𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.

— she would find it, eventually. unless… no, he wouldn't make it that easy. a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of his head flickered towards the floor, a silent offer of direction.

— possessive within him. he let the silence hang, savoring the way her shoulders tensed, her gaze darting frantically around the small room. there was a thrill in watching her flounder, a confirmation of the power he held over her, even if it was just for a moment. he didn't need to point it out. —

— laced with a tremor of panic, brought a slow, predatory smile to his lips. a witch without her wand was a considerably less dangerous witch. the raw vulnerability in her eyes now suited her far more than the defiance he was used to. it was a potent mix, one that stirred something dark and —

he’d seen it fall, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of wood against the rough floorboards as she’d fumbled with her jeans. it lay now, a slender piece of polished dark wood, half-hidden beneath the frayed edge of an old rug, just a few feet from where she stood. her sudden, sharp question, —

— one that could only end in ruin. yet, like a moth to a flame, cerberus found himself drawn to the witch, to the raw desire that burned between them.

"i could find you a piece of string, if you would like," he teased, a coy smirk playing on his lips.

— to the feel of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the sound of her moans echoing in the abandoned house.

with an effort, he tore his gaze away from her, his thoughts darkening. this was a dangerous game they played, —

— rummaged for her clothes.

"no towels," he replied, his deep voice a steady counterpoint to her frayed nerves.

he watched with rapt attention as she donned her bra and top, the fabric clinging to her sculpted form. his mind flashed back to the night before, —

his sharp gaze took in chloé's disheveled state, the way her damp skin glistened in the dim light. cerberus felt a twist in his gut, a mix of guilt and primal satisfaction at being the cause of her vulnerability. he remained rooted to the spot, arms crossed over his chest, as she —

— fitted jeans, the denim hugging his powerful thighs. his t shirt followed, encasing his broad shoulders once more, concealing his body.

— satisfaction of his baser needs. cerberus knew he was playing with fire, yet he couldn't help but be drawn to the flame.

as he strode through the labyrinthine halls, returning to the living room to find his disgarded clothing. with a quiet efficiency, he donned his pair of —

— map etched in flesh of her fiery passion, served as a haunting reminder of the depths to which he had sunk.

the witch's scent still lingered on his skin, a heady mix of sweat, sex, and something uniquely her. it drew him, an inexplicable pull that went beyond the primal —

cerberus moved through the room with calculated precision, the contrast between the disarray and his deliberate strides striking. he gathered up the remnants of their tangled sheets, folding them neatly as he contemplated the stark reality of their night together. the faint marks on his back, a —

— his face, revealing the tips of his fangs. he knew what she had to deal with. and he knew, with a certainty that thrummed in his very bones, that he was more than ready. his patience had been rewarded. the waiting was just beginning.

— reached out a large hand, tracing the faint outline.

he inhaled deeply, drawing in her lingering essence, branding it even deeper into his soul. "deal with what, little witch?" he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rumble. a dark, knowing smile finally broke across —

— the room was a war zone, exactly as he’d expected. shredded clothes, overturned furniture, faint scorch marks on the walls from her magical defence. he looked at the impression she had left in the bed, a slight hollow in the mattress, the indentation on his pillow where her head had rested. he —

— feeling the empty space beside him. the phantom warmth of her still clung to the sheets, to his skin, and her intoxicating scent permeated the air, thick with the aftermath of their shared struggle and release.

he slowly sat up, the powerful muscles of his back rippling beneath his skin. —

— the faint click of a door, signifying her successful escape.

only then did cerberus allow his eyes to open.

they were the colour of molten gold, sharp and intelligent, belying the sleep he had feigned. he lay there for a moment, simply staring at the ceiling, —

— the rustle of debris as she navigated the chaos of their shared passion. her voice, barely audible, as she declared, "i need a shower. then i’ll deal with this." the words hung in the air, a promise and a threat. he waited until the sound of her footsteps faded completely, until he heard —

— every touch, every withdrawal, was a faint ghost against his skin, a lingering imprint. his body screamed to tighten his hold, to pull her back and keep her pinned, but he resisted. patience. he had promised himself patience.

he heard her soft footsteps padding across the cold stone floor, —

— nonetheless. another crack in that formidable wall, he thought, a fragile hairline fracture he would carefully exploit.

he felt her slow, deliberate attempts to disentangle herself, the careful lifting of his heavy arm, the gentle sliding of her naked body from the bed. —

— last night really happened."

a flicker of a smile, so faint it barely touched the corners of his lips, threatened to break his façade. she was processing. she wasn’t screaming. she wasn’t lashing out. not yet, anyway. the quiet was a fragile, temporary truce before the storm, but it was a truce —

— downwards. he knew what she would see: the evidence of their night, etched into the very fabric of the room, into their bodies. he heard the quiet, almost pained "oh. oh no, don't go down there brain." and then, the final, undeniable truth in her voice, barely a whisper, as she cursed, "shit, —

— leaving his shoulder, and knew her gaze was on him. he kept his eyes closed, his breathing even and deep, the image of peaceful slumber he had perfected.

he felt the unexpected weight of her examination, a curious, hesitant softness in her regard, before her attention shifted —

— was a familiar dance. he registered her quick, almost imperceptible intake of breath as she realised her predicament. the soft mumbling, the croaky sound of her sleep-roughened voice, the rustle of her messy blonde hair against his chin – he absorbed it all. he felt her head lift, the warmth —

— hours, a statue carved from shadowed rock, listening to the soft flutter of her eyelids as daylight pierced through the drapeless windows. he felt the warmth of the sun on her face, then a moment later, on his own cheek.

her initial confusion, the slight struggle against his embrace, —

he had felt the exact moment chloé’s consciousness had begun its slow, reluctant ascent. the subtle stiffening of her spine, the infinitesimal shift of her weight against him, the shallow gasp of air she took, not quite a sigh. he had remained utterly still, just as he had for —

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— conscious acceptance, however distant that dream felt. for now, this was enough. he would wait. he would patiently wait.

— possessive gesture, a promise whispered only to the darkness: mine. the ache in his fangs, a constant thrumming presence beneath the surface, was still there, but it was tempered now, softened by this fragile moment of peace. he wanted to mark her, yes, but not like this. not without her —

— imprinting itself onto his very soul. he wanted to absorb it, to brand it onto his memory, a permanent fixture.

his large hand, previously draped loosely over her hip, tightened almost imperceptibly, drawing her fractionally closer. he rested his chin on the crown of her head, a silent, deeply —