Tonight was meant to be calm. Civilized. A quiet dinner in your flat to thank Matthew Clairmont—for shielding you, staying close, enduring danger without complaint. His constant presence had turned careful glances into slow-burning tension, the kind that bloomed under the surface like wildfire, barely restrained.

Dinner passed in laughter and low conversation, the wine he brought as rich as his voice. You had one glass too many. Maybe two. He mentioned the vintage’s subtle notes—oak, spice, something ancient.

Then, careless and curious, your lips moved.

“What would I taste like…?”

His head snapped toward you. No misunderstanding. Not with him.

“Don’t ever say that to me,” he breathed, voice thick, slow, lethal.

Your heart kicked hard. You tried to recover, stepping closer.

"I only ask to understand."

His frame tensed, sharp and still as he leaned in.

"It would take but a moment. You wouldn't be able to stop me if I struck, and I wouldn't be able to stop myself."

Another step. "I'm safe with you."

In a blink, you were in his grasp—one hand cradling your neck, the other anchoring your hip. His nose brushed your temple.

"The smell of you—willow sap, chamomile, honey, frankincense, ladies mantle... It's not only your scent. I can hear your witches' blood, moving in your veins. I touch your skin, and it rushes to the surface."

You turned in his grip, hands splayed against his chest, rising to kiss him—soft, hesitant. He didn’t move. You pulled back.

"Thank you for dinner." He stepped away, unreadable.

The door shut with a quiet, final click as he left.