The alley still trembled from the heat of their kiss. Astrid's back was against the cold stone, but all she could feel was Gavrael—his scent, his strength, the magnetic storm inside him that pulled her deeper into madness.
Her lipstick was smudged, her pulse wild. His hands still gripped her waist like she was something precious… and dangerous.
She looked up at him, flushed, trembling. "Why do I feel like I've known you forever?"
Gavrael didn't answer immediately. He stared at her with those molten eyes, like he was fighting something inside himself.
"You have," he finally said, voice gravel and velvet. "We've met in every life. You've always been mine."
Astrid's breath caught. "That's not possible."
"It is," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "And this time… I'm not letting you go."
---
They didn't go back to her place.
They went to his.
And his wasn't a home.
It was a lair.
A black Rolls Royce appeared like magic—no driver, just shadows—and carried them up winding roads to a secluded manor hidden in the hills. It looked centuries old, with wrought iron gates and arched windows glowing amber in the night.
Inside was warmth.
Red velvet walls, dark wood, candles that flickered even when there was no breeze.
And silence—like the house was holding its breath.
He led her inside like a king welcoming a stolen queen. No questions. No hesitation. She followed, mesmerized.
Gavrael's coat dropped to the floor. Underneath was a black shirt, fitted perfectly to a chest sculpted like sin. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, veins and tendons flexing as he poured two glasses of dark wine.
He handed her one.
"To what?" she asked, raising her brow.
He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "To surrender."
They drank.
---
Later, she stood at the center of his candlelit bedroom, stunned into silence. It was massive—walls draped in deep crimson, the bed an obscene size with silk sheets and obsidian posts carved with strange symbols.
He came up behind her, slow as sin, wrapping his arms around her waist. His voice was low, hoarse.
"Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
Instead, she turned in his arms and kissed him again—this time slower, deeper. Her hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, revealing inch after inch of perfect, golden skin. Abs that begged for worship. A body built to ruin her.
He pushed her coat from her shoulders. It fell with a soft thud.
His hands slid down her back, palms hot, tracing every curve like he was learning her by touch alone.
"Astrid," he groaned, like her name hurt to say. "You taste like fate."
She gasped as his mouth trailed down her neck, his tongue warm, teeth grazing—
Then he stopped.
Frozen.
"What?" she breathed.
Gavrael stared at the hollow of her neck, where her pulse danced beneath the skin. His eyes had gone dark, shadowed. His jaw clenched.
"I—can't."
"Can't what?"
He turned away, fists clenched, trembling. "You don't understand what I am."
"Then tell me," she said, stepping closer, daring. "Show me."
He turned back to her, and in that moment—he changed.
His eyes blazed fully red, glowing like embers in a dying fire. His canines—sharp, elongated, inhuman. His aura shifted, darker, hungrier.
"I'm not just dangerous," he said. "I'm cursed."
"Cursed with what?" Her voice was steady, but her heart was racing.
He stepped closer. "With need."
Then his lips were on hers again, violent and raw. She could taste the hunger, the war inside him.
He lifted her effortlessly, pressing her to the wall. His hips pinned hers, his mouth trailing fire across her skin. She moaned his name, her fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed down her chest.
She arched into him, breathless, aching—
Then he froze again.
"Don't move," he growled, low and dangerous.
His entire body stiffened, eyes flicking to the door.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger to her lips.
And then—
A knock.
Soft. Deliberate. Deadly.
Gavrael's eyes went cold.
"She found us."
---