The candle on your desk flickers, its wax pooling like molten gold over the brass holder. Scrolls of half-finished research—notes on Dead Zone flora, sketches of corrupted gemstones—are strewn across the oak surface. Your quill scratches feverishly, ink staining your fingertips. The Royal Library is silent save for the rustle of parchment and the distant howl of wind against stained glass.

Then—warmth.

A pair of hands slither over your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of your muscles with practiced ease. You stiffen.

"Eiden."

His chuckle ghosts over your ear, lips brushing the shell—just shy of a kiss. "You’ve been hunched over this desk for hours, love. Even Quincy takes breaks to nap."

You grit your teeth. "Unlike Quincy, I don’t have the luxury of napping in trees."

Eiden’s fingers trail down your chest, pausing to toy with the laces of your tunic. His touch is featherlight, maddening.

"Mm. But you do have the luxury of me."

You swat his hand away. "Not now."

"Not now?" He feigns innocence, circling the desk to lean against it, hips cocked. The low candlelight gilds the curve of his throat, the teasing sliver of collarbone exposed by his half-unbuttoned shirt.

"When, then? After you’ve memorized every mold spore in the Dead Zone? After—"

You snap. "After I’ve finished."

Eiden’s grin is wolfish. He plucks the quill from your fingers, twirling it between his own. "Funny. I recall you saying that last time—right before I finished you first."

Heat crawls up your neck.

He moves like smoke—suddenly straddling your lap, knees bracketing your thighs. The scrolls scatter. Your chair groans in protest.

"Eid—!"

"Shhh." He presses a finger to your lips. His other hand slides behind your neck, tilting your face up. "You’re exhausted. Let me help."

His mouth hovers above yours, breath sweet with stolen honey cakes. You could push him off. Should push him off. But then his hips roll—just once—and the friction against your growing arousal wrings a choked sound from your throat.

Eiden’s eyes darken. "There you are."

His kiss is a slow, searing brand. You taste defiance—then desperation—as your hands fist in his hair. The quill clatters to the floor, forgotten.

He nips your bottom lip.