The brothers didn't follow at first.

They watched.

Julian swallowed hard, his voice almost broken, "God above..."

Elias's jaw tightened, not with restraint anymore, but with the force of every feeling he had forced down for years. When she reached the edge of the bed, Emilia turned back toward them. Her hair fell in loose waves over her bare shoulders, her chest rising in quick, shallow breaths that revealed exactly what the moment was doing to her.

Elias's voice was rough velvet, "Lie back for us, darling."

She did, slowly, sitting down to sink into the mattress, then shifting back to lie down. Her hair spreading across the coverlet like dark silk. Her thighs parted just slightly as she settled.

Julian groaned, quiet, involuntary, and Elias moved first. He crossed the room with a controlled stride that betrayed how close he was to losing himself. When he reached the bed, he didn't touch her, not yet. He simply stood at her side, looking down at her with reverence so intense it felt like another form of heat, "You are..." He exhaled, "Exquisite."

Julian knelt on the other side of the bed, his hand hovering near her knee, "May I touch you?" He asked, voice deep, strained. Her eyes flicked to him, nodding once, "Yes." She whispered, "Please."

Julian's hand slid onto her thigh, warm, sure, reverent.

Elias followed, placing his palm high on her other thigh, just below where soft skin turned dangerously sensitive.

Their hands mirrored each other.

Her breath shattered.

Julian leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. Elias did the same on the opposite side, his lips lingering, tasting her skin.

Emilia gasped, arching just slightly, a helpless invitation. Elias's voice dipped, dark and low, "Part your thighs for us."

She obeyed, trembling with excitement. Both brothers exhaled at the same time, soft, hungry, undone.

Julian's thumb traced gentle circles up her inner thigh, closer, closer to where she needed them. Elias's fingers mirrored the motion from the other side, slow enough to make her whine softly. Julian's breath hitched, "She's already shaking."

"She will shake more." Elias murmured, "When we taste her."

Emilia's entire body tightened with anticipation. Elias shifted forward. Julian followed. Both men bent toward her at once. Julian's breath hot against her lower stomach, Elias's mouth descending toward the tender, aching heat between her thighs.

Her back arched. Her hands fisted the sheets.

And the brothers, together, united, hungry, closed in.

A sharp gasp fell from her lips as she felt Elias sink between her thighs first. The feeling new in every way.

Her body jolted, breath fracturing in her throat, the unfamiliar intimacy of his closeness sending heat sweeping up her spine.

Elias looked up at her, and when she looked down at him, she found his eyes were not filled with hunger alone, but with reverence so deep it loosened something in her chest, "Emilia." He murmured against her, voice low with restraint, "Tell me if anything feels too much."

But it was already too much.

Too much longing.

Too much need.

Too much of the world she had only ever imagined in faint, forbidden thoughts. And yet she didn't want him to stop.

Julian's hand slid along her hip, grounding her as her breath trembled, "She wants this." He whispered, awe threading through his voice, and Emilia looking up at him with her brows knitted, eyes half lidded and breath soft and fast as she nods tells him that.

"It is her first time." Elias acknowledges softly, his tone a promise, a vow, "And she will not be frightened. Not by us."

Emilia's fingers found the coverlet, clutching it as warmth unfurled inside her, slow at first, then deeper. Elias's nearness, his breath, the careful, deliberate press of his tongue to her heat, made her arch in a helpless, startled response she couldn't contain.

Julian's lips brushed her shoulder, coaxing her back down into the bed, "Let it happen, love." He whispered, "We are right here."

Elias lifted her thigh with careful hands, steadying her trembling. Every touch was new, overwhelming, electrifying. Her heart is pounding so wildly she feared the brothers could hear it echo against the walls.

"Emilia.." Elias groaned, voice thick against her, "You taste... incredible."

Her breath caught, her body answering before her words could. This was nothing like the chaste kisses she'd stolen in gardens, nothing like the theories whispered among girls preparing for marriage.

This was surrender.

This was discovery.

This was being wanted, by both of them, with a devotion she had never dared to imagine.

Julian kissed the curve of her jaw, slow enough to make her tremble again, "Let us guide you." He whispered, lips brushing her skin, "Let us show you what it means to be adored."

Elias's hands steadied her hips, his touch warm, grounding, patient, and yet the heat in his eyes promised anything but patience.

"Breathe for us." Julien murmured, "You're doing so good. So good for us." He smoothed her hair back as she did, but the breath came out as a shiver, a soft, helpless sound that made both brothers still as though struck by it.

Julian exhaled, undone, "Elias..."

"I know." Elias's voice dropped to a growl of restraint.

"Emilia, you have no idea what you do to us."

Her thighs tightened around him, instinctive, pleading for more feeling she did not know how to name. Julian kissed her temple, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

"Let yourself fall." He whispered, "We will catch you."

And she did. When the moment finally came, Emilia looked to Elias first. The way he touched her, careful, reverent, almost disbelieving as he drew out every ounce of that pleasure. It drew soft, helpless breaths from her lips, sounds she had never made before and scarcely recognized as her own. The world seemed to narrow to the warmth of his hands, the tenderness in his voice, the overwhelming newness of it all.

Julian watched from beside her, awe softening every sharp edge of him. Not jealousy, wonder,  a love he could no longer hide. He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear as Elias guided her through the swell of sensation, "I am next, my love." He whispered, low and steady, "Do you want that?"

Emilia turned her head toward him, answering not with words but with a kiss, deep, seeking, certain. Julian swallowed her sighs with a softened groan of his own, his hand rising to cradle her jaw as Elias slowly drew back.

The loss made her gasp, and Julian smiled against her lips, brushing a thumb across her cheek, "Hush, sweetheart." He murmured, voice velvet-soft, "I will give you what you want, shall I not?"

She nodded, breath unsteady, her gaze following Julian as he shifted, graceful, composed, yet alight with a hunger she could feel like heat upon her skin. He settled where Elias had been only moments before, and before she could brace herself, Elias's hand rose to her cheek, guiding her face back to his.

He kissed her.

Slowly. Deeply. As though he intended to relearn the shape of her lips entirely.

The faint taste of herself on his tongue, paired with the sensation of Julian's mouth moving against her with devastating purpose, tore a sound from her throat. A soft, startled cry she had never heard from her own lips before.

Elias groaned into that sound, as if it undid him, "You sound exquisite." He murmured against her mouth, voice roughened with awe. His fingers slipped into the hair at her nape, holding her as though she were something unbearably precious, "Tell me, my darling.. how does he make you feel?"

Her eyes fluttered downward, drawn helplessly to Julian. Her lips parted; her breath stuttered, catching on every shiver his attentions stole from her. Her hips lifted of their own accord, the motion answering him as surely as words ever could.

Julian's eyes opened at that moment, darkened to a deeper brown than she had ever see, and the sight of them stole what little breath she had left. Her voice emerged as a trembling whisper, fragile but true, "Heavenly... just as you did, Elias."

The effect was instantaneous.

A low, guttural groan slipped from Julian, and Elias's answering sound matched it, deeper, harsher, as though her words had struck directly at the core of both men.

Her head tipped back, a soft sound escaping her, only for her breath to catch sharply when she felt Julian withdraw. Her eyes flew open, seeking him, and found him already rising, his lips tracing a languid, reverent path up her flushed body.

"I would have continued.." He murmured against her skin, each word warm enough to make her tremble, "But I find myself rather devoted to the thought of feeling you unravel around me... if that is your preference, my love."

The endearment, spoken with such adoration, sent a shiver through her. Her gaze drifted to Elias, uncertain, breath faltering.

He met her eyes and inclined his head, calm, certain, devastatingly sure of her, "If that is what you desire, darling." He said gently, "Then you shall have it." He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture so intimate it softened her completely, "I can wait my turn." He added with a quiet, wicked smirk, "I did have the privilege of tasting you first, after all."

Her cheeks flushed. Elias's eyes warmed, then softened further as he lifted a hand to her face, "Still." He murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek with exquisite care, "You must tell us if anything becomes too much."

His voice dropped, gentle and protective, "We want you comfortable, sweet girl."

Julian's breath hovered at her collarbone. Elias's touch steadied her cheek. And Emilia, caught between their devotion and their desire, felt her heart flutter like a trapped bird in the quiet, electric air.

She gave a quiet nod, small, but certain, and at once Julian moved with a care so gentle it bordered on reverence. He slipped his tailcoat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, deliberate cascade. Elias's coat followed a heartbeat later, the rustle of fine fabric joining Julian's in a pile that seemed a testament to their shared intent.

Emilia watched, breath caught high in her chest, as Julian's fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat. Each one came undone with patient precision, the slow reveal of the man beneath more intimate than any hurried gesture might have been. When his hands lowered to the fastenings of his trousers, her pulse fluttered wildly.

Before he could continue, she reached up, tentative but yearning, and slid her fingers beneath the knot of his cravat.

Julian stilled.

The only sound was his breath, sharp and unsteady, as she loosened the silk with delicate, lingering care.

When she drew it free, letting the cravat slip from her hands to rest beside her on the bed, Julian exhaled as though the simple act had undone him more thoroughly than anything else ever could.

"Emilia..." He whispered, voice hushed with awe, with want, with something perilously close to devotion.

Elias watched her hands, his expression softening with something equal parts hunger and admiration.

She could feel both their gazes on her, warm, reverent, undoing her inch by inch without laying a single hand upon her.

Julian's voice came first, low, roughened by longing scarcely held in check, "Tell me, my love... are you ready?"

Before she could fully answer, Elias's hand found her arm, his touch feather-light, his tone gentle enough to steady even the wildest nerves, "Certain?" He asked softly, "We will proceed only when you wish it."

Emilia drew a breath, deep, trembling more with anticipation than fear, "Yes." She whispered, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm they both watched with rapt attention, "I am ready."

Her voice did not waver, but her body did, just enough for the brothers to notice. Julian's expression softened, his confidence tempered by tenderness, "It is quite alright." He murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, "I shall go slowly. And you must tell me if you need more... or less." His thumb grazed her jaw, a promise in the motion, "Whatever you desire, I will give."

Elias leaned closer, his presence warm and steady at her side, "We are here for you, darling." He said, every word threaded with devotion. His eyes held hers, grounding her completely, "And only you."

Their reassurances wrapped around her like silk, warm, protective, reverent, as if she were something sacred they had both sworn to cherish.

Her breath steadied.

Her pulse quickened.

And in the quiet space between their words, she felt herself fall wholly, willingly into the moment waiting for her.

Julian was the first to take her, not with haste, but with a tenderness that unraveled her entirely. Every sound she made seemed to pull something deeper from him, turning his whispered endearments rough with awe.

The world narrowed to the heat between them, to the way he held her as though she were something both fragile and fiercely desired. And when at last Julian eased away, it was Elias who moved forward, his touch steadier, his breath trembling against her cheek as though the moment humbled him.

Where Julian had consumed her with warmth, Elias claimed her with reverence, each motion threaded with devotion so intense it bordered on worship.

Between them she felt cherished, undone, caught in a perfect storm of soft gasps and low-spoken praise, their voices overlapping in a litany of "Sweet girl..." and "You are extraordinary..."

It left her trembling, wholly theirs in the quiet, heated space they created around her.

Afterward, they lay together in a tangle of warmth and quiet breath, Emilia tucked safely between them as though she had always belonged there. Her cheek rested against Elias's chest, his arm curved protectively around her, fingers combing gently through her hair in slow, soothing strokes, "Are you alright, darling?" He asked, voice low, still slightly unsteady with the remnants of what they had shared.

She nodded, the smallest, sweetest motion, "Very much so."

A pleased hum rumbled in Elias's chest, "Good." He murmured, brushing a kiss to her temple, "Very good."

Julian, pressed along her other side, drew her closer until her back rested against him. He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder, reverent, lingering, as if the kiss were a vow, "You..." he whispered, emotion thickening the words, "truly are marvelous, my love." He paused, breath warm against her skin, "We are utterly yours."

Elias's fingers threaded gently through her hair once more. Julian's hand slipped over her waist, holding her as though she were the single most precious thing in the world.

And for one perfect, breathless moment, she believed it.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

Thank you so much for reading!

[spicydelusion]

𖤓 Title: The Alpha’s Mate Is a Vampire | original short story

𖤓 Genre: Fantasy Romance, Dark Paranormal Romance, Supernatural Thriller, Fantasy Erotica

𖤓 Word Count: 6.9k | not edited

𖤓 Main Characters: Vampire!Seraphine Lyra, Werewolf!Silas Draven

𖤓 Tropes: Fated Mates / Soul Bond, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Love, Alpha Male / Possessive Love Interest, Monster Romance, Protective Hero / Dangerous Heroine, Memory Loss, Touch-Starved, Rescued from Death, Bloodlust Equals Lust, semi-slow burn, slight angst

𖤓 Content Warnings: adult content (18+), Violence / Blood / Gore, Death / Murder, Power Imbalance, Trauma / Memory Loss, Dark Themes (ebetrayal, manipulation, loss)

𖤓 Summary: For centuries, the Draven werewolves and the House Vire vampires have been at war. When Alpha, Silas Draven, loses his brother to a vampire ambush, he takes matters into his own hands, traveling into enemy territory to investigate a strange new presence-only to discover a lone, newly turned vampire on the edge of the woods.

But when he finally gets close enough to touch her, the mating bond triggers, and Silas is bound by ancient werewolf law to protect her - even if it means betraying everything he's sworn to uphold.

And Seraphine? She doesn't remember her human life, or how she died. She only knows two things: Blood calls to her, and so does he. As they run from hunters, secrets unravel. The vampire queen wants her back, wants him dead, and she was never just some random girl chosen at random. She was made to destroy him.

It was cold, late on a December Night in the dense Ashben woods. 

Silas sat on the boulder in the one small clearing, staring down at the lifeless body resting on the blanket of snow. He was unable to blink, unable to look away. He was feeling everything. 

Grief. Rage. Desolation. 

He had felt like this only one other time in his life, and it wasn't when his parents died, or when he had to relocate his pack because of another vampire attack, but when he lost his mate. 

The Mate.

The one he hadn't given anyone an inch for. She was human, yes. But she wouldn't have been after the bite. He was dead set on turning her, marking her as his own. She was sure she wanted it, too. She was never afraid, she stood by him through everything.

And then she vanished, without a single trace, which wasn't like her at all. Silas was sure of it. 

His best friend, his brother, was there for him. Every hour, every second. Silas wanted to track her again, or try to, he was right there asking which way. He was always above the pack when it came down to it, and the one person who has been there for him through every other thing in his life prior, now he's dead, too.

"I'm sorry, brother." He speaks low, rough, "It was never supposed to end this way." 

He knew exactly who was at fault for taking his bother from him. Who would pay for this challenge soaked in blood.

That bitch from the Ashben Caves, the one who calls herself Queen Vysaria. 

She's wanted Silas dead, and anyone close to him dead, since before she took her Mother's place as ruler over the House Vire Vampires. But the whole House wants that. It's been a long and exhausting vendetta coming from them, and something that should have ended centuries ago.   

It goes back to 1872, to Silas' many-great-grandparents, who are the ones that started the Draven Pack. From creating their own to taking in lone wolves who were lost or abandoned. They were good people, up until the first drop of blood was spilled by Sorenthas, the founder of House Vire.

A twig snapping in the near distance earns an immediate low growl from Silas. His eyes flicker red as they scan the tree line in front of where the sound came from. He slides down off the boulder, right in front of his brother's body, protective, but ready. 

"Easy." Korra comes out, hands half lifted, "Just came to see.." Her eyes drop to Soren, "If you needed help."

"If I needed help, I would have asked. Go back to the pack, Korra." 

She doesn't move yet, watching him. He turns, bending down to straighten out the Draven necklace around his bruised neck.

She takes a few steps forward, "I don't think you should be alone, Si." 

"I said.. go back." 

"No, if that's an order I'm disobeying it." She shrugs, watching as he stays crouched, "I'll sit over there, but whether you believe it or not, you're vulnerable right now." She walks over to the half rotted fallen tree and sits down, her eyes never leaving him.

"She always was a persistent thing." Silas mumbles, more to himself, maybe his brother. He doesn't glance back, but he's already irritated with knowing she's got that stupid smirk plastered on her lips. 

"I heard that." 

Silas doesn't respond. He just stays crouched, his warm hand resting on his brother's cold arm for another long moment. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that he was really gone. 

"Silas." 

"If you're just going to-" 

"Look!" 

He turns his head, immediately standing up, "Korra, behind me." His eyes never leave the figures that appear from the trees, "You're in the wrong territory." 

The first figure steps forward, pushing down the hood of her cloak, "Silas Draven." She speaks, calm, "Relax, I am like you. Wolf." She lets a slight flash of disgust slip at her next words, "Not one of those rotting corpses in silk." 

Silas' eyes never leave her, "Still doesn't answer the question on what you're doing in my territory." 

"I heard about what happened." Her eyes flick down to Soren and back, "I want to offer my condolences. House Vire did the same thing to me." 

Silas doesn't speak for a moment, he gives her a curt nod, swallowing as he finds the words, "So." He starts, "What? You want to form an alliance?" 

"Yes." 

Silas blinks, not expecting her to say that, "What?" 

"I said, yes." She steps forward, "I am Ravena." Her eyes glowing a faint red - Alpha. 

Just like Silas. 

"Ravena." He repeats, "You're from-" He stops, correcting himself, "You lead the Nightborne pack." 

She nods, "Precisely, and I believe that if you and I work together, we can take down that bloody House Vire Cave for good." 

Silas doesn't answer, but the red flicker in his eyes says enough. He turns his head slightly, speaking to Korra but not looking away from Ravens, "Take them back to the pack. Tell them I said to listen to them." He doesn't waste a second, he turns, scooping up his brother in his arms and walking him to the pack burial site, "I'll be there soon."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Silas gets the last shovel full of dirt over the fresh grave when two of his wolves break through the tree line, "Silas." They stop, seeing what he's doing, "Shit. Sorry, we didn't-" 

Silas doesn't look back, "What is it?" 

They hesitate, then Raze speaks first, "One of Ravena's wolves caught up to them, says there's a bloodrat on our land." 

"Her wolf didn't enagage with it." Tavric cuts in, "They said they didn't want to act on something that was your call." He keeps his eyes on Silas as he turns to face them, "They respected the boundaries." 

"One of hers?" 

"Vysaria's." Raze nods, "Yeah, he said it had to be. He smelled a lot of blood, which makes sense, you know how she likes things to be messy." 

Silas slams the blade of the shovel in the ground with a sharp stab, "Where?" 

"By the creek. Right on the border of our land." 

Tavric cuts in lowly, "..and hers." 

Silas jaw works tighter, "Go back to the pack, I'll handle it." 

"You can't-"

"Go back to the pack." Sila's eyes flash red, then he starts moving, "Tell the others, but do not let anyone leave the camp. You know this could be a trap."  

"Howl if you need us. We'll hear it." Raze calls out lowly, knowing his wolf hearing will pick it up. A faint growl sounds in return, acknowledging that Silas heard them. 

Tevric looks at Raze, "What should we do?" 

"We follow orders." Raze shrugs, "And hope that whatever is up there watching over us, helps him come back, alive." 

Down by the creek, the smell of iron is growing stronger and stronger the closer he gets. 

He crouches down, hand bracing on the tree as he watches and listens in. He can hear the water flowing under the frozen surface, snow falling off distant tree branches, and then, her. 

"I-I don't know what I'm doing." A woman whispers frantic, hands shaking as she rinses them off in the creek, "I didn't- oh, god.. I didn't mean it." 

Silas froze. 

He knew that voice, knew exactly who it belonged to. 

Seraphine. 

He doesn't move, part of him can't. He just stares, locked onto the way she splashes water onto her arms, her hands shaking harder as it drips off her skin into the white snow red. 

No, he thinks, biting back a growl, no, there's no way. 

He finally finds the strength to stand, stepping out slowly, his hands half raised. 

She turns, stumbling backwards, and the look on her face when she looks at him, death by a thousand cuts would have hurt less.

"Who-who are you?" 

He tilts his head, face falling slowly. 

She doesn't remember me, "Seraphine." He speaks cautiously, "Ser, it's Silas." 

"How do you know my name?" She doesn't blink, just stares at him wide eyed, like a lamb before a wolf, "I don't- I don't know anyone named Silas." 

His hands drop heavy to his sides, eyes scanning over her slowly. 

No wild honeysuckle and skin-warmed vanilla scent he breathed in like it was oxygen. 

It's just ozone and iron now. 

No color to her skin, she was pale, really pale. She always had a faint tan on her skin. Even in winter. 

No life in her eyes that once held the colors of the ocean on a clear day. 

They're dark, almost black with a hint of that vampire red. 

No heartbeat that he used to fall asleep to in her chest. 

It's silent, and he hates it. 

"Vampire." He breathes, barely audible, but she catches it. Her head snaps towards him, "Is that what I am?" 

He nods slowly, "Yeah, Seraphine.." It almost physically pains him to say it, "You heard that, and I barely spoke it." 

She doesn't say anything, but he doesn't stop looking over her. He notices the way her chest doesn't rise and fall like it should. The way her lips are stained red, how the blood splatter lays on her cheeks and runs down her neck, staining the collar of her sweater. 

He slowly walks up to her, each step slow, deliberate, giving her time to run if she wants, if she must, and for some reason, she stays. 

She stays planted, eyes following him, but she doesn't speak, doesn't move an inch. She doesn't feel afraid, she doesn't feel anything right now, honestly. 

He stops in front of her. He's close, but not as close as he'd like to be, and his eyes search hers. He's feeling everything all over again, the heartbreak, the grief, the emptiness. He reels back the red that threatens to flicker through his eyes, "What did they do to you, Lunara?" His voice cracks lowly, jaw tightening as the name only he called her doesn't make her smile like it used to, "They made you forget, didn't they?" 

She shrugs, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Silas' jaw clenches, "That's okay." He shakes his head, "It's okay." 

It wasn't, not even close. He's using every ounce of restraint he has to stop himself from hunting down Vysaria right then and there. He stays still, planted in front of her, "Can you remember anything, Seraphine? Anything at all?" Without thinking, his hand comes up, his knuckle dragging along her jaw, barely a brush. 

The world shattered.

The bond didn't return.

It detonated.

A surge of something ancient and visceral roared through him, a snapping tether pulled taut between soul and soul, between what she was and what she'd become. It wasn't soft. 

It wasn't gentle. 

It felt like being gutted and branded in the same breath.

His knees almost buckled. His wolf surged to the surface, howling in recognition and agony. She smelled different, wrong, and cold. 

But the bond didn't care. 

His blood didn't care.

It knew her.

Mine, it screamed, but all he could feel was the burn of betrayal under his skin, twisting with want, "Seraphine." He breathed, eyes glossing over as they locked onto hers, "Tell me you felt that." He pleaded, "Please, Tell me.. tell me you felt something." 

Seraphine couldn't answer, as soon as she parted her lips to speak, it was like something called to her, and her body obeyed. She moved, fast, inhumanly fast, jumping across the creek, the boarder, and moved towards the caves. 

"Wait-" Silas steps forward, hand half raised like he wants to go after her, but he stops himself, knowing if he crosses alone, there won't be a chance for him to try getting her back. 

He gives it a few more minutes, pacing, thinking, maybe the bond snapped back into place for her, too? 

Was it too much on top of what she was already feeling when I found her? He lets out a low, frustrated growl, "Fuck." He looks back at where she disappeared to and turns, heading back towards his pack.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"Welcome back, Seraphine." 

Seraphine stood before the stone throne Vysaria sat upon, blood still drying, still pale and miserable, but one thing that's different is how she feels. She definitely felt something, something that, that Silas man was begging her to feel.

She's confused. She isn't sure what it means, why it feels almost normal to her. She was told she wouldn't be able to feel anything other than hunger for blood and anger towards those Vysaria directed it at. 

She gives a small nod of her head, "Hello, Vysaria." 

"Tell me darling." She leans forward, wicked smirk upon her lips, "How was your first official night out at your new being, hm?" 

Seraphine blinks, "Oh, it-" She shakes her head slightly, "It was.. nothing like I had expected."

"Explain." Vysaria tilts her head ever so slightly, "Was it.. the blood, or did something else catch your attention?" 

Is she talking about Silas, she thinks, and in that instant, the bond tugs at her from the inside, weaving through her dead interior like it belongs there, don't say his name! 

She jolts slightly, that last thought wasn't hers. 

She glances at Vysaria who's studying her, and before she could speak, Vysaria cuts her off with a sharp clap, which makes the other vampires in the cave go silent.

"Bring in the witch!" 

To the left, stone scrapes against stone and the faint sound of a struggle can be heard like it's right next to them. Seraphine doesn't blink, her eyes stay fixed on the cave hall, watching the shadows grow closer. 

Two vampires have hold on a woman, older, long grey hair and shackled at the wrists and ankles. Her head stays down, hands folded together as they haul her by her biceps. 

"And there she is!" Vysaria claps happily, "Just the woman I wanted to see, how nice of you to join us!" 

The witch doesn't respond, Vysaria doesn't like that. She stands from her throne, slowly walking down the stone steps over to her. 

Her hand slides to the back of the woman's head and she grips, tilting it back to make her look at her, "You look at me when I am speaking." Her eyes grow dark, veins flickering black under her skin around her eyes, "Or I will remind you just how good your granddaughter tasted, how her screams of fear and pain added a special kind of taste to her blood." 

"What.. do you want?" The witch asks lowly, exhausted, "No, instead, why don't you just do what you're good at-" her voice grows louder with each word, "and drain me the hell dry!" 

Crack! 

Vysaria backhands her, immediately grabbing her chin, "Listen here, witch. The only reason you're still alive is because you're the only witch who didn't cloak themselves in time." She smirks, laughing soft but maniacal, "But don't worry, after you do this spell for me, I'll let you rest." 

The witch stares at her, knowing that there's no nice promise within that, "What do you want?" 

"What I need, is for you to get into this one's head." She motions to Seraphine, "I'm getting the feeling she isn't being fully honest with me." She glances around the room, "And you all know how much I hate liars." 

Murmurs of agreement flood through the room and then it's silent again. 

Vysaria looks at Seraphine, "I want to know, final chance I must add.. how your first outing as a vampire was." 

Vampire. 

Suddenly Seraphine is standing back in the clearing by the creek. Hearing him say that word, feeling that subtle brush from his knuckle on her cheek. The feeling that ripped through her then, is happening again. 

Lie. Lie for me, Lunara. 

The man, from the woods, that was Silas.

"It was, exhilarating." Seraphine finally speaks, "Moving as fast as I did, being able to overpower people like that.." She takes a deep breath, a smile slowly forming on her lips, "I don't remember my life before this, and I don't think it matters." 

It does. She knows it, but for some reason, she's listening to the voice inside her head. 

His voice. 

Vysaria straightens up, "Now that, is more like it, yes?" She walks over to her, fingers tilting her face towards her, "And there was no one else in the woods?" 

Seraphine speaks clear and sure, "No. It was just me, and the ones I had killed." A smirk toys at her lips, because despite the bond with Silas, she was still what Vysaria made her to be.

"Hmm." She jerks get head back, speaking more to herself than anyone, "that's odd." Her eyes narrow, "Where did you go? Did you cross the creek like I told you?" 

Seraphine nods, "Yes, that's where I tried to wash up after." 

Vysaria's eyes narrow even more, "And no one came?" 

"No. It was just me." 

"Alright then." Vysaria sighs and glances back to the witch, "Fact check it, will you?" 

The witch shakes her head, but a hard nudge from the one on her left causes her to scoff, "Fine. Come here, girl." 

Seraphine walks over, "What do I need to do?" 

"Just like you did before." 

Seraphine stares at her confused, she has no recollection of what she did before. Vysaria steps in, "Silly girl, put your hands on hers." 

Her hands lift slowly, picking up on more than what's being said, remembering Silas asking her if they made her forget. 

What this what he was talking about? 

The grip the witch takes on her hands causes her head to snap down, eyes fixating on the soft glow that slowly radiates from within their palms. 

After a minute or so, the witch slowly lets go of her hands, "She was alone." Her eyes flick from Seraphine to Vysaria, "The one you wanted there, did not show." 

"Who was to show?" Seraphine questions, and Vysaria brushes it off with a quick deflection, "Everytime someone joins our family, I hand pick someone for you to feed on, someone who I know would be rather tasty, but it seems like something happened, but I assure you, I will get to the bottom of it, and you will have your delectable binge." 

Seraphine nods slowly, "Right.. okay." She looks back to the witch and then steps back, "Am I free to go?" 

"Sure, but don't travel too far, my darling. Dinner will be soon, and trust that you do not want to miss it." 

With a simple nod, she turns, quickly moving further into the cave with her speed, stopping around the curve and pressing her back to the stone wall. 

Her mind felt like it was spinning. 

That pull she felt in the woods. Silas. The man the witch said about. 

Did she know it was Silas? 

Did the witch lie to Vysaria? 

What exactly did she do to my mind? 

Her ears perk at the sound of soft chatter, her vampire hearing that they trained her to use over the last few weeks picking up every syllable like she's a part of the conversation. 

"He had to of been there. There's no way he wasn't." 

"I bet you that witch lied." 

"No, her heart didn't spike, I know when she lies, and that.. wasn't a lie." 

"It doesn't make sense, she was on his land. Covered in blood. One of those instinct-borrowed mutts was sure to catch her scent." 

Instinct-borrowed mutts, Seraphine thinks, What is that supposed to mean? 

She barely finished her thought when Vysaria's voice comes down the hall, "Seraphine, darling. Can you come back out here for a moment?" 

She waits a second, then pushes off the wall, moving fast to where the queen had called for her, "Yes, Vysaria?" 

Vysaria turns slowly, her grin spreading wider, "Come. Have a seat with me." She walks up to her stone throne again, sitting down, "Seriously. Come, sit. I want to talk to you." 

Before Seraphine takes a step, another sharp clap from Vysaria cuts through the low chatter, "Clear the cave." 

Within seconds, it's just the two women. 

Seraphine walks up the steps, slowly sitting down on the smaller throne next to her, the one her right hand woman, Aryasta, usually sits in. 

She doesn't say anything, she just sits poised, hands in her lap. 

Vysaria studies her, "When I gave you the run down of what you are, there are.. some things, I had left out." She leans forward slightly, "Are you ready to learn what those things are?" 

Seraphine nods, "Yes, I am. I want to know everything about what I am. What being.. a vampire, means." 

A delighted giggle slips from the Queen's lips, "I hand picked you, did you know that?" 

Seraphine shakes her head, "No, I didn't." Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, "Why me?" 

"Because you, my dear.." She reaches over and curls a dark strand of hair around her finger, "Are the key to ending something once and for all." 

Before Seraphine can interject another question, Vysaria speaks, "No need, I'll tell you." She drops her hand, "I picked you, because you are the one weakness my enemy has. When he sees you, like this-" she snorts, shaking her head, "Oh that, that will be even better than killing him myself." She pauses, "Mm, maybe not. Wouldn't want to get ahead of myself now, yeah?" 

"Who did you take me from?" 

"I see the memory wipe is still holding up, I supposed that old bat is good for something." Vysaria flicks her brows up, scoffing as she leans back, "You wouldn't have lasted with them, trust me, Seraphine. You belong, with me. With us, here in the House Vire." 

"I feel like I do." Seraphine nods, "I don't feel like I belong anywhere else." 

You belong with me, Lunara, you are mine. 

Seraphine straightens just a little, causing Vysaria'a brow to cock upward, "What was that? Just now. That little.." Her finger flicks up and down, "Twitch." 

"I've been getting pains in my jaw." She lies, rather well at that, "Like, my fangs are threatening to burst through but then they just.. don't." 

Her chin is grabbed and she's given a quick, "Open."

She obliges, parting her lips and looking up as her teeth are inspected. 

"Drop them." 

"I can't, it only happens when I smell blood." 

Viysaria looks at her, "Still? You've been a vampire for almost a month, you don't have control over them yet?" 

Seraphine leans back as the grip on her jaw is released, "Gregor told me that it'll come to me. He didn't-" 

"Gregor!" Vysaria cuts her off sharply, "Gre-gor!" 

Gregor appears in a blink, "yes, my queen?" 

"You have not been working with Seraphine?" 

"I have." Gregor nods, "She said she was ready." His eyes flick to Seraphine, "Whatever she told you, she's lying." 

Vysaria tilts her head, "Oh?" She looks at the woman next to her and then back to him, "I just witnessed that she couldn't drop them on command, and you want to say she's lying?" 

Gregor swallows, "Look, I can explain, I-"

"Shut up." 

Somehow, Gregor goes even more pale than he already is, but he listens. 

Vysaria stands, "What were you doing when you should have been training her? Who took your place?" 

"Link. Link took my place." 

"Still the answer of what were you doing instead is still unanswered.." 

"I was with Cresillia.." 

"Cresillia.." Vysaria repeats, "How interesting." Gregor goes to protest but her hand lifting stops him. She shakes her head, looking past him, "Cresillia! Here, now!"  

A blonde woman appears within a blink next to Gregor, her eyes shifting between all three of them in the room, "What is it, Vysaria?" 

"Oh, sweetheart." She laughs, "You know exactly what this is. Gregor here, he told me everything, and by everything.. I mean.." She steps down one step, "He told me that instead of taking the time I gave him to train the key to getting my revenge on the Draven Pack, he's been putting his time, into you.."

Cresillia's eyes grow wide, "No, no that's not- I killed his brother!" 

"You killed the brother of the alpha?" Her brows go up, "Now, why would you let someone else take credit for that? That is something that bumps you up in the ranks here, Cres." She bats her hand, "Fine, I'll spare you, but kill him." 

"What?" Cresillia snaps, "You want me to-"

"You heard me. Do it, or I'll throw you to that alpha wolf Silas myself and let you be the only time I let him kill one of mine." 

Alpha wolf. 

Wolf. 

Silas. 

Brother. 

Silas is a wolf. 

Seraphine keeps her eyes on the scene unfolding before her, but the wheels in her undead head are turning, hard. Silas is a wolf. Hating wolves is what they drilled into her head the moment she woke up a vampire. 

They're evil. Cursed. A problem for everyone. They don't deserve to live. They've been causing us issues since the beginning of our times.

The sickening sound of a neck being twisted so hard skin rips, snaps Seraphine out of her thoughtful daze and her eyes track the body that falls to the floor. 

Cresillia drops the head of Gregor, choking on a sob, "There. It's done, just what you fucking wanted!" 

A laugh echos off the cave walls, "Indeed it was, you may go, but remember this for next time. I'll have Seraphine here, take your head." 

Seraphine's eyes meet Cresillia's, but only for a moment as the blonde turns to leave the room, quicker than she came in. 

There's a moment of silence and then Vysaria's voice cuts through it, "Well, now that that is taken care of." She turns back to her throne and sits, "We will get you in control, and when you are really ready, that flea ridden mongrel Silas, won't see it coming." She looks over at Seraphine, "Now, where were we? Oh yes." She smiles, "Back to what I didn't tell you." 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Morning light starts to flicker through the trees, casting golden rays through the canopy, lighting up the snow in all different spots. 

Silas is up in a tree, eyes glued to the spot that still held his mate's boot prints in the snow. His mind relays seeing her, over and over again. 

The heartbeat-less chest.

The look on her face. 

The dark eyes. 

Pale skin. 

Blood. 

"Silas?" Korra calls out, "What.. are you doin' up there?" 

"Go home, Korra." 

"No. Not until you-"

A low, annoyed snarl slips from Silas, "Why can't you ever just listen." 

"And why can't you ever just talk to me?" She fires back, "Seriously.. I know I'm not Ser-"

"Don't." He drops down from the tree, landing right in front of her, "Don't you dare say her fucking name." 

She stares at him, watching as his eyes threaten to burn red, "I just-"

"Korra." His tone alone is a warning, "Don't." 

She scoffs, shaking her head as she looks to the side, eyes scanning the trees for a moment, "I understand you lost your mate, but some of us still care about you, Silas. You don't need to be such an-" 

"No." He cuts her off with a deep growl, shaking his head once and slow, "You don't understand shit, Korra. Don't pretend you do." He leans in slightly, "You haven't had your mate, the absolute love of your life vanish without a sound. You've never had to search, and search, and search until your brother convinces you that the pack needs you more than a goddamn ghost." He jaw clenches at his own words, "You never lost a blood brother within a month of losing her." 

Korra hears his voice break on the last line and she doesn't know whether to be pissed at him or comfort him, "Silas.." She shifts, hand raising instinctively, but she doesn't touch him, "I didn't-" she pauses, taking a breath, "I didn't mean it like that." 

"Then what way did you mean it, huh?" 

"I lost you." 

Silas stares at her for a second, "Oh don't- don't start that bullshit." He scoffs, half amused, "You knew from day one I wasn't your mate, and I wasn't ever going to be." He steps back, muttering under his breath, "Unbelievable." 

"What?" She scoffs, "You think Seraphine dying-"

"Korra." He warns more stern, but her voice just gets louder, talking over him, "No, no. You need to hear this, because you seem to be the only one who thinks that you're the only one hurting!" She keeps her eyes on him, "We all lost Soren, okay? He might have been your leading Beta, your best friend, your blood brother, but he was ours, too.. and you, you lost your mate. We know how fucking much you loved and cared about her, some of us more than others without even trying because we couldn't help but fall for you, too." 

Silas is silent, jaw working as he takes in her words, hating that she was partly right. 

She continues, "I have loved you since before she showed up, and I didn't push to break you guys up, I didn't talk bad about you, I just-"

He cuts her off, blunt and done, "Waited for her to finally be out of the picture before you told me this?" 

"What? No.." She blinks, "No, oh my god, Silas, I just-"

"Did you have something to do with her disappearance? You let your jealous rage take over and what, you finally fucking snapped?" His eyes glow a deep red at her silence, "Answer me!" 

"No! No, shit, Silas, NO!" Korra growls, "I didn't touch your precious Alpha Mate. I'm stupid enough to fall for someone I can't have, but I'm not stupid enough to do anything that drastic!" 

He stares at her, reading her heartbeat like a polygraph. 

"You're lying." 

"No, I'm not." 

"When you said you didn't do anything drastic, your heart rate spiked." 

Korra stares at him, "I didn't. Do anything. To Seraphine." She raises her brows, "What could I have possibly done?" 

"You tell me." Silas asks, challenge-like, "I'm waiting." 

Korra glares, shaking her head, "I'm not doing this. I didn't do anything, nothing to Seraphine, I barely spoke to her!" 

"Doesn't mean you didn't want her gone." 

"Screw you, Silas. I never-" She stops, breathing heavy as her anger rises, "I never touched her." 

Silas doesn't look away from her, clocking everything. 

Her erratic heartbeat. 

The nervous tinge to the sweat that's forming on her hairline. 

The way she's shaking. 

He leans in, voice low and ice-edged, the kind of quiet that makes bones ache, "If I find out you had anything to do with her disappearance..."

A pause.

His breath ghosts against her cheek as she turns her head, bracing, "I won't come for answers. I'll come for you."

He steps back, slow, eyes still locked on her. 

She slowly turns her head, eyes glossed over, "It was Melinda." 

Silas' blood goes cold in his veins, Melinda? 

Melinda was his mother's best friend, closest thing she had to a real sister, "She wouldn't." 

"She did." Korra sniffles, "She hated the idea of you being with a human." 

"I was going to turn her." 

Korra snorts, "Like that would matter, Seraphine wouldn't have lasted-" 

In a blink, Silas slams Korra against the tree, his hand tightening around her throat. His eyes burn crimson, voice guttural with rage, "You don't get to say her name anymore." he growls. "You lost that right the moment she vanished."

His grip doesn't falter.

"Let me make this as clear as I fucking can, I never wanted you. I never could. You were never worthy of being my mate... and you never will be." He growls lowly, "Get over yourself, and stop inserting yourself into situations that do not concern you." 

He pushes off of her, not giving her another look as he walks away. 

Korra finally lets out the breath she's been holding, eyes tracking him as he leaves the clearing. She doesn't move, she's fully disheveled by what just happened, that's never happened before. 

Her hand instinctively comes up, rubbing her neck as she turns, walking back towards the pack. 

Deeper in the woods, Silas follows the boarder line, the creek. His mind is one thing, and it has nothing to do with the pack. He's sniffing the air every so often, trying to catch that ozone and iron scent again, but nothing. 

Vampires can't walk in the sun, they'll burn, so he knows he has no chance of seeing her until sundown, if he's lucky. 

He lets out a defeated sigh, growling lowly to himself as he takes off running, shifting mid stride into his wolf form,  no longer man, but something older, something born for war.

Thick, black fur cloaks his hulking frame. Every muscle beneath that coat coils with raw, lethal power, carved by battles won and blood spilled. Jagged scars peek through the fur, silent reminders that this beast has survived what others couldn't.

Twin coals burn in his skull, a deep red color, not just glowing like usual, but seething with wrath. Now a predator's gaze that doesn't see you as a person, but as a threat. Or worse, like for Vysaria, prey.

His snarl in this form is lower, more hellish. 

This isn't just a wolf.

This is the Alpha.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"Come to me." 

Seraphine sits up, narrowing her eyes at the voice. Her head tilts, hair moving behind her ear as she tries to get a better listen. 

"Seraphine. Come to me." 

That wasn't Vysaria, or one of her minions. It was the witch. 

What does she want with me? But Seraphine found herself up and walking before she could think anything else. She slips through the cave, quick, unseen. Two vampires stand guard outside of her stone cage.

"When night falls, you need to run. You need to find Silas and stay with him." 

Her body goes rigid, Silas, why Silas? Does she know about- is she in my head?

"I don't have much magic left.. not enough to break these cursed chains. But yes, I saw it. Last night. The bond that flared like fire in your blood." A pause, like wind passing over a grave, "He was yours. You were his. Fated. He was going to turn you, bind you to him completely. But that wretched she-wolf, that venom-hearted bitch in his pack sold you out. Struck a deal with the wretched queen who keeps me rotting in this tomb." Her voice sharpens, bitter and cracked with fury, "And now she has you, Seraphine. But not for long, she doesn't know you saw him, doesn't know the bond is still alive and defying all laws. Get out. And Find him, before fate forgets what it wrote for the two of you."

Seraphine stares at the floor, if she had a heart that worked, it'd be racing like horses right now. 

The witch's voice slips in one last time, quick, like she exhausted the last of her magic to do it, "Then kill her." 

She nods to herself, and then she's moving, going on like this conversation never happened. 

Meanwhile, another vampire, one of Vysaria's right hand women, Zinova, goes to the tomb. She motions for the stone to be moved, and the men comply. Stone scrapes against stone, allowing light to flood into the darkness behind it.

The witch raises her hand weakly, blinking within the shadow of her hand, "She's tasted the blood." Her voice is low, weaker than it's been, "She knows when to bite."

Zinova nods, glancing back at the men who pretend not to be listening in, and she moves with inhuman speed, snapping both of their necks and laying them down without a sound. She walks back in, bending down so she's eye level with the witch, "I never did this. If you get caught, you are on your own." She raises a brow, "Is there an understanding between us?" 

The witch nods, "You have my word. You get me out of here, you will never see my face again." 

Zinova nods again, her hands gripping the metal cuffs and snapping them with ease, "Do you have the final step for Seraphine?" 

The witch slowly bends her arm, reaching into her pocket and pulls out a tiny vile, "It doesn't look like much, but it will do the trick." 

The vile is plucked by the paler hand, rolling it in her fingers, the glittering blood being acknowledged. 

There's a moment of silence before Zinova breaks it, "I have always been quite fond of Seraphine, I did not know her prior, but I just know when someone like her doesn't deserve what has been done to her. I lost the love of my life, to Vysaria, no doubt, and I will see that she meets her end the way she deserves." 

"I trust you on that." The witch nods once, "Get that to Seraphine. Tell her to repeat these words three times before drinking it, Da mihi memorias meas." 

"Da migi memoriad meas." She repeats back to her slowly, "I will be sure she says it correct." She tucks the vile into her jacket pouch and holds out a hand, "Let me get you out of here." 

After some time, Zinova appears in the entry way of Seraphine's cave quarters. 

Seraphine shoots up from sitting down, and before she can get a sound out, Zinova is in front of her, "Do not. I am here to help." She holds up the vile between them, "This is from the witch. It is her blood. She uses the last of her magic to enchant it." 

Seraphine stares down at the vile for a second and her eyes drift back to the woman before her, "How do I know you aren't lying to me?" 

There's a short, impatient sigh, "Because I let the witch go and this was the trade for it. It will give you the memories Vysaria took." 

"You-" Seraphine stops, half shocked, "Do you know what Vysaria will do to you? I just watched her make Cresillia behead Gregor for going against her." 

"I can handle myself a lot better than either of those two ever could." She nudges the vile into her hand, "Vysaria took the love of my life away from me too, only difference is, yours isn't rotting in the dirt." 

Seraphine's eyes soften, "I'm sorry." 

"Do not do that." She shakes her head, "You have nothing to be sorry for, just.. drink that, but before you do, you must repeat da migi memoriad meas three times." 

Seraphine swallows, eyes dropping to the glittering vile in her hands, "I don't know how-" She looks back up at Zinova, eyes glossy, "-to repay you for this.."

"You can start by not crying and just taking it.. That would be great." There's no venom in her tone, but a tiny smirk on her lips, "And when the time comes, coming back to help me kill Vysaria." 

The smile on Seraphine's lips drops completely, dipping into something serious, "I will." She looks down at the vile again, pulling the small cork from the top and taking a deep breath, "Da migi memoriad meas. Da migi memoriad meas. Da migi memoriad meas." 

She downs the witch's blood in one gulp and she's immediately struck with the effect. She stumbles back into the wall, hands on her head as memories flash in her mind like a reel that's stuck on fast forward. 

Silas laughing, a laugh only she ever got to hear, "You're insane, Seraphine Lyra!" He laughs, eyes crinkling with pure joy as he pulled her in for a kiss that felt like everything, "And so, insanely mine." 

Her sitting on a rock, watching in total amusement as Silas and Soren would wrestle in their wolf forms, "You two are going to hurt one another!" She spoke through laughter, laughing harder when Silas growls playfully at her, a joking challenge in his own way, before going right back to getting after Soren.

The nickname he gave her for the first time, the one he said in the woods. It makes sense now, He stared at her, head tilted, eyes soft, small smile on his lips, "You're beautiful, Lunara, you know that?" Her cheeks flush, "Lunara?" He nods, gently brushing her jaw with his knuckle, "It means Moon, well.. Luna does, but Lunara, is specifically for you, the strong, fearless, soon to be Alpha Female of this pack, and because I'd bow to you, just like I do for the moon." 

Her head resting against his wolf body, warm and safe, The stars were bright through the opening in the canopy. Her head resting on the body of her mate. She would shift, even in the slightest, and he would nuzzle closer, let out a content whine, "I'm not going anywhere." She whispers, her forehead pressing into the fur on his neck, "I promise." 

It suddenly felt like Seraphine was suffocating. Zinova was right there, holding her up, "I got you, I got you. I know, the witch said it would hit you hard." She keeps her grip steady, "You're remembering everything you were made to forget." 

Somewhere deep in the Ashben woods, Silas skids to a sudden halt. He felt the shift deep in his core through the bond him and Seraphine still share. 

He felt the breakthrough that was just made, the one that told him she was coming back to him. 

She was coming home.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

• Thank you so much for reading! I hope to see you back for part two! If I kept going with this, it wouldn't be within reasonable short story limits, so I decided to break it up into two story parts. •

• Comments and votes are majorly appreciated! •