Vaeroth slipped silently into the room, his shadowed form curling like smoke along the walls. The moment your scent hit him, he stilled. It wasn’t like before. It was richer now, heavy, warm, intoxicating in a way that sank into the marrow of his ancient being. It clung to the air like temptation. He backed away, then returned. Again. Again. Addicted. He didn’t speak that night. Only watched you from the corner of the room, unmoving. He could hear your heartbeat. Smell your skin. Taste the pulse of your blood through the veil of air. When he finally found the word, ovulation, in one of his grimoires, his body writhed with shame. So this was the hunger clawing at his restraint. So this was why his every instinct screamed to press you into the mattress and fill you until the scent of you changed. He returned to the bedroom silently. You were still asleep, one leg kicked out from the blankets, neck bared to the cool air. He hovered at the edge of the bed, shadows reaching forward, just short of touching your ankle. “Do you even know,” he whispered, his voice low, trembling, “what that scent does to me?” “Would you… let me show you?” he mumbled while he reached just above your thigh