Not acceptance, not forgiveness, but the kind of clear-eyed recognition that comes from seeing someone’s worst self and refusing to look away or pretend it didn’t exist.
“You were a monster.” Her words land with the force of absolute truth, no softening or mercy in the delivery. “Powerful, terrible, and utterly consumed by instincts you couldn’t control. But you know what’s worse than being a monster?”
“What?” The question scrapes out of me, genuine curiosity warring with the need to defend choices I stopped trying to justify centuries ago.
“Being miserable.” She stands, moving closer with movements that should trigger every predatory instinct I possess, but instead make something in my chest tighten without permission. “The witch took your fire because you couldn’t handle it. Fine… that’s punishment fitting the crime. But she also gave you a chance at redemption, at finding contentment that would restore what you lost, and instead of pursuing that, you’ve spent centuries wallowing in ice and isolation like suffering is theonlything you deserve.”
The observation cuts deeper than any blade, exposing truths I’ve avoided examining too closely because doing so might require admitting that the curse wasn’t just punishment but opportunity. A chance to evolve beyond the rage that defined me, to find purpose in something besides domination and destruction.
“You think I haven’t fucking tried?”The words emerge sharp, defense mechanisms activating against vulnerability I’m not equipped to handle. “The flame only burns when I find‘true contentment.’I’ve spent three hundred years searching for that, building this club into something that matters, creating family from beings society rejects, protecting territory that belongs to us through blood and sacrifice. But the flame keeps dying because apparentlynothingI do isenough!”The last words come out in a roar I can barely control, particles in the air turning to ice and begin to fall around us like snow.
She doesn’t waver or react, merely looks at me with kind eyes as the snow clings to her long lashes. “Maybe because you’re searching in the wrong places.” She’s close now, close enough that I can smell the herbs Ivy used on her bandages, so close I see the frost burns marking her skin like brands of my failure to maintain control. “Contentment isn’t achievement or power or having an empire that bows to your will. It’s finding something that quiets the rage. Something that mattersmorethan the destruction.”
Her hand lifts, hesitates in the space between us, then touches my chest right over where my heart beats with rhythms that haven’t felt fully alive in longer than I can remember.
No ice forms at the contact.
No cold rises to drive her away.
Just her hand on my chest and my entire being focused on the warmth bleeding through fabric and skin to touch something I’d forgotten could stillfeel.
“W-what are you doing?” The question comes out strangled, desperate, as chemistry surges between us with enough force to steal breath and reason in equal measure.
“Testing a theory.” Her eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching despite the danger radiating off me in waves. “About why your flame burns brighter when I’m near. About what itmeans that you can’t seem to stay away, even though keeping me alive violates every rule you’re supposed to follow.”
“Roxy—” Her name leaves my mouth like a confession I’m not ready to make, heavy with everything I haven’t said and don’t dare to. Whatever warning or plea I meant to follow it with never has a chance to exist. She rises onto her toes and closes the distance herself, her mouth brushing mine first, soft and tentative, as if testing whether I’ll stop her.
I don’t.
The contact steals the breath straight from my lungs, a sharp, dizzying rush that knocks the world sideways. Her lips move against mine again, firmer this time, and something inside me gives way all at once. The air between us heats, my pulse slamming hard enough that I feel it in my throat as instinct overrides thought, and I kiss her back, deeper, slower, like my body recognizes her before my mind can catch up.
Her mouth is warm.
Real.
Alive.
I register it in fragments, the way her lower lip trembles before settling, the faint hitch in her breath when I answer her, and the way my own restraint frays another inch with every second I don’t pull away. Control slips quietly at first, not shattering but loosening, something old and watchful stirring beneath my skin.
The animal inside me roars to be let free, but I contain him as a sound tears out of me before I can stop it. Low and rough. A growl pressed against her mouth as instinct surges forward and takes the reins. My fingers grip onto her shoulders, and I push her toward the wall, driving her back until her shoulders meet stone with a hard, surprised gasp. Her eyes widen as she stares at me, but instead of recoiling, her fingers slide up into my hair,gripping tight, and she slams her lips to me again, her teeth biting down on my bottom lip as she moans into my mouth.
Fuck!
She arches her body into mine, my cock beginning to harden as she whimpers.
The reaction is immediate and unfiltered, her breath breaking as her body shivers with nothing to do with fear. Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails biting just enough to ground me, and that only feeds the animal snapping awake inside my chest.
It isn’t magic.
It isn’t force.
It’sinevitability.
Her mouth opens against mine, tentative courage giving way to need as the kiss deepens, no longer asking so much as inviting. I don’t freeze her, I don’t pull back, I take the offering she’s making and answer it with the kind of hunger that comes from three centuries of denial, kissing her like my body knows something my mind is still trying to outrun.
Heat floods through me, real heat, not memory. Not an echo of what fire used to be. Warmth surges where ice has ruled for centuries, racing through my veins, igniting something fierce and alive inside my chest. My hands flex at her waist as if they’ve always belonged there, holding her closer even as every rational thought screams that this is a mistake, that she’s human, a prisoner, a complication the witch would never tolerate, no matter what the flame seems to think.
Roxy’s fingers grip my hair again, anchoring herself to me, tugging just enough to send another pulse of satisfaction through that awakened beast. Her body fits against mine like it was shaped for this, for me, and the reasons to stop blur and dissolve under the weight of how right it feels.