His answering chuckle is low and wicked, pure sin wrapped in sound. But that also means he has to let me go.
I pout the second my feet hit the ground, every ache in me craving his weight again. He starts undoing the straps across his chest, every movement a silent command. One dagger drops, landing on the grass with a soft, metallic thud—each one a dark, dangerous promise I can't look away from.
And by the stars, the way he moves, unbuckling that leather makes heat curl up deep in my belly.
He finds the zipper of his leathers, and fuck, he takes his time. Every inch that slides open makes my thighs clench, each reveal more torturous than the last. Pale skin, hard muscles, sharp lines, black ink curling over him, and his pierced nipplescatching the light, daring me to trace them with my tongue. My mouth parts before I can stop it. I want to taste every mark. Bite them into memory.
He notices.
“You’re drooling, little witch,” he purrs, voice dark enough to make my knees weak. “Should I slow down more, or are you gonna beg already?”
He’s infuriating. Smug, cocky, completely aware of the effect he has on me—and absolutely unbothered by it.
And gods help me, every fibre of me wants to beg. I want to drop to my knees, to beg him to fill me so completely I forget the ache in my chest.
But I won't give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
I lift my gaze to that wicked, hungry glint in his eyes and let out a slow, defiant breath. “You're not nearly as charming as you think you are.”
His smirk deepens. “Oh, love, I’ve never claimed to be charming.”
The top of his leathers slips from his shoulders, revealing more of him. It falls to the ground behind him, forgotten. He steps in, crowding my space like a stormfront, and pulls me against him—skin to skin, heat to heat. There’s no room left to think, only feel.
Then, in an instant, we're moving. The world tilts and blurs with that dizzying speed only he can achieve—the cold air lashing against my exposed skin until we come to a stop at the edge of the river.
A wide, smooth stone rests just above the waterline, kissed by the golden sun. Below, petals drift over the surface—violet, blush pink, bone-white—glowing like spells whispered into the wild.
Malrik guides me to step onto the stone with a gentleness that shouldn’t exist in a body wired for violence. The rock is warm beneath me, kissed by the sunlight, and the scent of crushedwildflowers clings to the air—sweet, heady, intoxicating. The waterfall roars around us.
Just as he dips toward me to kiss me again, he stills.
His head cocks slightly, the predator in him waking with eerie calm. Not tense. Not started. Amused.
“Might as well come out if you’re going to watch, or join us.” He calls out.
I twist, pulse fluttering, and glance over my shoulder.
Ronan leans against the tree at the forest's edge, half draped in shadows. Arms crossed as his eyes roamed my naked body.
His eyes lock onto me—devouring and unblinking—he’s already seen everything. Every scar. Every secret written across my skin. There’s no shame in his gaze, only a dark, intense heat.
Malrik chuckles slowly, the sound brushing over my spine like smoke and sin. “Look at him, little witch,” he says, voice thick with a wicked delight. His hands drag slowly down my arms before he eases me around to face Ronan properly.
My breath hitches.
Ronan steps from the shadows, slow and unhurried. The light cuts along the sharp edges of his stubbled jaw, the dark mess of his hair. His arousal is obvious—straining hard against the front of his grey joggers.
Malrik lets out a dark, amused hum behind me, fingers splaying low on my hips.
“You see that?” He whispers against my neck, fangs grazing skin. “He looks at you like you’re holy. Like you could save him.”
He bites down—not hard, just enough to make me gasp, to feel the sting.
“But we both know you were made to ruin men like us.”
I lick my lips. Ronan moves closer.
“There's a scene that I found in your secret stash of…dirty books, and I’m very eager to try it out with you.”
