The air in Seraphine's shop clung with the scent of dried lavender, melted wax, and something electric—like ozone before a storm. Shelves bowed under jars and tomes, every inch humming with subtle, familiar magic. Candles flickered in their jars, their flames bending slightly toward Liam as if drawn by the residual energy clinging to him.
She dragged the stool over with a screech and jabbed a finger at it. "Sit, Broody-McBroody Face, before your blood adds another stain to my floor."
Liam glanced down, surprised by the fresh bloom of red spreading across sodden bandages. He smirked, more to himself than her. "Didn't know you cared."
Seraphine nudged his shoulder and turned away, fingers already reaching for the battered wooden box nestled between a stack of grimoires. She cracked it open with practiced ease, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, and a small vial of something shimmering deep purple.
Liam eyed the vial, a glint of humor in his voice and eye. "That isn't gonna turn me into a toad, is it?"
Seraphine huffed a laugh. "No. That's a different potion."
"Comforting."
"Shirt off."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Dinner first, then breakfast. Maybe lunch if we're feeling wild."
A flush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks in a way that clashed beautifully with her cool-toned hair and sharp eyes. She swatted his arm, the motion more fond than forceful, her laugh breaking the tension like sunlight through clouds. God, he loved her laugh, the sound of sunshine and happiness in his life, "Shut up and let me work or I will turn you into something for ruining another one of my jackets!"
Liam tugged the shredded fabric over his head with a hiss, pain flaring sharp across his ribs. The shirt peeled away reluctantly, threads sticking to blood and half-dried scabs. He caught Seraphine's eyes flicking over his chest, just for a moment, before she schooled her expression into something clinical, "Given your state, my jacket is a write off isn't it?" He grinned, almost shyly
"I should probably turn you into a toad." Her fingers brushed his side, and heat bloomed there—low and pulsing, like coals buried beneath skin—taking the edge off the stabbing ache. It wasn't instant relief as magic had its limits, but it was enough to take the edge off. Seraphine frowned. "Cracked ribs"
"Yeah, I felt them pop."
She muttered a complaint about his reckless nature as she placed her other hand over the injury, and a soft golden light seeped from her fingertips. The warmth intensified, sinking deep into his bones.
Liam's lashes lowered, and he exhaled, tension unspooling from his spine as the tight band of pain around his ribs loosened. Each breath came easier, less like punishment.
She snatched a rune-marked jar off the counter, the sigils flaring briefly under her touch. A quick twist, and her fingers dipped into the pearlescent salve, thick and glowing like moonlight caught in a jar.
The salve hissed faintly as it met his skin, magic fizzing just beneath the surface. Liam gritted his teeth, the pain not gone but transmuted—sharper, cleaner, like fire purging rot. "Hold still," she muttered. "This one's deep enough that I'll have to help it along."
The air around them hummed—something subtle, like static just before a storm. The candles flickered again, their flames bending unnaturally toward her hands. Heat spread through his side. A deep, burning warmth that settled into his torn skin, pulling the edges together, easing the worst of it. Liam grit his teeth as her magic knitted muscle and grew tissue into place. Not instantly, not perfectly, but enough that the bleeding stopped and the pain dulled to an ache.
"Does it hurt? She asked. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came. Just her touch, just the heat, just the weight of everything unsaid between them. He shook his head, "That's good. Seems like things are working out - between your magic and mine." Her fingers were deft, careful but not gentle—she had long since learned that soft touches weren't what he needed.
Liam's gaze tracked the sure, quick dance of her fingers. Needle, thread, salve – each motion belonged exactly where it landed, as though she'd rehearsed stitching him back to life a hundred times before.
Tonight the thread tugged with a warmer hush that curled beneath the shop's low lamplight. Her touches lingered, less like a medic's duty, more like a promise pressed into skin. Liam tasted the word love on the back of his tongue and swallowed it before it escaped.
He forgot to breathe until her fingers paused, matching his stare – an unspoken pulse bridged the space between them, thick and certain, terrifying in its certainty.
Hunts bled into hunts; dates fizzled like wet matches. Only the stolen hours in Seraphine's back room, and that reckless night at Luxury, burned bright enough to scorch memory. Body on body, laughter tangled with sweat left him, her, both of them craving the afterglow the way other men craved sunlight.
He knew her intimately in ways no one else alive could know. He could lip‑sync her quiet curses as she stitched. The way she always kept one hand resting lightly on a book's spine as if she could absorb its knowledge through touch alone.
It had been months, and he'd been on six dates since that night at the Troll Bar. He'd sat across from beautiful women, made conversation, and laughed at their jokes. Six polite dinners, six good‑night handshakes. Pretty smiles slid off him like rain off waxed leather. There was no spark, no itch beneath the skin. Nothing. Not even lust.
With Sera, heat pooled low and dangerous. Liam ground molars, eyes jerking to a cracked ceiling beam – anywhere but her – yet the want prowled back. "Not going there," he thought, knowing full well he was lying to himself. He had been there, left to hunt a demon, and now wanted to go back there.
Seraphine worked over his wound, her hands careful and firm, magic tingling against his skin in warm, pulsing waves. He should have been used to it by now. They worked together, fought with each other. She had patched him up numerous times.
Warm magic fizzed beneath his skin familiar as breath yet tonight every spark chased straight to his heartbeat. When she leaned in, her focus snagged on the faint bite mark she'd left by his mouth that morning, and his pulse kicked like a startled stag.
Or perhaps the signs had always been there, muffled under the noise of their own denial.
She could charm, and glamor could seduce kings to their knees. Add a little magic to the mix and she could have any man alive worshipping her in the most pleasurable of ways. His dates… had he sabotaged them, or had magic done that? He'd met beautiful, interesting women, laughed when he was supposed to, and he kept winding up back in her store, and now, in her life.
Nothing sparked, nothing settled deep in their chest like a fire catching on dry kindling. And now here he was, sitting in Seraphine's shop, bleeding all over her floor-again-and feeling more in this one moment than in months of pointless dates. "You done yet, or do you just like poking at open wounds?"
Seraphine's eye‑roll did half the work. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can leave this to be agonizing and let healing take a week; interested?"
He smirked despite himself. "Not a fan of the agony package. Can I skip it?"
She smiled, "If you shut up and hold still."
Yeah. Probably best if he kept his mouth shut. When he opened his eyes, Seraphine was watching him, her expression unreadable. Something in the air between them shifted, just for a moment. Liam felt it like static against his skin. "We need to talk."
She planted herself behind the counter, thumbs holstered on her hips, glare pinned to his phone. "Let me confirm: you bombed a date – classic Liam – and weeks later she turns up branded, pacted, and eager to rip out your spine?"
Liam scowled and fresh stitches tightened. "I didn't botch the date."
"And that's the part you're protesting?" She snorted. "Oh, I'm sorry. How did it end, then? A second date? A lovely stroll by the river? Or did she storm out while cursing your entire bloodline seven generations backwards, forwards and sideways?"
His low growl only sharpened her grin. "I stood her up, on our second date."
"Really? When did this happen?" She purred the question with a deep throaty chuckle. She turned her attention back to the phone, scrolling through the pictures he'd taken. Even though she had to admit, the photos were… unsettling. Isla's face was unmistakable. Same sharp features, same delicate nose, the same full lips now slack with death.
"The night you asked me to Luxury," he said, words dropping like loose rounds on the counter.
The way the earth beneath her had scorched, the way her body had twisted back into something fragile and human after death, the runes, branded into her flesh were near perfectly done. Seraphine blinked as his words registered, and lowered the phone, "What?"
"What?"
Seraphine put the phone down, "You ditched date two with corpse‑girl for… me?"
"Yes." His agreement rumbled low. She arched an eye brow – his favorite expression now mirrored back – and he added, "For us."
Floorboards vibrated, shelves rattled with barely contained laughter. "Shut up, Neroghan!" they chimed, the shop settling into hushed amusement, and was silent again.
The wards settled. The candle flames were steady now. The healing salve still clung to Liam's side, cool where it hadn't been absorbed, warm where it still worked. His shredded shirt lay in a murdered heap on the floor, ruined beyond repair. He was still bare from the waist up, chest nicked, ribs darkening with bruises, gold light ebbing between them.
Seraphine tried not to look at him, and failed as she moved around the shop, incinerating dirty cloths and swabs, clearing jars, stacking bandages, wiping her hands clean of blood and tincture. She was too focused on not staring at his bare skin. Silence filled the shelves, thick as dust.
Liam watched her from the stool, his breath finally steady, his pulse no longer thudding against his skull. He let the moment sit heavy for a beat longer, then said with a dry smile: "So, I guess we're past the "I patch you up while you bleed on my rug' stage" of… whatever this…whatever we are."
She froze in midstride, tension knotting the muscles in her shoulders and back. Her hands clenched in equal parts fear, and frustration. She didn't turn around. "Don't make this weird."
He tilted his head slightly. "Little late for that, don't you think?" Still no eye contact. She rinsed a cloth in the small sink behind the counter, fingers scrubbing harder than necessary. The silence pressed in again. Too thick this time.
Liam let his voice drop, just above a murmur. "Is this just sex for you?" Her shoulders stiffened. Her hand slowed in the sink. She didn't answer. Just wrung the cloth out and set it aside, water dripping, "Not a trap," he added. "I need the truth."
She leaned forward slightly, both hands braced against the counter, her back still to him. Her hair fell in a loose braid over one shoulder, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her voice came out flat. Too carefully controlled. "The Bargain we made… drunk or not. My magic. You. It's binding. Us. I don't know if what we feel is real. Or if it's just... proximity. Resonance. Magic blurs lines, Liam."
He took one step forward, then another, slow and deliberate until he stopped just short of touching her. "I know what I feel," he said quietly. "I've been with others. Dates. Had relationships with others before you. There was nothing there. It wasn't there." He let that sit for a breath, watching the way her eyes flicked to his. "Whatever you did hasn't faked anything.. It's just made things so that I—we—couldn't hide from it."
She turned to face him fully now, and he saw it—behind the hesitation, the tension in her limbs, the tight line of her mouth—fear. Real fear. "If I let this happen," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "and we fall apart…" She shook her head, tried to laugh but couldn't. "I will lose everything. You're not just in my bed, Liam. You're in my circle. My work. My wards. I don't have a safety net if this goes wrong."
Liam didn't flinch. He reached out, gently, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Let his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. "You've got me," he said. "Toad curse and all." She gave a wet laugh, half a sob caught in it. Her walls had cracked before this, and now he moved to open them before she tried to patch them shut. "We can figure it out," he said. "Together. We have to."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. She ached for him, wanting him to make the next move. With a start, she realized: It wasn't that he wouldn't. But he couldn't. The bargain meant he would forget about the past and other women. He had. He only saw her.
That sent terror skittering across her ribs. He read every twitch, her thoughts, feelings and what she let her actions say for her. He understood her, and somehow, still did not understand what she had done to him, with a generous pour of alcohol, prod of a finger and a whisper of magic and rune.
She had to complete the bargain, such as it was. Decision flashed in her lungs. With a huff of breath that Liam understood, instinctively, on some primal level, she crossed the room and kissed him—not like the wild, heated kisses of nights past, but slow. Searching. Their bodies didn't crash; they found each other. Pressed together with a certainty they hadn't dared name before.
He drew her tight; her palms traced the topography of scar and bruise. His kiss mixed copper and cinnamon with an undercurrent of lightning.
Her breath hitched when he lifted her onto the edge of the dining table. The wooden legs creaked. His hands pushed under her shirt, fingertips skimming heat along warm skin, across her ribs. And she bowed towards the spark, and she arched into his touch without hesitation. The table complained in a wooden groan
"This is real," he whispered into her neck, "This counts."
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah." She kissed him. Not wild. Not desperate. It was a kiss drawn out like silk—slow and searching. Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing across the stubble of his jaw, as if she were memorizing the weight and shape of him all over again. And exhausted, aching, and half-scared of the ground beneath his feet giving out, he let himself fall into her.
He tasted blood at the corner of his mouth—his own. He tasted her as well—warmth and winter spice, sharp-edged longing layered beneath a steel core of need. When she pulled away, her fingers slipped to his wrist, curling with quiet certainty.
She pivoted, tugged him toward the sofa's waiting shadows.
He followed, surrender wrapped in each step.
The cushions gave under their weight as she pushed him down. Liam's knees hit first, then his spine met fabric, and before he could recover his breath, Seraphine was on him, straddling him, skirt riding up as she moved, her fingers tangled in his hair.
She was still fully dressed, sleeves rolled up, rings gleaming faintly with magic. Her boots thudded to the floor one by one as she shrugged them off, never breaking eye contact. Her tattoos shimmered faintly, lines pulsing like ley veins under her skin reacting to him, to the magic of the moment.
He reached for her hips, but she pinned his hands above his head with one smooth movement and leaned down. "Liam," she whispered, breath ghosting against his throat. "Just be here."
Then her mouth was on his chest—finding the hollow just below his collarbone, kissing the new bruises, tongue flicking over half-healed wounds. "Stay." Her fingers danced down his torso, reverent and rough all at once, brushing across the old scars—the ones etched by time and failure and survival.
He shivered, muscles rippling under her exploration.
And in that moment, something in the air shifted. Like the world outside the walls ceased to matter. Like nothing existed but her weight on his hips, her scent in his lungs, her weight anchoring him, magic spilling through the air like slow smoke.
Scars softened, edges blurring beneath unseen heat.
Not all. Not entirely. Just enough that he felt it—her power seeping through skin and bone, not to fix him, but to claim the damage as shared territory, just enough to mark the wounds as theirs, her power soaking through bone like evening rain through thirsty earth.
She rocked her hips, ground down slowly against him, deliberately, teasing friction through fabric and heat. Liam bit back a groan. Every nerve was frayed, but somehow his body responded anyway, rising beneath her command, drawn toward her gravity, racing towards her pull.
"Seraphine," a word half warning, half prayer, escaped on an unsteady exhale.
"Shh." Her deeper kiss cut his protest. "Let me."
What followed abandoned gentleness entirely.
She moved with unerring focus, pulling at his belt with a fluidity that betrayed long, intimate familiarity with him, and her own intent. The clink of metal, the rasp of denim sliding past skin, the warmth of her palms skimming down his hips—it was all sensation, an all eclipsing hunger.
She didn't just touch him. She claimed him.
Her weight settled over him as she straddled his thighs, skirt riding up, her knees pressing into the worn cushions of the sofa. The fabric beneath them was scratchy. Her skin? Not. Her thighs were warm silk braced on either side of him, flushed and damp with heat. Her blouse falling entirely open to reveal flushed curves dusted in sweat and the shimmer of inked sigils glowing faintly along her ribs. The smell of her was dizzying sweet and sharp, like clove oil and ozone, with the tang of arousal layered beneath it.
One hand angled him; a hissed inhale, teeth on her lip, and she lowered herself, slow, blistering, inch after inch.
Liam's head fell back against the cushions, a guttural sound escaping his throat. His hands gripped her hips hard, fingers digging in like anchors. She was hot, tight, already pulsing around him, and there was no patience in her. Only need.
She set the rhythm, fast and deep, her hips grinding down against him with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Her breath stuttered, caught, then came in sharp little gasps, each one a beat in the cadence of their bodies.
Skin slapped, sofa creaked, wet friction loud in the hush. She rode him as though he were built for her - and he was.
He thrust up to meet her, chasing that same edge, but it was her that did the breaking. Her back arched, lips parting in a cry as she came, hard and fast, her walls spasming around him. Tattoos flared white-hot, pulsing with residual energy. Her nails dug into his chest—marks he'd wear with pride.
The sight of her wrecked him; he followed with a ragged groan, body locking, then dissolving into her heat.
Breath returned only in scattered fragments.
Round two began on the rumpled bed. She didn't say anything. Just stood, breasts heaving, chest rising hard as she offered her hand. He took it.
She backed towards the mattress, shirt hanging loose off her shoulders, bare legs flashing in the low amber light from the sconces. Her hair was a wild halo around her face, lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with need and desire.
The bed was unmade. Pillows a mess. Sheets half-tangled. She didn't care.Neither did he. She crawled back onto the bed and reclined, legs parted, an offering without demand. Vulnerable, an invitation but not weak, not surrender.
This time, Liam climbed over her slowly—like a man approaching something sacred. His body still trembled with aftershocks, but his hands found purpose in reverence. He kissed her: Temple, cheek, jaw, throat. Paused over her pulse point. Nuzzled lower, past the open line of her shirt until he was kissing the soft dip of her sternum.
Her skin was warm, sweat-slicked, and tasted of salt and secrets. When he finally reached her breasts, he cupped one reverently, brushing his thumb over the peaked nipple, then took it into his mouth.
She arched into him with a sigh, one hand slipping into his hair. Every movement was deliberate. Every touch, an act of rediscovery. He explored her slowly—tongue tracing the ink of her runes, fingers skimming the curve of her hip, the soft inner line of her thigh.
When he entered her again, it was with a gasp—his, not hers. She guided him with a touch to his cheek, grounding him. "You're allowed to want this too," she whispered.
He wanted her. He wanted them. Together – fiercely.
He moved slowly this time. Not just for her—with her. Their bodies spoke a quiet language of re-learning, of bruised trust and rebuilding. Each stroke was a hesitant trust and promise. Each breath a benediction. She came with a quiet cry, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other splayed across his back. And this time, when he came, it wasn't unraveling.
It felt like becoming
The third time, they began with flirty looks, an exaggerated wink and laughter.
She tugged him into a kiss, smirk curling against his lips. "Not tapped out, are you?"
"Not even close."
No ceremony. No preamble. Clothing long lost to the floor somewhere. He was fully naked now, no longer shaking. There were bruises blooming across his chest, bite marks on his neck. Her lipstick was mostly gone. The salt in her hair had dried into curls.
He hauled her up against him, kissed her fiercely, and turned them both so she was on top again. They tangled like lovers who knew the map of each other's bodies, the subway maps of each other's scars. Her fingers trailed down his side, finding the worst of them. He caught her wrist gently, pressed a kiss to the inside of it. Then pulled her flush.
He moved with her—slow, fast, again slow. Each time was different. Each time right. Her hands tangled in his hair. His mouth moved across her shoulder. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him tight as if to never let go. They shifted through rhythms – slow, urgent, slow again – each landing true. Hands in hair, mouth on shoulder, her legs cinched around his hips, unwilling to loosen.
They didn't speak. They didn't have to. Words drained away; knowing each other filled the silence.
When the third climax hit, they reached it together—sweat-slicked and breathless, bodies locked. No dominance. No submission as they crashed in tandem,connection rather than conquest. Only them – gravity, truth, a single perfect piece of peace.
Dawn was a soft glow on the horizon when they finally stilled, lying together. Liam lay on his side, one arm draped over her waist. Her skin was warm beneath his, sticky with sweat. Their breaths had evened out, but magic still buzzed faintly in the air—threads of it glimmering where their bodies touched.
She doodled lazy shapes on his back while he inhaled salt, musk, the faint metal of lingering spells. "I thought wanting this was off limits," she murmured, "Having this…"
"A dream, fantasy and pipe dream all rolled into one," he said. He shifted closer, kissed the curve of her shoulder. "We're both terrible at knowing what we're allowed to want." He nuzzled her shoulder.
"Yet here you are."
"Yeah," he breathed. "You too."
Her hand stopped. "Does this change anything?"
He tucked his face into the warmth of her neck and tightened his hold. "Yeah," he said at last. "Everything."
She hummed in contentment, "Good."