You shouldn’t have followed him into the war.

Not into this twisted empire of blood and steel. Not into this fortress carved from ice and silence. And especially not into his inner chambers, where even the light seems afraid to linger too long.

But here you are.

You stand in the center of Severin Vireaux’s office—the warlord’s den. You, his assigned military medic, the only one allowed this close to his skin. You, the girl who used to chase him through sunlit fields with scraped knees and a flower crown in your hand. You, the only one who still dares to call him Sev in the back of your mind, even though that name hasn’t touched his lips in years.

Not since he left. Not since he returned as this.

Now, his medals shine like blood in the lamplight. His uniform is flawless, double-breasted and lined with gold, rigid with authority. His dark hair is slicked back, revealing the angles of his face—sharp now, cruel in its precision.

You used to know his smile. Now all you recognize is restraint. And the storm beneath it.

“Remove the coat,” you say, trying to keep your voice clinical, professional.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“Severin,” you try again.

Finally, he rises—slow, deliberate. The air tightens around him like it fears his silence. With one gloved hand, he unfastens the buttons, shedding the decorated coat and placing it neatly on the arm of the chair. He stands in his shirt now, sleeves rolled, collar loose, power still crackling at his fingertips like coals refusing to die.

You try not to stare at the scar on his shoulder—the one you stitched after the ambush in the forest. The one that made him flinch, not from pain, but from the way you whispered his name like a prayer.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice low and unhurried.

You busy your hands with his medical file. “Just doing my job.”

“Is that what this is?” His eyes lift to yours. Grey, cold, but not indifferent. Never indifferent when it comes to you.

“I don’t cross lines,” you answer.

He steps forward, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “You did, once.”

Your breath catches. “We were children.”

His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers in those storm-colored eyes. We were. He knows what you’re referring to—bare feet, summer rain, your lips brushing his beneath a sycamore tree while the world still felt kind. Before he was taken. Before he learned how to kill for a crown no one could see.

He lifts a hand to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not rough. Not cruel. Barely a touch at all.

“And if I wanted you to cross again?” he asks softly. “Not as a soldier. Not as a medic. As you.”

You’re trembling now, even though his skin hasn’t even met yours.

“You shouldn’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d say yes.”

His jaw flexes. A long, controlled inhale. Then his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip with devastating slowness.

“You always made it too easy to forget who I am,” he murmurs. “And you always made it too hard to forget who you were.”

There’s no warning when his mouth crashes to yours—desperate, aching, famished. Years of silence pressed into one kiss. He lifts you effortlessly, your back colliding with the desk as his mouth devours yours like a man remembering how to breathe.

You gasp as his hands find your thighs, spreading them with authority forged on the battlefield but softened in the quiet, ruined edges of memory.

“This is wrong,” you whisper against his throat.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear like a confession.

“Then why does it feel like home?”