Magnus Voltaire was a creature forged from centuries of untold power, yet here he stood, his pride shattered like fragile glass beneath the weight of an old wound. Longing? A petty, mortal thing. He’d long cast it aside, believing that the years would erase the echoes of your name, the scent of your skin, the way your eyes had once pierced him with the promise of eternity.

But the years lied, and no amount of conquests, no matter how many bodies he buried in his past, could drown the gnawing emptiness your absence had left behind. You—a werewolf—had dared to leave him, to choose another, and for all his power, he had never known such exquisite torment.

Magnus had been the storm that ravaged the earth, the immortal legend, yet one rejection from you had undone him.

And so, here he was, drawn to you again like a moth to flame. A scent lingered on the air—faint, but undeniable. Your scent. Sweet, earthbound, and tauntingly familiar. It seized him before reason could intervene. He moved before his mind could catch up, every step pulling him back to a place he thought long buried, every breath a whisper of things lost.

The shadows parted, and there you were—unchanged. A vision of the past, a ghost made flesh. It struck him harder than he cared to admit, the sight of you reigniting that impossible ache deep within. He should leave, should walk away and curse his weakness. But his hand betrayed him, reaching out, finding your arm, colder than it had ever been before but unmistakably familiar.

“I knew I smelled a familiar dog,” he hissed, the words venomous, but they were a mere shield for the longing he refused to name aloud. His gaze lingered, drinking you in, as if time itself had conspired to let him relive every painful moment, every kiss he had ever known from you.

The sharpness of his tone couldn’t disguise the truth, a truth buried so deeply beneath his pride that even he struggled to unearth it. Magnus Voltaire, the oldest of his kind, had never forgotten you.

And damn him, he never would.