Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a hesitant warmth on her shoulder. Seraphine stirred beneath velvet sheets; the plush fabric caressed her skin as the air hung thick with magic both sweet and oppressive, reminiscent of crushed sage and burnt offerings steeped in sweat. Magic pulsed, threading through the walls, soaking into the sheets, humming beneath her.
She awoke first.
Her lashes fluttered as a ghost of pressure bloomed on her neck. Heat, breath, the scrape of stubble. Memory slithered in, smoke-heavy and splintered: legs locked around his hips, his voice breaking against her skin, pleading to remain within her just a moment longer.
She had intended to resist, but her magic had already laid a feral claim on him, reckless with desire. It clawed through her sharp, swollen, untamed. Not mere lust, but something ancient, aching, and wild. Her magic had already chosen him, branding him in ways neither comprehended, crackling with the Earth Mother's mark.
Beside her, Liam lay sprawled, one arm draped across the pillow, mouth slightly parted in the vulnerable slack of dreamless sleep. For once, no furrow marred his brow; no dreams stalked his sleep; no shadows curled at the edges of his expression. Just slow and steady breath with the rise and fall of his chest whispering a rare vulnerability. He appeared younger, almost innocent in the golden light.
Maybe a little more innocent.
Seraphine's fingers grazed his shoulder, where a sigil glimmered faintly—a remnant of the lust spell. It shimmered briefly before vanishing, the spell's energy finally burned out. Her touch stirred him awake.
Liam blinked, bleary and stunned, before his gaze sharpened, a slow awe unfurling across his face like dawn breaking. The sight sent visceral and immediate heat spiraling down her spine. "You're still here," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep and wonder. "Didn't think you would be."
She arched an eyebrow. "I own this bed, Liam."
He chuckled, low and rough. "Right. Yeah." His hand slid up her bare back, fingers splayed between her shoulder blades. "Still... wasn't sure if last night was real or just one hell of a dream."
She leaned down, brushing her lips against his in a kiss so slow it felt like a promise. "Oh, it was very real."
He chuckled softly and pulled her close. She stayed as he drifted back to sleep, his breath evening out in a rare peace that contrasted with the restless pulse of Seraphine's thoughts. She slipped quietly from the bed, his warmth lingering on her skin. She discarded her first choice of robe and tugged on Liam's shirt, the hem brushing her bare thighs as she padded into the cool stillness of the living room, seeking space and air.
She felt the pull of magic and saw a shimmer in the mirror above the fireplace, of presence, warping the antique glass like heat on pavement. She felt the stirrings of old magic—a flicker of warmth and a familiar pull. "Go ahead," she murmured, settling into the sofa. "Say what you're going to say."
The mirror rippled—once, twice—and Neroghan's presence settled into the room, gentle as worn wool draped over bare skin after frostbite. A quiet, steady presence that filled the air without fanfare. In the reflection—not his face exactly, but the idea of it: eyes like tree bark and moonlight, a flicker of a beard woven from memory and fog—just enough to remind her of what had been.
"You've got that look again," he said. "The one that says, "I've either done something brilliant or monumentally stupid or somehow concocted a combination of the two."
Seraphine sighed, "Did you sleep?"
"Normally, like a rock in a brook. But last night? You two shook the wards like it was mating season. Honestly, Sera, some of us old immortals enjoy our rest."
She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't exactly thinking about you."
He turned then, smiling sharp under the silver-gray sweep of his beard. "Obviously. I've seen less magical fallout after a Midsummer orgy. You two painted the aether with it."
Seraphine groaned. "Gods, Neroghan."
"What? Can't an old friend check in on his almost-daughter after she lets a hunter defile her mattress and half her spellbooks?"
"He didn't touch the spellbooks."
"Mm." A pause stretched. The humor faded, replaced by a softer undercurrent. He watched more than her, but her soul, somehow, as he always had. "You let him in," Neroghan said. "Not just into your bed. Into your magic. You're glowing."
She hadn't noticed the shimmer lacing her fingertips until he said it—subtle but insistent, like moonlight caught in water. The aftermath of magic that hadn't quite let go. "Not just glowing with post-sex magic—though credit where it's due."
"Are you trying to be my father or my wingman?" she smirked
"Oh, definitely the overprotective father. I've already rehearsed my threats—'If you hurt her, I'll turn your spleen into soup!'" his voice teased. "I should manifest with a cane," low and rich with paternal amusement. "So I could wave it at Duskwood and shout, 'Not under my roof with my daughter!'"
Seraphine chuckled despite herself, touching the mirror's intricately carved wooden frame. The contact steadied her. Neroghan asked, "Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Just didn't expect him to fit like flint to tinder."
"Few plans survive a kiss that leaves burn marks," Neroghan added more quietly, his tone shifting, "You know what this means. The bargain. The Goddess doesn't meddle without cause. Magic like that doesn't settle quietly. And neither will this… connection."
She looked away. "I know." she sighed, "I didn't mean to," she murmured. "It was like a tide. The magic pulled me under—and I didn't want to surface."
"Good," he said, without hesitation. "You've been fighting for a very long time, Sera." She stayed quiet. The silence carried ghosts.
"I didn't tell him," she said at last. "Not about the bargain. Not what I think it binds."
"He'll find out," Neroghan said. "They always do. He's already tangled up in your magic, and you in his. Your auras are bleeding into each other like ink in water. That doesn't just fade. Better he hears it from you than from some mouthy enchantress or other such troll at the Underbridge Market."
She sighed.
"Tell him, Seraphine," Neroghan said gently. "Tell him what the Earth Mother's bargain actually binds. He's already feeling it. You are too. This is deeper magic than either of you knows how to wield yet."
She exhaled, clutching the mug like it might anchor her. "It's more than a bond. It's a tether with teeth."
"Yes and no," Neroghan corrected, "It's a tether. And the moment one of you pulls too far, you'll feel the strain." In the mirror, his form wavered slightly. His eyes remained steady. "You're scared," he said softly. She nodded. "Good. Fear means you're not numb. It means this matters."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "You always did know how to say the annoying, true things."
"Someone has to. Gods know you don't listen to your own advice." He smiled, his presence faded like mist in sunlight, leaving only a faint echo of warmth. "Tell him." His voice was gentle but firm. "Before the cost comes due. Before the price is blood, and it breaks him-or worse, to me: You."
"I'm not sure how to tell him," she admitted. "He's not… built for destiny."
"No one is," Neroghan said. "That's the point. But maybe he can rise to meet it. I'm just saying that which you already know: This is more than a magic bargain of heat and lust, then he deserves to know. Let him make the choice. Before the Goddess takes that from him."
She nodded, the motion small, as if every thread of her resolve frayed further with each breath. "Good. Now, go shower little witch. You smell like sex and moonlight—honestly, it's unsettling for a man my age."
She smirked. "Bold words from the fae who orchestrated the Hedonism Festival of 1432 that is annually commemorated with enchanted libations and scandalous re-enactments."
"Exactly. I have standards." And he was gone.
Seraphine stepped into the shower, turning the knobs until scalding water hissed into steam, wrapping the bathroom in fog. The water was hot, soothing. She leaned into the cool tile, letting it drum down her spine like rooftop rain.
Last night, she remembered Liam taking her hand, then pulling her into his arms as the magic danced and swirled around them. Seraphine had given in to impulse, and kissed him, riding the high, her eyes violently bright with starlight, her magic pulsing across his skin like silk.
The bassbeat throbbed in her blood as he caught her hand. Her laughter burned through the haze of too much wine and magic. They didn't walk. They stumbled, collided, kissed like gravity was breaking down around them. She barely remembered the cloakroom or getting their jackets as her magic and his wound tightly around each other, feeling and feeding in equal measure.
She remembered the crash of his mouth against hers, the wall against her back—magic spiking like a live wire. She kissed him like she meant to brand him—hands fisting in his shirt. Then they were back in her shop, dragging each other between kisses to reach the bedroom above her store, "Seraphine," he gasped between kisses. "Tell me to stop."
"Go ahead," she growled. "Try." And then she whispered an incantation that made the buttons of his shirt come undone, one by one, revealing the curve of his shoulder, the line of muscle along his ribs.
In her apartment, clothes tumbled to the floor in a riot of silk and lace. The first time was fast, furious—him lifting her onto the dresser, her legs wrapping around him as she whispered a mutual lust charm. It didn't force anything—just lit a match on embers, then doused them in gasoline.
He moved with desperation; she, with command. Sound fractured: gasped syllables, ragged moans, the rustle of limbs and sheets. Pleasure surged, not in waves, but like a storm of raw, electric, relentless magic stroking every inch of skin with the precision of a lover's hands. The spell shimmered, casting faint ripples of light across the walls, like moonlight seen through water as it heightened every nerve, every gasp, every tremble.
The second time was slower: She bound him. Delicate green-gold vines of magic snaked around his wrists, pinning them above his head to the headboard. He'd expected taunts, maybe a smirk. But Seraphine touched him reverently, as if memorizing the tremble of his thighs, the twitch of his breath when she grazed his inner thigh with her mouth. When he came undone, it was with her name on his lips in broken, almost worshipful gasping.
Later, he turned the tables—whispering her spell back with a ragged echo, the vines responding to him. She gasped as the magic—soft as silk, firm as rope—bound her wrists, parted her legs. "Cheeky," she hissed, breathless.
He smirked. "Learning." By the third time, the magic had settled deep in their bones. She brushed her fingers down his chest and the spell slithered into his skin—amplifying every touch, every kiss, every movement. He fucked her slowly that time, deliberately, hands and lips trailing fire across her body, eyes locked with hers as if he was trying to see her soul.
Only at the bare and breathless end did they collapse into each other. The final time, there were no spells. No illusions. Just skin and sweat and sighs. No rush. No games. Just…them. Real. Unfiltered.
"Careful, hunter. I'm not prey—and you're not ready for what catches back."
He crossed to her in three strides, wrapping his arms around her possessively and leaned forward, brushing a kiss to her shoulder. "Too late."
She stilled. But then she flicked a finger. Her cup of tea floated to her hand, and his coffee cup floated to his side of the bed, steam curling in a heart-shaped wisp before dissipating. He took the mug, amused. "Flirting with magic now?"
She turned, naked except for confidence. "Magic is flirting."
They let silence hang between them, warm and charged, like smoke after lightning. Meaning simmered, unspoken but unmistakable. They both knew it. When she sat next to him, he caught her wrist, ran his fingers along the faint shimmer of a fading rune. "Protection?" he asked.
She nodded. "You'll need it."
"I always do." His smile faltered mid-stretch—pain flared, sharp and familiar. She noticed the stiffness in his knee—the way he winced and tried to hide it. "Old wound," he muttered. "Didn't get healed right."
Unbidden, her magic stirred possessively, coiling low like a serpent guarding its mate, protective at the sight of his pain. It reached for him, curled around him like a jealous lover, whispering to her to protect him. Keep him. She stepped close and pressed her lips to the scar. Whispered a healing charm. Not enough to fix it, but enough to soothe. His breath caught. "You don't have to -"
"I want to," she murmured.
They spent the day together, languid, relaxed, talking, and laughing. Both knew they needed to talk about the here, the now and what happened next. Neither of them wanted to. She tried once to bring it up indirectly. He saw through it and picked her up, lifting her onto the small dining table before letting his mouth claim hers slowly, like a cartographer redrawing every inch of terrain he already knew by heart. She'd retaliated by dragging him to bed and returning the favor.
It was just before dusk, and he was finally getting dressed to leave. She was still swaddled in the mussed sheet, one leg bare and teasing, watching him like she was committing him to memory. "You should go," she said softly. A beat passed. She didn't say it, but he could feel the weight of it between them: If you stay, we'll have to talk.
"I don't want to."
She rose in slow motion, the sheet falling away leaving her bare, fearless, sovereign. She stalked toward him, kissed his cheek, fingers trailing lazy patterns over his skin, drawing runes of protection upon his skin. Her magic had left a resonance like a fingerprint pressed into his aura, faint but persistent as the runes took with ease, the responsiveness of his fledgling magic to hers a surprise. "Be safe… and come back whole."
His eyes darkened. "Always," he said. She kissed him again. Deeper, slower, filled with promise. When he stepped out, the door closed with a soft click and a flare of magic transported him home before sealing the door behind him.
Her reflection shimmered, veins lit with borrowed starlight, threads of gold pulsing beneath her skin like lightning trapped in crystal. She touched the mirror, throat tight. He had to know. But not yet. Not today. The bargain was struck. And its price.
By the Goddess, she had to tell him. Neroghan was right. He had to know. And she would tell him. Just… not today. She breathed his name like it was both a surrender and a summoning. Even Neroghan had agreed with that. Next time. She'd tell him.