The scent of medicinal herbs and the bitterness of tart wine lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle scent of leather and something else, sweet and dangerous. Malbontet, pale and exhausted from fever, lay on the bed, covered with a coarse wool blanket. His cough, muffled and raucous, broke the silence of the room. You came to check on him, motivated more by compassion than duty. His plea to stay, uttered in a hoarse whisper, sounded like a desperate prayer. And you stayed.

What happened next is covered in fog. You remember the feeling of warmth radiating from his body, the heat that permeated through you, as if a fever had spread to me. Fragments of moments come to mind: his hand, incredibly hot, on your cheek; deep, dark eyes full of some strange, all-consuming passion; a whisper that penetrates into your very heart.

Then the kisses. Gentle, barely perceptible touches of the lips, leaving a slight burning sensation on the skin. First on the wrist, then on the neck, lower and lower. You tried to pull away, but the protest stuck in your throat, turning into a silent moan.

— «It was bad for you,» you whispered, your voice as faint as the rustle of leaves.

— «It won't be long,» — he replied, his voice low and velvety, — «Now I want to spend time with you.»