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Her fingers clutch at my coat, my shoulders, threading into my hair with an urgency that matches my own. Her body presses flush against mine, the warmth of her burning through layers of clothing, through the icy restraint I've cultivated and relied upon for years.

It is breaking. The walls. The distance. The detachment that has defined me.

Iam breaking. And for the first time in memory, I welcome the fracture.

I taste the remnants of her drink on her lips. I feel the wild, uneven rhythm of her pulse beneath my palm where it cradles her neck, a staccato beat that matches my own. Through the connection, I sense the war inside her—the part that knows she should run, that this complicates everything, and the deeper part that alreadyrecognizes it's too late, that some thresholds once crossed cannot be uncrossed.

Her lips part on a shaky exhale.

It’s my undoing.

I deepen the kiss, fingers tightening in her hair, my restraint, the control I've built my existence upon, shattering completely as she sinks into me with unexpected surrender. A low sound escapes her throat, half-gasp and half-moan, and it's like something detonates.

The shadows in the room surge in response to emotions I've denied for too long. They curl around us like living smoke, thick, alive, protective and possessive all at once. An extension of hunger I can no longer contain. They dance across her skin where my hands don't touch, tracing patterns that mirror the desire pulsing through the bond, leaving trails of cool darkness against her warmth.

Silver light blooms beneath her skin in response, not fighting my darkness as opposing forces should, but meeting it as an equal. Where shadow touches, light answers. The two powers intertwine like lovers embracing, creating intricate patterns across her skin and mine—silver threads through black tapestry, darkness cradling light.

Her palm skims my jaw, her touch featherlight, tentative, exploring ground never before surrendered. Then firmer, more certain. Fingers push into my hair, pulling me down into her, deepening the kiss with the same hunger burning through me. The same need for connection after too long in isolation.

Time shatters.

There is no war. No prophecy. No looming battles against theAuthority. No Veinwardens looking to me for salvation and strategy. No past filled with blood and shadow. No uncertain future.

Only the pull between us. Stronger than gravity. Stronger than reason. Stronger than all the barriers I constructed to keep the world, to keepher, at the distance necessary for survival.

The line between us blurs, the boundary between selves dissolving until there is nothing left but the perfect agony of connection. Something primal and powerful, beyond magic, beyond understanding.

I'm drowning in her.

And I don't care.

I should pull back. The tactician in me, the survivor, knows this is dangerous, unpredictable, a complication that could unravel carefully laid plans.

I can't.

Time is unraveling, the world falling away. Thought is becoming a pure sensation. We are collapsing into each other in ways I never allowed before, never believed possible.

Her body presses even closer, melting against mine, seeking more of whatever is happening between us. I groan against her lips, a sound torn from depths I thought long buried. My restraint is fraying, control slipping away entirely as the shadows respond, drawing tighter around us, creating a world apart...

And then …

The connection implodes without warning. The shadows retreat with violent suddenness. The link snaps like a thread pulled beyond endurance.

The world rushes back in—cold, harsh, separate—and we break apart, staggering as if struck.Breathless. Disoriented by the abrupt severance.

She stares up at me, the silver in her eyes burning brighter against her dilated pupils. Her breathing is quick and uneven, lips slightly parted and reddened from our kiss, cheeks flushed with color. Her hand trembles where it hovers between us, as if she still feels the echo ... as if part of her is still in it, still connected.

“I …” She shakes her head, pressing fingers to her lips. “I don’t know why I did that.”

I exhale, ragged and sharp.

“When you touched my raven.” It takes effort to speak. Tobreathe. To stand separate from her. “It triggered a bond. Something unstable. Temporary.”

She touches her lips briefly, eyes searching mine for answers I can’t give her.

“Was that real? Or just some ... magical effect?” Vulnerability threads through her question—the fear that what felt genuine was merely an illusion, a trick of power and proximity.

“The connection was real.” I choose my words carefully, still grappling with what just happened between us. What it means for everything I've planned.