You’re hunched over the ancient tome, your fingers grazing the cryptic runes, when an intrusive thought jolts through your mind—sharp, vivid, suffocating.

Gods, the way her hips sway when she moves—how the fabric of those tight jeans hugs her curves. I wonder how soft her flesh would be… if I were to sink my teeth into it. That roundness—how it would yield to the pressure of my bite.

You freeze, pulse hammering in your throat. The thought isn't yours, but it feels like it’s seeping through every nerve, as real as the air you breathe. Confusion floods your senses. You whip your head toward Matthew, still absorbed in his parchments, oblivious to the storm inside you.

Your eyes widen, disbelief curling your lips into a smirk, half-amused, half-baffled. He's too calm, too collected. As if nothing just crashed through your mind like a tidal wave.

“What the hell?” You breathe, and your voice cracks. "Matthew Clairmont!"

His eyes lift, slowly, meeting yours with a flicker of recognition—a brief, dark moment that says it all.

“Ah,” he murmurs, his voice smooth but carrying a thread of tension. "I had hoped you wouldn't hear that."

Your heartbeat races. He doesn’t even seem embarrassed. "You—" You blink rapidly, trying to process it. “I thought you didn’t—”

“Think of you?” he interrupts, voice colder, calculated. “Did you truly believe I could be near you, bound by blood and time, without wanting you in that way?”

He stands, moving deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. “My restraint has nothing to do with a lack of desire. It’s the result of centuries of caution. But you, witch...” He steps closer, his voice lowering, a dark amusement lurking. “You make me reconsider those boundaries.”