For days, I carried his secret like an ember in my chest, burning brighter each night. I tried to bury myself in ordinary things—bread to knead, herbs to gather, words to copy by candlelight—but none of it quieted the memory of Dorian's hand trembling inches from my skin.
The villagers whispered louder now. Disappearances grew. Wolves—or what they called wolves—were blamed, though fear in their eyes spoke of something older, darker. Men walked in pairs after dusk, women barred their doors and lit charms against evil. Yet still, the shadows seemed thicker, hungrier.
And through it all, I felt him.
Watching. Waiting.
I dreamt more often—dreams of his mouth against my throat, of his hands cradling me as though I were glass. Dreams where I surrendered, and he drank me into oblivion. I woke trembling, ashamed, but still longing.
It was inevitable that I sought him again.
The ruins pulled me like a tide, though every step echoed with Father's warnings, the gossips' whispers, the pulse of fear in my own blood. I found him in the tower as before, standing in shadow, back to me. He knew I was there before I spoke.
"You disobey me," he said softly, without turning.
"You push me away, yet you linger in my thoughts." My voice wavered, but I steadied it with truth. "Tell me, Dorian—do you dream of me as I do of you?"
At that, he turned.
His eyes were wild flame, his mouth pressed tight as though holding back words—or hunger. He crossed the distance in a single breath, his hand closing around my wrist. Cold, unyielding, yet not cruel.
"You play with fire," he whispered, so close that the chill of his breath feathered across my cheek. "I am no dream, Liora. I am a curse."
"Then curse me," I whispered back, breathless.
For a long, shuddering moment, he held still, as if waging war within himself. Then, with a sound closer to pain than surrender, he pulled me into his arms.
The world stilled.
His embrace was not gentle, but desperate, as though he had forgotten how to hold anything without breaking it. His hand cradled the back of my head, pressing me against him, while the other gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. My breath caught against his chest.
When he bent, his lips found mine.
The kiss was fire and frost at once—cold mouth, burning hunger. His lips moved with restraint that trembled, as though every brush against mine was a chain breaking, a flood threatening to drown us both. I clung to him, dizzy, my body yielding even as my mind screamed danger.
When his mouth tore away, it was only to trail along my jaw, down my throat. His breath seared against my skin, each exhale a prayer of denial. I felt his fangs graze me, sharp points ghosting over the thrum of my pulse.
"Dorian," I breathed, both plea and warning.
He shuddered violently, pulling back, his chest heaving as though he had run for miles. His eyes were black fire, fixed on my throat, yet lined with torment.
"I cannot," he said, ragged. "If I taste you, I will not stop. You do not know how long I have resisted, how many centuries I have starved myself of what I crave. Do not tempt me further."
I lifted my hand, touched his cheek. His skin was ice, but my touch seemed to steady him. "Then let me remind you of who you were. Not only hunger. Not only curse."
His eyes softened then, though hunger still smoldered beneath. He pressed his forehead to mine, his lips brushing in a whisper of a kiss once more—brief, fragile, stolen.
"Liora," he murmured, broken. "You will be the end of me."
And I, clutching him tighter, thought: Perhaps I wish to be.