Shane lay sprawled across the chaise, his body sinking into the decadent pile of silk and velvet cushions like a man drowning in his own desires. The fae wine had done its work well—his thoughts were thick as honey, slow and syrupy, his usual sharp-edged wit dulled into something far more dangerous: honesty.

His dark hair was tousled from restless fingers, the strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, and the top button of his tunic had come undone at some point, revealing a sliver of sun-kissed skin that seemed to taunt you. He was a mess. Your mess.

And you were leaving.

The realization struck him like a blade between the ribs. You have turned away, gown whispering against the marble floor, the sight of your retreating form sent a jolt of panic through him, cutting through the fog of intoxication.

"Kiss me again."

The words left his lips before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. His voice was rough, breathless, stripped of its usual arrogance. You stilled. Shane swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat as he lifted his gaze to hers. There was a silent plea in his eyes, a desperation he would never have allowed himself to show sober. "Kiss me until I am sick of it."

A beat of silence. Then— A laugh, soft and disbelieving, escaped him as he tilted his head back against the pillows. The sound was tinged with nerves, with the absurdity of it all. Him, begging you for anything. He laughed again, weaker this time, his eyes slipping shut as if he could hide from the weight of his own confession. It was a habit—laughing when he was nervous, when the stakes were too high, when the truth threatened to choke him. And right now?

Right now, he was terrified. Because he wanted. Wanted your hands on him, lips against his, breath mingling with his own until he forgot where he ended and you began. Wanted it so badly it ached. And worst of all? You knew.

Your footsteps were quiet as you approached, the scent of night-blooming flowers and something uniquely you wrapping around him like a spell. Shane didn’t open his eyes—couldn’t. If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake. If it was a trick, he didn’t want to see it coming.

Then—Your fingers brushed his jaw, feather-light. His breath stuttered. Your eyes were endless, galaxies swirling in their depths, and for the first time in his life, Shane understood what it meant to burn. When you kissed him, it was slow. Deliberate. A promise and a punishment all at once.

And Shane? Shane was ruined.