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The table in Rook’s Dock Town apartment was cluttered with half-finished dossiers stacked against maps annotated in Lyvia’s precise hand. Candles burned low in their holders, wax spilling onto the plates beneath them. The air smelled of ink and tallow, a residue of the long nights the two of them had spent there. Piece by piece, they had been tracking the threads of the Siccari’s network, hunting down the lower ranks who thought themselves invisible. Some had cracked under pressure, yielding scraps of names and safehouses; others required firmer methods before they gave up anything useful. Every note, every line on those maps was hard-won, extracted in sweat and patience, the beginnings of a picture that was slowly taking shape.
Tonight, though, the air was quieter. The hunt had driven them hard for nearly a month without pause, but that was only part of the reason they’d stopped. Lucanis had chosen to visit, arriving at Rook’s door unannounced earlier that day. She’d been waiting for Lyvia to arrive, only to be swept off her feet by him the second she’d opened the door. His presence had stirred a happiness she hadn’t dared expect, shadowed almost immediately by the quiet dread of losing momentum. She and Lyvia had found a rhythm against the Venatori that was rare and precious, and though she knew one visit couldn’t undo it, the worry stayed with her like a stone in her boot.
Now he stood by the window, arms folded lightly across his chest as he watched her while she bent over the small kitchen table, sorting through files as if the order on paper could make the world less chaotic. The silence between them wasn’t entirely empty; his presence pressed against it, steady and insistent.
“You’ve been distant these past weeks,” he said finally, his voice even, though something gentler bled through. He’d told himself the weekly reports were enough, that the crystal calls bridged the gap between them. And in the beginning, they had - her voice had carried warmth, the conversation occasionally straying to details that had nothing to do with her targets. But lately, all he heard from her was the hunt: nothing of her.
Rook set down the stack of notes in her hand when he spoke, flexing her ink-stained fingers as if the weight in the room had pressed into her joints. She’d stripped down for the night, trading leathers for a long tunic belted loosely at the waist. The fabric hung soft over her frame, sleeves rolled high to reveal the long lines of her arms, sun-kissed and patterned with old scars. Her legs were bare beneath, pale in comparison where the candlelight licked across them. She exhaled slowly, then raised her eyes to his, the motion unhurried but steady, as if daring him to look away first.
Lucanis didn’t. He let the silence hold, studying her with a focus he didn’t bother disguising. Fatigue clung to her - shadows beneath her eyes, tension in her shoulders - but it did nothing to dull her. If anything, it sharpened her, left her coiled with that fierce, unspent energy he remembered too well from their time with the Veilguard. Worn down, yes, but alive in a way that made his chest ache. His gaze slid over the curve of her throat where the candlelight warmed her skin, lingered on the loose fall of her hair around her shoulders, on the bare line of her thigh where it caught the glow. He realized, with a tug low in his gut, that distance hadn’t dimmed her presence at all for him.
“Not distant...” she said finally, her voice quiet but certain, though her expression hardened as if she felt the weight of his attention. She didn’t look away from him as she finished, “Just busy.”
His brow lifted, but he let the corner of his mouth tilt instead of answering, masking the pull she had on him with something lighter. He inclined his head toward the papers. “Things are going well with Lyvia, then?”
The corner of Rook’s mouth twitched, but she nodded as she turned her attention back to the notes on the table. “Yeah, she’s been more than forthcoming and given me invaluable intel,” she said, though she knew convincing him of Lyvia’s worth would take more than her word.
Lucanis pushed away from the window, the shift of his weight drawing her attention before she meant to give it. He crossed the small room with the kind of deliberate calm that always made her pulse quicken, and came to stand beside her at the table. Close now - close enough that the scent of leather and musk threaded through the smoke of the candles, close enough that the faint heat of him prickled across her skin. Leaning a hip against the table, he lifted one of Lyvia’s sheets, scanning the neat hand. “Forthcoming can be another word for calculated,” he said, glancing up at her with a brow raised.
Rook’s heartbeat stuttered, then raced, her chest tight as if the nearness of him had stolen half her breath. A shiver rippled through her, goosebumps rising along her arms despite the warmth of the room. She reached out quickly, more brusque than she intended, and plucked the page from his hand, sliding it back onto the pile. “She had every chance to run,” she countered, her voice a shade lower than she meant, her gaze locking with his as though that would steady the sudden pull in her gut. “Instead, she surrendered, and Maevaris accepted responsibility for her. That’s not nothing.”
He didn’t move away. His gaze stayed on her - unwavering and critical - but under it was a weight that made her skin burn. The silence stretched, heavy, thrumming with the pounding of her pulse in her ears. He shifted, leaning back against the table so their arms nearly brushed. Another jolt of heat rolled through her, her breath catching at the space that wasn’t quite space between them.
“It’s 'not nothing' to you,” he said finally, his voice pitched low, almost intimate. His eyes lingered on her face, unreadable yet intent. “I just hope your trust in them isn’t misplaced.”
“I trust what I see,” Rook said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt. She turned toward him, closing the angle between them, her hip brushing the table as she shifted. One hand came to rest lightly on its surface, though her fingers curled against the wood as if anchoring herself. The move set her closer still, the heat of him bleeding into her skin until her pulse stuttered.
Her eyes lifted to his, the flicker of candlelight catching in them. “And I see someone who wants to end this as much as I do.” The words carried conviction, but there was something else threading through: something softer, heavier, as though she wasn’t just talking about Lyvia anymore. Her voice had dropped, intimate by accident, the kind of quiet that left no room for distance between them.
Before he could reply, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Rook’s head tilted slightly, curiosity prickling along her spine as she glanced at Lucanis. His posture shifted instantly; shoulders squared, back stiffening, jaw tightening just enough to show his alertness at the interruption. She felt the subtle heat of his tension brush against her awareness, a familiar weight pressing at her own chest.
She moved toward the door, fingers brushing the edge of the table as if to steady herself, and pulled it open. Lyvia stood on the stoop, the damp mist rising from the canals clinging to the edges of her cloak. The hood was pushed back just enough to reveal her face, water glinting in stray strands of hair. In her hands was a slim stack of parchment bound with twine, which she extended toward Rook with quiet, deliberate patience.
Rook blinked, caught off guard by the sight of the woman. “Lyvia?” she murmured, surprised to see her. She had sent a missive after Lucanis' arrival explaining that he had come to visit and that they wouldn’t be meeting today. Yet despite that, here she was, standing on the stoop with her stack of parchment. The unexpected appearance brought a small, quiet relief, and Rook found herself appreciating the timing. Somehow, the interruption felt less intrusive than it should have; it was almost thoughtful, a reminder of Lyvia’s dedication to their cause. Rook allowed herself a brief, grateful smile as she glanced at Lucanis, sharing a silent apology of the moment’s subtle reprieve.
“Hot off the inkpot,” Lyvia answered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I finished the dossiers on the Venatori ties. Thought you’d want them tonight,” she said as Rook reached for the papers, fingers brushing against the stack. Her eyes stayed sharp on Rook, but a flicker of amusement passed over them as they caught Lucanis shifting his weight beside the table. She noted the subtle rise of his shoulders, the quiet tension in the line of his back, and the faint trace of cologne that lingered in the candlelit room.
Her head tilted slightly, playful, like she was reading more than just their words. “You must be the infamous Crow,” she said lightly, voice teasing enough to reach him. “Roran’s mentioned you.” Her gaze flicked between them again, lingering on Lucanis for the briefest moment. She could see the careful way he watched Rook, the faint edge of something unspoken in his posture, and a smirk tugged at her own lips at the thought of the tension she had stepped into.
Lucanis’ expression didn’t change, though the set of his shoulders shifted subtly as he regarded her. “Lucanis Dellamorte. First Talon,” he said flatly, voice unamused, a quiet command in the tone that only seemed to amuse Lyvia more.
“Ah,” her smirk deepened, and her eyes slid back to Rook, bright with mischief. “You undersold him, then. No wonder he wants you all to himself - most men in power aren’t the sharing type.” For the first time since she arrived, Lyvia allowed herself to look fully at her friend, the approving twitch of her lips betraying how much she enjoyed seeing her like this.
Rook shook her head, brushing past the thread of teasing in Lyvia’s words, though a reluctant smile crept in despite herself. “Thanks for bringing these,” she said, nodding at the papers. Her fingers tapped against the stack, as if to remind herself of their purpose. Yet even as she tried to center herself in the work, part of her found it easier to breathe with Lyvia’s familiar banter filling the space - an excuse, however small, to set aside the guilt she carried from Lucanis’ visit.
“Of course.” Lyvia reached a hand out and brushed Rook’s arm in a fleeting, deliberate touch before stepping away. Her dark eyes glittered, alive with mischief. “Don’t stay up too late, Rory. Not that you need the beauty sleep,” she said, punctuating the remark with a wink. Her gaze flicked to Lucanis once more, sharp and teasing, a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, acknowledging the tension she’d walked into and stirred up even more. Then, with a graceful turn, she stepped away, disappearing down the alley, leaving the subtle warmth of her presence lingering in the room.
The nickname landed like a stone in Lucanis’ chest. He didn’t show it - not yet - but his gaze lingered on the empty doorway long after Lyvia’s boots had faded down the hall, the faint click of each step still echoing in his ears. The air between them felt charged in the sudden quiet, and he shifted slightly, the subtle tightening of his jaw and the roll of his shoulders betraying the tension he refused to name. Finally, he exhaled, the sound low and deliberate, and a hint of amusement curled at the edge of his voice.
“Rory?” he asked, each syllable drawn out; deliberate, pointed. “She flirts with you like I’m not standing right here.” The words hovered in the air, sharp and teasing, yet threaded with the heat of something closer to possessiveness.
Rook couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out, the sound light and easy, a contrast to the taut energy radiating from him. She shook her head, letting her fingers trail over the papers on the table as she gathered the dossiers, deliberately thumbing through the stack with casual movements. “Are you jealous, Lucanis Dellamorte?” she asked, sliding a lazy, amused glance in his direction, letting her eyes linger a beat longer than necessary.
“Jealous?” His step forward was almost imperceptible, yet it closed the distance between them, the faint scrape of his boots on the floor grounding the intensity in the room. One dark brow arched, his gaze narrowing on her with a mixture of mock incredulity and something hotter, more possessive. “Jealous of what? That she calls you ‘Rory’?” He let out a strangled noise - half-choke, half-laugh - and shook his head with the faintest edge of bitterness. “Sounds like a child's name,” he said quietly, the words low and almost dangerous, the tension coiling in his shoulders, in the tilt of his chin, in the subtle heat of his proximity.
Her hands stilled briefly on the papers, though she didn’t look up. Rory was a child’s name - the name all the other initiates had used when she’d been taken in by the Siccari. Part of her still liked that Lyvia used it, even if she had let go of that part of herself long ago when she ran. The memory stirred something warm and sharp in her chest, a tether to the past she hadn’t expected to feel.
Her fingers flexed slightly over the stack of papers, a subtle tension threading through her hands as her pulse picked up. She felt the heat of Lucanis nearby, low and insistent, pressing at the edges of her awareness. After a moment, she shrugged and began leafing through the papers on the table again, deliberately slow, letting the scrape of parchment against her palms be the only outward motion. “It’s just a name,” she said casually, trying to keep her voice even, though the faint flutter in her chest betrayed her attempt at dismissal.
“Not to me.” His voice was low now, closer than it had been before, carrying a weight that made her stomach tighten and the fine hairs on her arms rise ever so slightly.
“And what would you call me?” she asked, her hands hovering over her scattered notes. The rough edges of parchment pressed into her palms, grounding her as she fought to focus. The faint scent of ink and old wax clung to the air, but it paled against the heat curling through her veins.
She hadn’t noticed him move behind her - not until his hand brushed against her waist. The touch was light at first, testing, but quickly became insistent, claiming space against her body that made her breath falter. “La mía…” His voice rumbled low in her ear, the vibration of it coiling through her nerves until her chest ached with the sudden rush of her heartbeat.
His hand slid around to the front of her hip, steady and unrelenting, and then he tugged - not harshly, but with a kind of deliberate authority that left no room to resist. The shift straightened her knees, pulling her out of the lean she’d been caught in, and her body yielded before she could think to stop it. The firm wall of his chest pressed into her back, heat searing through the thin barrier of her tunic. Her breath stuttered, a faint tremor rushing up her arms as gooseflesh prickled her skin.
She should’ve bristled - should’ve shrugged him off, snapped at him for manhandling her as though she were some pawn to be arranged on a board. The instinct was there, hot and sharp at the edges of her mind, but it tangled uselessly with the deeper pull that knotted low in her stomach. Because another part of her - a traitorous and hungry part of her - liked it. Liked the way his strength wrapped around her, liked that he didn’t just touch but anchored, as though daring the world to try and take her from him. She'd never witnessed this side of him, but she couldn't say she didn't like it.
He tucked a loose strand of her red hair behind her ear, fingertips grazing lightly across her temple, a gesture at odds with the strength pinning her close. His mouth was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his words against her skin. “She was right about one thing, though,” he murmured, his tone dark with certainty. “I’m not the sharing type.”
The admission shivered through her, equal parts warning and promise, and Rook’s grip on the parchment tightened. She hated how much she wanted to lean back into him: hated how right it felt, even as every instinct screamed to resist the claim in his voice. Her breath hitched, and for a moment the room - the wooden table, the scattered notes, the muted lamplight - fell away beneath the heat radiating off him. His chest pressed firm against her back, arms bracing her so she couldn’t pull away even if she tried. The sensation was overwhelming: possessive, unyielding, entirely claiming.
And still she wavered, not out of fear of him, but of what yielding here would mean. She’d fought him for the right to pursue the Siccari, forced him to see her choice and respect it. If she leaned into him now, if she gave ground to this possessive pull, would it undo the balance she had won? Would he see her again as someone to be protected, contained, rather than the equal who had stood her ground? The thought made her breath come shallow, caught between the fierce need to hold her line and the deeper ache that wanted nothing more than to give in.
“She looks at you like she’s testing me,” he murmured against her skin, lips grazing the curve of her jaw. “Like she wants to see how far she can push before I snap.”
Rook’s fingers dug into the edge of the table instinctively, searching for something solid, but her body betrayed her. Her back arched almost imperceptibly into the line of him, drawn as if by gravity. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her breathing shallow and uneven, every sense narrowing to the press of his body and the slow, deliberate way he held her.
“You’re imagining things,” she whispered, the words a flimsy shield. Even to her own ears, the denial rang hollow. Every brush of his hands, every low growl threaded beneath his voice, the steady heat of his chest against her back - it all told her he wasn’t imagining anything.
“No.” The word was low, unyielding, a rumble that vibrated through her spine. His lips brushed her ear again, slower this time, deliberate, testing her with the lingering trail of warmth that left her shivering. “Spite agrees.” His hands slid down from her waist, fingers pressing firmly as they traced the curve of her hips before settling over the front of her thighs, anchoring her in place against him. The hold was steady, strong, not bruising but close, a line drawn in silence. “He smelled her desire...” His grip tightened just enough to remind her she wasn’t moving away from him unless he allowed it. "And it wasn't for the hunt."
She knew he was pushing: waiting to see if she’d flinch, if she’d push him off, if she’d break the moment with a sharp retort. And yet, she didn’t. Couldn’t. The tension between them crackled like lightning caught too long in the air, her will straining against the dangerous temptation to simply let go and show him how close she was to breaking.
Her head tilted slightly, brushing the side of her face against his, and without thinking, she let herself meet his lips, spinning suddenly in his embrace so that she was facing him. The kiss was sudden, sharp at first, then deepened as he responded, his hands moving up to thread into her hair, holding her close enough to feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest against hers. Rook felt a shiver trace her spine, and a delicious tension coiling low in her belly. She’d been trying to control herself, to stay composed, but the heat of him, the raw intensity of his jealousy and possession, left her breathless.
He pulled back slightly, forehead resting against hers, eyes dark, filled with hunger and something... more. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized there was a dark purple glow to them, and then she heard the layered tone of his voice. “We won’t let her think you’re hers,” he whispered, moving a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing along her lower lip. “Not even for a second.”
The words sank deep into her like molten fire. Her lips parted slightly, but before she could answer, he claimed them again, slow and deliberate, pressing her into the table behind her. He held her there firmly, letting the press of his chest and the strength of his arms speak louder than words. The lamplight flickered across the table and parchment, casting shadows that danced across their faces, but the room seemed smaller, the world narrower, centered entirely on the heat and closeness of them.
Rook’s body yearned for him in every subtle arch and shiver. Her grip on his tunic tightened, tugging him nearer. Every sweep of his hands, the strength in his hold, the warm insistence of his mouth at her neck, left her breathless and aching to surrender.
He leaned close, lips brushing her ear, his voice low, rough, each syllable vibrating with jealousy. “Roran... she doesn’t get this.” His fingers pressed into her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, holding her fast. “Not you... not now... not ever.” Each word came faster, sharper, until it was almost a growl, and the weight of him against her left no room to resist, no space to deny the truth in his warning.
His lips brushed the edge of her skin as he spoke, grazing the delicate line just below her ear. The heat of his breath seared against her neck, and when he lingered - mouth hovering, then pressing with the faintest scrape of teeth - it sent a cascade of shivers racing down her spine. The rough sound of her name seemed to settle in her bones, heavy and unshakable, as though he had carved it there with nothing more than his voice.
Her hands slid beneath the folds of his tunic, seeking not fabric but the heat of him. Fingers pressed against the firm plane of his torso, clutching at muscle as if the solidity of his body was the only thing keeping her tethered. She told herself it was to steady her breathing, to ground herself against the whirlwind he’d pulled her into, but the truth was undeniable: she was reaching for him, holding on because she wanted more, because pulling him closer was the only answer her body seemed to know.
Lucanis pressed closer, hands sliding from her waist to her hips with quiet precision, lifting and guiding her until her weight settled just right against the edge of the table. Her legs bent slightly at the knees, framing him as he positioned himself between them, and then his mouth found hers again. Each movement was deliberate, controlled - every shift of his body, every press of his hands, a wordless claim that she belonged here, with him, in this space and time.
Rook inhaled sharply, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder as he lowered his mouth to trail soft nips along her neck. The heat of him pressed in from all sides: muscle against muscle, the weight of his torso grounding her even as it ignited her senses. The roughness of his hands, the low rasp of his voice murmuring against her skin, each brush of lips or fingertip made her pulse stutter, made her breath hitch, and sent shivers curling down her spine.
Even as she fought to hold her composure, she felt the pull of his jealousy, the quiet, potent intensity behind it, curling around her chest and sinking deep into her core. It was claiming, demanding, intimate, and intoxicating all at once. She teetered between losing herself and holding tight, unmoored yet tethered to him by something more primal than thought. Every glance, every whisper, every press of his lips was a declaration: she was his, fully and without question.
Lucanis’ hand slid upward, tracing the line of her spine, brushing the back of her neck, and threading into her hair. Curling his fingers, he tilted her head back just enough to hold her gaze, letting the weight of it sink in, slow and deliberate. “No one else gets you,” he murmured, low and relentless, the possessiveness and desire in his voice intertwining until they were indistinguishable. “Not while I’m alive.”
Rook’s chest rose and fell faster, heat pooling low and hot as tension coiled between them. Every nerve thrummed in response to him; every brush of his body, every deliberate press, left her trembling in ways that defied reason.
She exhaled slowly, pressing into him, the tremor in her hands betraying the storm of sensation coursing through her. The dossiers, the table, the muted lamplight - everything fell away until only the closeness of Lucanis remained: a living, insistent claim that left her breathless, grounded, and achingly aware of the power he wielded over her.
Her hands pressed firmly against his sides, gripping the warmth of him, fingers digging in just enough to anchor herself as her pulse spiked under the intensity of his gaze. The flickering lamplight glinted off the scattered papers beneath them, but she barely noticed. All that existed was him - the heat of his body, the taut grip in her hair, and the fierce, consuming intensity in his eyes that left her undone.
Her legs curled instinctively around him, drawing him closer, while the edge of the table pressed against her thighs, grounding her as his hands traced deliberately under her tunic to the small of her back. Every touch was intimate, claiming, and purposeful, sending tremors through her that made her breath catch.
Lucanis tilted his head, lips grazing the side of her neck, a low growl vibrating through him. Shadows from the flickering light danced across them, accentuating the closeness, the tension, the way she seemed suspended in the heat of his possession. Even as her hands rested on his sides, trying to anchor herself, the storm of sensation - his presence, the taut grip in her hair, the unyielding nearness - left her unmoored. And yet, paradoxically, utterly grounded in the undeniable truth: Lucanis wanted her, needed her, and would not share.
The hand not in her hair crept higher beneath her tunic, fingertips grazing the curve of her ribs, brushing the sensitive swell of her breasts. Sparks ignited wherever he lingered, tiny electric tremors racing through her, twisting low in her belly and up her spine until every nerve seemed alive. Rook’s breath hitched, uneven, ragged, and her body leaned instinctively into him, pressing against the heat of his chest. Her thighs tightened around his, every inch of her craving the press of him, even as a shiver ran up her arms and along her back.
His mouth left the hollow of her neck only to claim hers again, lips firm, teasing, coaxing her open until she melted fully into the kiss. She tasted him - sweet, exotic, intoxicating - while the warmth of his body pressed against her own made her pulse stutter. Every inhalation of his scent, every brush of his lips, every rasp of breath against her skin set shivers fluttering across her body.
“Lucanis,” she whispered, breath trembling - half warning, half plea - each syllable a tiny shudder.
“Roran,” he rasped back, guttural and low, vibrating against her like a physical force. His hands slid down her sides and along her hips, fingers curling, pulling her impossibly closer to the table’s edge. Every movement pressed fire into her core, every touch a slow, deliberate claim.
A low growl rolled from his chest as if her voice had undone every strand of restraint he’d held. His fingers brushed the curve of her hips, sending an electric jolt through her, and she arched, pressing into him instinctively, thighs tightening, back curving, every nerve alight. His lips grazed her collarbone; warm, rough, teasing - and she shivered, the fine hairs on her neck rising in response.
Her hands traveled up his back, fingers threading under the hem of his tunic, gripping the taut planes of muscle beneath. With a deliberate tug, she peeled the fabric over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, fingertips lingering on bare skin. The brief absence - the slight gap of air between them - made her ache, and she pressed back into him, leaning fully against his heat. Every nerve screamed for contact: the brush of his torso under her palms, the vibration of his chest against hers, the taut strength in his arms holding her.
Lucanis’ mouth found hers again; harder, demanding, raw, claiming. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, kneading muscle, pressing her body closer, while her own trembling shivers betrayed the storm coursing through her. Tiny gasps slipped past her lips with every deliberate movement of his hands across her back and sides. She arched instinctively, pressing her body to his, toes flexing against the waves of desire, thighs squeezing him involuntarily, every movement a silent confession of surrender.
Her mind spun, trying to cling to composure, but her body betrayed her: heat pooled low, pulse hammered in her ears, and every shiver, every gasp, every subtle arching of her spine was a tribute to him. He was claiming her - utterly, insistently, beautifully - and she was his. Completely.
He broke away only long enough to tug her tunic over her head, the fabric slipping off her shoulders and sliding to the floor. Her skin prickled at the sudden exposure, every nerve screaming as his gaze raked over her, dark and hungry. For a heartbeat, he simply looked, eyes drinking her in, and she felt it deep in her chest: a possessive, claiming weight that made her pulse hammer, a shiver racing along her spine and curling low through her belly.
“Maker,” he murmured, rough and thick, lips grazing hers lightly, teasing, deliberately withholding. “You drive me mad.”
Her pulse stuttered, breath catching, and a laugh trembled out of her throat; half disbelief, half want. “Then we’re even,” she whispered, fingers instinctively pressing into the sides of his torso, gripping, seeking anchor in the hard planes beneath her hands.
Lucanis’ smirk brushed her lips before his mouth descended fully, slow and insistent, pressing her against the cool wood of the table as his hands roved over her body. The edge dug into her thighs as papers scattered beneath them, but she barely noticed. Every nerve was alive to the press of him, the way his weight tethered her even as it ignited every inch of her skin.
His lips traced the hollow of her throat, teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed, and a shiver arched through her spine, thighs tightening, body pressing upward instinctively. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, anchoring herself as she gasped, low and ragged, letting the sound tumble out. That tiny surrender sparked him; his hands slid with deliberate intent down her torso and along her thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive curve of her hips, pulling her flush against him. Every movement seared her, friction pooling deep and hot, igniting a tremor she couldn’t control.
Her nails raked down his back - gripping, kneading - and a tremor ran through her own arms as heat coiled low. “Lucanis-” she gasped, voice thick, breath shuddering.
He silenced her with a fierce, all-consuming kiss, swallowing her moan as his hand glided up her inner thigh, fingers pressing against the wet, slick heat between them. She arched violently into him, chest pressed against his, every nerve alight, skin tingling as if aflame. Her back arched, thighs clenching instinctively around him as tiny shivers and gasps wracked her body.
Every inch of him - the warmth of his torso beneath her palms, the maddening pressure of his fingers at her center, the deliberate drag of his lips and tongue along her neck and mouth - claimed her entirely. She was trembling, shivering, and moaning softly all at once, every nerve screaming that she was his: wholly, irrevocably, and deliciously caught in him.
“Always so ready for me,” he breathed, lips brushing over her ear, warm, possessive, sending a ripple of heat straight through her spine. His fingers traced lazy, deliberate strokes along her heat, teasing, savoring every small shiver, every uneven breath that escaped her. She trembled beneath him, hips lifting instinctively, pulse spiking with each precise brush of his fingertips, every nerve alight and quivering.
He growled low in his throat, sliding his fingers deeper, stroking, coaxing, until her breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, body arching, trembling, almost vibrating under his touch. “That’s it, Roran. Let me hear you.”
Her lips pressed against his shoulder, muffling a cry, while tiny shivers ran along her arms and down her back. He chuckled darkly, low and approving, the sound vibrating into her bones. “Don’t hide from me. Not now.”
Releasing her hold on his back, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, forcing him upright as a small tremor of anticipation rippled through her. Every brush of his hands, every deliberate press of his fingers, set her nerves on fire, igniting a coil of desire low in her belly. She slid forward further onto the edge of the table and tucked one heel next to her hip, body trembling at the heat he drew from her.
Her hands moved with urgency: one clutching the back of his neck, anchoring herself as his fingers worked relentlessly against her, the other fumbling at the ties of his trousers. Her breath hitched sharply as she freed him, wrapping her hand around his length, feeling every pulse, every subtle jerk. She shivered violently, body pressing instinctively against him, lips parting, small whimpers slipping free with each deliberate stroke.
He groaned into her mouth, lips pressing hungrily to hers. His teeth grazed softly on her bottom lip as his hips tilted in response to her touch. The fingers of his free hand flexed against her waist and back, brushing her skin, feeling the tense, shivering tremors that ran from her toes up her spine and down to her fingertips, her chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Lucanis’ jaw tightened, a low, ragged growl vibrating from his chest, as he shifted slightly, pressing flush against her, letting her movements guide him while every motion - the arch of her back, the press of her thighs, the way her fingers clutched him - drew his own muscles taut, responding instinctively to her heat.
Every gasp, every shiver, every tremble of her body sent ripples through him; his hands dug just enough into her to anchor her against the table while his own pulse thundered in rhythm with hers. He pressed closer, lips grazing her jaw, neck, and collarbone in quick, possessive flicks. Low moans spilled into her ear as he claimed her in every subtle, deliberate way. Her body quivered, writhing against him, and he mirrored it perfectly; attuned, dominant, utterly consumed by the response she elicited from him.
Their breaths tangled, warm and ragged, until he pressed forward, filling her slowly, deliberately. Every nerve in her body flared, muscles tightening instinctively, hips lifting into his rhythm. Her cry tore free, sharp and ragged, and his guttural groan vibrated through her, a pulse she felt deep in her spine. He stilled for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to hers, breaths mingling, bodies slick with heat, every nerve alive, shivers cascading down her back and curling low in her belly.
“Roran,” he whispered, thick with desire, voice rasping in her ear. “Maker, you’re perfect.” His hips snapped forward, deliberate, relentless, driving her back against the edge of the table, scattering parchment and inkpots. She coiled the leg not supporting her around his waist, thighs clenching and pressing him closer, every subtle movement sending sparks of fire racing through her body. Tiny shivers ran along her arms, spine, and calves, each press and brush of his skin igniting her further, heat pooling, nerves screaming with every rhythm.
Their mouths collided, desperate, messy, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, punctuated by ragged gasps and whispered names. Her nails raked his back, gripping, pulling, while each tiny muscle spasm, each arch of her back, each trembling curl of her toes sent shivers racing through her. The scrape of the table legs, the slick sounds of their bodies meeting, the thrum of their pulse - the room was consumed by them.
When she cried his name again, he pressed his face to the hollow of her neck, lips and teeth grazing, low growls vibrating through her. His hips stuttered, jerking her closer, and her body arched violently into him. Every gasp, tremor, and shiver fed him, pulling him deeper, making his own muscles taut, pulse hammering. Her convulsions, each twitch of thighs and torso, mirrored the growing coil in his body.
The tension coiled impossibly low, winding through her nerves, and then shattered in a shuddering, blinding wave. Every muscle spasm, every gasping breath, every convulsion of her body sent him higher, stretching him to the edge. Her thighs clenched, hips fluttering instinctively around him, and she raked her nails across his shoulders. Hair damp against her forehead, her breathing ragged and trembling, she cried his name again and again, body pulsing violently against him, surrendering completely.
The sight, sound, and feel of her climax pushed him past the edge. His groan - low, guttural, and ragged - vibrated through both their bodies as his own release ripped through him. Hips grinding and pulsing, muscles taut and trembling, he held her tight, pressing every inch of his body flush against hers, letting the friction, heat, and slick press of skin amplify every pulse of his climax. Tiny tremors ran through his forearms, thighs, and torso as he spilled into her, every convulsion mirrored by the slick, shivering press of her body. He groaned her name again, voice raw, ragged, as his release pulsed through him, grounding them both in the shared intensity.
For long, suspended moments, they remained tangled, bodies trembling, pulse racing, breaths ragged and interlaced, every nerve ending alive. Lucanis’ lips brushed her temple, lingering, warm and possessive, while her body still quivered from the aftershocks. Around them, scattered dossiers and parchment lay forgotten, casualties of heat, flesh, and desire. The room was thick with the scent, pulse, and lingering echoes of their shared, unrelenting intensity.
“Still jealous?” she whispered, a faint, teasing smile tugging at her lips despite the haze in her voice, warmth pooling low and hot in her belly.
He chuckled, lips brushing hers again, teeth teasing her bottom lip before pulling back just enough to let his breath ghost across her skin. “Always.”
At last, he drew back, thumb brushing lightly along her damp cheek, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw. Her spine shivered at the touch, pulse spiking, heat flaring through her. “You deserve better than this damn table,” he murmured, voice roughened with desire and care, the weight of it pressing against her awareness like a tangible force.
Her lips curved faintly, teasing even through the flush of heat. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”
His smirk was indulgent, dark, and warm in the dim light. He bent to kiss her again, slow and lingering, sparks of heat crawling down her spine with every press of his lips, before lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
Rook rested her forehead against his shoulder, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding her, arms wrapped lightly around his shoulders as she clung to him, every nerve alight from the lingering friction of their bodies. He stepped carefully, shedding his linen trousers at his ankles, the soft scrape of fabric and floor echoing faintly in the quiet. His arms were warm and solid, holding her flush against him as he carried her through the dim room. The subtle sway of his muscles beneath her, the taut press of his chest against hers, and the soft brush of stubble against her temple made her pulse jump anew.
The bed waited in shadow, a single candle casting a faint golden light over the sheets. Lucanis set her down gently, letting her body sink into the softness of the mattress. The press of the bed beneath her, the warmth of the sheets, and the lingering heat of his body left her quivering, grounding her even as the coil of desire in her belly tightened. He leaned over her, dark eyes locking onto hers, every glance claiming her in quiet, possessive intensity.
“Every time I look at you, Roran,” his voice dropped low, rough, vibrating through her spine, “I lose myself.”
A faint, mischievous curve lifted her lips, and she tilted her chin up towards him. “If that's losing yourself, then I’ll gladly get lost with you.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he lowered himself beside her, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. Legs tangling beneath the blankets, the press of his thigh against hers sent sparks curling low in her belly, and his arm looped around her, pulling her close. His lips found hers again; slow, unhurried, teasing - every brush sending shivers down her spine and along her thighs, making her toes curl and stomach coil with warmth.
Rook exhaled softly against him, shivers running across her skin as heat sparked wherever his hands lingered - the curve of her hip, at her waist, along her ribs. Every brush of his fingers, every weight shift, every press of lips against her jaw and the hollow of her throat sent tingles through her body, each one making her pulse spike, stomach tighten, and breath hitch.
“I don’t want this night to end,” he murmured, lips brushing strands of her damp hair as his warm breath tickled her ear, voice thick and low with longing.
“Then don’t let it,” she whispered, and with a fluid, deliberate movement, she shifted so that she was straddling his waist. Her knees rested lightly on either side of him, fingers trailing along his chest as she leaned close, pressing herself flush against him. The press of her thighs, the subtle grind of her hips, and the brush of her body along his sent heat radiating through both of them, every nerve strung tight with sensation.
Lucanis groaned low, eyes darkening as his hands slid up her sides, pressing into her hips and waist, fingers curling to anchor her against him. Every movement, every tiny shift she made, sent jolts of pleasure straight through him. His pulse raced, chest heaving, a taut coil of desire threading through his limbs as he met every subtle grind, every twitch of her body with a matching press, a low growl vibrating in his throat.
Their kisses deepened, slow and consuming, lips and tongues dancing with deliberate, teasing intensity. Rook’s hair tickled his cheeks as she leaned forward, nails trailing lightly along his chest, every flick and brush of skin sending shivers across his torso. He pressed back into her, letting the heat of her body, the taut curl of her muscles, and the slick friction of skin against skin drive him higher, every shiver and gasp mirrored in his own tightening core.
For long, suspended moments, they remained locked together, bodies shivering, hearts hammering, breaths ragged and interwoven, every nerve alive. Lucanis’ lips brushed her temple - lingering, warm, possessive - while her thighs quivered around him, hands pressing into his chest as she caught her breath, still trembling, still slick with heat. The scattered sheets, the forgotten candles, the room itself were all erased, leaving only them - entwined, consumed, and achingly aware of every brush, every press, every shared shiver and pulse of need.