The Sanctum's silence was a fragile thing, the air still humming with the echoes of broken magic. The cultists had fled, shadows licking at their heels, but the weight of what had nearly been unleashed lingered in the chamber.
Aric's hand still rested on Liora's arm, the warmth of his skin a brand against her chilled flesh. His eyes searched hers, the flickering torchlight catching the flecks of silver in his dark irises.
"You shouldn't have risked that much," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "The shadows nearly devoured you."
She met his gaze, her breath shallow. "And yet you didn't let me fall."
A faint smile curved his lips, though there was nothing gentle in it—only heat and something like a challenge. "I don't make a habit of letting beautiful women be consumed by darkness."
She tried to look away, but his fingers slid from her arm to her wrist, his thumb brushing over the thrum of her pulse. The contact sent a spark of warmth coiling through her, an ache that settled low in her belly.
"Aric…" she began, but he shook his head.
"Don't," he said softly. "Not tonight. No more lies."
He tugged her closer, the space between them crackling like a storm. His breath brushed her cheek, the faintest whisper of warmth in the cold sanctum air.
She could feel the power in him—like the river's current, steady and relentless. His scent was a mix of steel and night-blooming jasmine, and it made her dizzy.
"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.
"Because you're not like them," he said, his thumb still tracing lazy circles against her wrist. "Because when you wield the shadows, they become something more. And because," he said, his gaze flicking to her lips, "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."
The words were a spark to tinder. Her heart hammered in her chest, her own power singing in her veins in answer. She reached up, her fingers tangling in the rough fabric of his cloak, pulling him closer.
His mouth found hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a claiming, fierce and hungry. His hands slipped to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped against his lips, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth.
The shadows around them seemed to dance, responding to the heat that coiled between them. She felt the surge of her own magic, dark and sweet, and it wrapped around them like a cloak.
When he pulled back, his breath was ragged. "We shouldn't," he said, though his hands didn't loosen their grip on her. "This city is already on the edge of war. And we… we're on the wrong side of prophecy."
She touched his cheek, her fingers brushing the faint scar there. "Then let the prophecy wait," she whispered. "Let the city wait. Just for tonight."
His groan was low and rough, and he captured her mouth again. The kiss was deeper this time, more insistent—like he was trying to memorize the taste of her.
Her hands slid under his cloak, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft linen shirt. He was warm and real and alive beneath her palms, and she wanted more—wanted to drown in him.
"Liora," he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to the curve of her hips. "Say you want this."
"I want this," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He kissed her again, his teeth grazing her lower lip. The shadows shivered around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness. It was as if the world beyond the Sanctum had vanished, leaving only this moment—this heat.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together.
"Tomorrow," he said, his voice hoarse. "Tomorrow we face the cult and the city. But tonight… tonight, you're mine."
And in that quiet vow, she felt something shift inside her—something that was more dangerous, and more precious, than any magic she had ever known.