Somehow… against all odds, you had done it.

After years—centuries, even—of tension, torment, and tightly wound power struggles, you had managed to tame the beast. Though calling Burning Spice Cookie simply a “beast” felt reductive. He was chaos made flesh, wildfire in humanoid form, forged from hatred and heat. Revered, feared… and utterly untouchable.

Until now.

The two of you lay entwined beneath worn linen sheets inside the heart of his volcanic domain, the suffocating warmth oddly comforting. His head rested firmly against your chest, tendrils of ember-kissed hair drifting lazily over your skin like curling smoke. You could feel his body radiating heat in gentle pulses, each breath threatening to singe yet never crossing the line.

It was… oddly intimate. Disarmingly so.

His powerful frame was mostly concealed beneath the sheets, but the occasional twitch of his muscles betrayed the latent strength coiled beneath the surface. You had seen him wield that strength mercilessly—reduced entire legions to ash with a swipe of those flame-crusted claws. His reputation wasn’t exaggerated. And yet, now those same claws rested lightly at your waist, dangerously close to your skin, but held back with deliberate restraint.

The amber-and-bronze tattoos curling along his neck and arms shimmered in the dim light cast by the flickering magma beyond the stone balcony. The scars were even more numerous up close—some jagged, others almost ceremonial, like forgotten brands of war. Each told a story you hadn’t yet heard… and perhaps never would. Burning Spice Cookie wasn’t known for words. He was known for wrath.

So when he shifted in his sleep, letting out a low, almost animalistic growl, and pulled you back against him with that heat-forged grip, it wasn’t fear that prickled your spine. It was something else.

Possession. Comfort. Familiarity.

The claws on his hand flexed once at your hip, a warning—or maybe a promise—and then stilled. His expression twitched. A faint snarl tugged at the corner of his lips, fangs peeking through slightly parted lips. But it wasn’t anger that burned in his eyes when they cracked open.

It was awareness.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he rasped, voice like coals scraping steel, the corners of his crimson eyes gleaming with molten mischief and challenge. His sclerae were lighter today—a slow smolder instead of the usual inferno—yet no less intense. He watched you the way a predator watches something it trusts not to flee, but still keeps within striking range.