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She drags my head closer, lips brushing my ear, breath sticky with wine and the thrill of chaos. The kind that only comes after destruction and laughter and far too much power left unspent.
“Want to know a secret?” she whispers, voice syrup-thick and soaked in mischief.
I don’t answer. I don’t breathe. I don’t fuckingmove.
She presses her lips to my jaw, soft and burning. “I’ve got a thing for you.”
There’s a beat. Just one. Long enough for the words to punch straight into my gut, twist, and leave everything else in ruins.
“I mean, not like a healthy thing,” she adds quickly, like that makes it better. “More like… rage-boner-turned-emotional-devastation.”
Of course.
Of courseshewould confess her attraction like it’s a punchline. Like it doesn’t gut me from the inside out. Like it doesn’t feed the worst parts of me and calm them in the same breath.
I look down at her, and her eyes are glazed but bright—too fucking bright. Like she means every word andstilldoesn’t understand what they do to me.
“You’re drunk,” I mutter.
She grins, proud and feral. “So?”
“So you won’t remember this tomorrow.”
Her hand slides from my hair to my cheek, tracing the scar along my jaw with a care I don’t deserve. “I always remember the important things.”
I want to snap at her. Tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. That her bond to me is a mistake, a curse, something she’ll regret the longer she keeps feeding it.
But I can’t.
Because this? This moment right here—her body melting into mine, her voice threading through my ribs like it belongs there—this is everything I’ve tried to push away.
And it’s not fucking working.
I force myself to focus on the path ahead. On Lucien, who’s definitely seen us lag behind and is probably silently judgingme into another dimension. On Orin, who’s watching the trees like they’ll bite him. On everythingbutthe girl in my arms whispering that she has a thing for me.
But even as I walk, my voice comes out quieter than I expect.
“You shouldn’t.”
She doesn’t ask why.
She doesn’t need to.
Because the bond between us roars its response for me—and it doesn’t give a damn about whatshouldbe.
She pouts—lips full and slick with the ghost of wine, bottom one pushed out just enough to make my entire body stiffen with heat and regret. It's a weapon, that mouth. She knows it. Wields it like a blade laced with poison sweet enough to make you beg for the taste even as it ruins you.
“Do you even think I’m pretty?” she slurs, blinking up at me with wide, wounded eyes that don’t belong in a war like this.
I stop walking.
That’s mistake number one.
Because stopping means looking at her. And looking at her means letting her in again, even after I’ve barricaded every piece of myself against her. She’s the kind of beautiful that hurts. Not the fragile kind. Not delicate or soft or easily forgotten. She’s wildfire—burned at the edges, too bright to look at, and getting brighter every fucking second.
But I can't say any of that.
Because if I give her an inch, she'll take every violent inch of me and carve her name into it.