Page 28 of His Darkest Devotion

Our eyes meet again. My pulse thuds, unstoppable. Neither of us speaks. A thousand reasons to stay separate crowd my mind, all overshadowed by a visceral magnetism. He shifts closer, ignoring his wound. Before I can think, we’re leaning toward each other, drawn by a force neither can quell.

When our mouths touch, the tension that’s been building erupts in a blaze of sensation. It’s far from gentle—more like a clash of wills that melts into fierce hunger. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, tasting of iron and desperation. I shudder, surprising myself with how fiercely I respond, fists tangling in the collar of his tunic. Every nerve screams that this is wrong. But the flush of adrenaline, the relief of surviving together, drowns caution in a tide of impulsive need.

He groans softly, one hand sliding around my waist, cautious of my bruised shoulder but still firm enough to make my heart stutter. The pressure of his mouth intensifies, an urgent, seeking rhythm that coaxes answers from me I never intended to give. My magic flickers around our joined forms, sparks of stray illusions dancing in the periphery, as if responding to the chaotic swirl of my emotions.

For a heartbeat, I want to tear away, to snarl that he’s my enemy. But that impetus dissolves under the sheer force of our kiss—a collision that feels inevitable. We’re pressed together, battered bodies and roiling hearts, channeling the leftover fury and fear into heated contact. My fingers curl in his hair, feeling the damp strands. When our lips part, we gasp for air.

A storm of conflicting feelings churns in my chest. Fear of what he represents, anger at his pursuit, gratitude for his help, desire ignited by adrenaline. It all tangles into something raw. And he looks equally shaken, eyes dark with an emotion I can’t fully decipher.

Time seems to suspend as we exchange another fraught kiss, gentler this time but no less intense. His mouth moves over mine with tentative exploration, a soft question and an urgent plea wrapped together. I respond in kind, half-lost in the swirl of sensation. The temple’s ruinous walls fade from my consciousness, replaced by the taste and feel of him.

For a moment, there’s only the rasp of our breathing, the rasp of fabric as I press closer, ignoring the ache in my bones. He lifts a hand to cradle my cheek, and I jolt at the warmth of his touch, so contrary to the rumors of his cold efficiency. My heart thrashes in my chest, uncertain but unwilling to stop.

Neither of us speaks, as if any words might shatter this fragile, impulsive truce. Instead, we let our bodies communicate—hesitant caresses that skim across bruised skin, a brush of lips that deepens into urgent closeness. Desire coils tight in my core, a throbbing heartbeat that demands release. I sense a mirror of that longing in the trembling of his muscles, the way his grip tightens at my waist.

Yet for all the hunger, pain and exhaustion curb our reckless impulses. Every shift of our limbs draws a gasp from either one of us—his wound, my bruises. We cling to each other, half delirious from the synergy of relief and want, uncertain how to proceed without aggravating injuries. The rawness of it pulses in the charged air.

When we finally break apart, our foreheads rest together, breathing ragged. My cheeks burn, not just from desire but from the realization of what we’re doing. He’s a Dark Elf enforcer. I’m the Purna witch he’s meant to capture. We’ve forged a tenuous bond through shared peril, but the real world lies beyond these crumbling walls, hostile and unrelenting.

We exchange a fractured look, chests rising and falling in unison. My lips tingle from his kisses. My mind reels, searching for something to say that isn’t an accusation or a confession. In the end, I manage only a shaky exhale. “We… we should rest,” I whisper, voice thick with residual passion.

He nods, a haunted expression flitting across his face. I see conflict swirl behind his eyes—the same swirling tide I feel. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he shifts gingerly, adjusting his weight against the stone. His wound still seeps, though less profusely. The bandage is stained red.

A wave of regret and confusion crashes over me. Another roar from somewhere outside the ruin reminds me how precarious our position is. We can’t afford to dwell too long on this moment. My lips still feel swollen, and the memory of his touch lingers on my skin like a brand.

Carefully, I ease down beside him. My body screams for rest. We’re an odd tableau—Dark Elf enforcer and hunted witch, pressed together in the corner of a broken temple, each battered and drained, both trembling from a single stolen encounter. My heart hasn’t slowed, but my eyelids droop with fatigue.

I sense Vaelin shift, a quiet acceptance that we need each other’s presence to keep watch. Without a word, I nestle closer. His arm settles around my shoulders in a hesitant gesture, more protective than possessive. Our mutual exhaustion dulls the edges of hostility. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself the luxury of leaning into his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, letting the adrenaline fade.

“Just until morning,” I murmur, half to myself. “Then…” My voice trails off, uncertain how to complete that sentence.Then we return to being enemies? Then we run again?

He doesn’t answer. I sense his chest expand as he exhales, and his fingers twitch against my arm. The silent tension bristles with unspoken possibilities, none of them simple. We remain locked in that fragile moment, the wreckage of the temple a testament to lives once lived, the monstrous carcasses a grim reminder of the dangers that loom.

Eventually, my eyes close. Sleep claims me with surprising swiftness, the day’s countless battles draining every last scrap of energy. Vaelin’s presence, alarmingly enough, provides a fragile sense of safety. My final conscious thought hovers between fear, guilt, and the faintest ember of longing for something I can’t define.

I wake to the gray light of dawn filtering through the broken arch, my body stiff and sore. Vaelin is still beside me, propped against the stone, though he stirs at my movement. Our limbs disengage awkwardly, accompanied by a fresh wave of reality. He tenses, likely recalling our precarious circumstances.

An ache throbs in my chest, not purely physical. The memory of last night’s impulsive embrace flares, and I see the echo of it in his uneasy gaze. Our eyes meet, and a flush warms my cheeks. The hush that follows is weighted with shame, wonder, and a dozen tangled emotions.

We shift apart, carefully. I rub my aching shoulder, wincing. He checks his wound with a grimace. The bandage held, but he still looks pale. The faint morning breeze trickles in, carrying the smell of blood and decay from the carcasses outside. Soon, the acrid stench of monstrous remains might draw scavengers or, worse, more horrors.

He glances at the battered archway, expression guarded. “We… survived,” he says softly, voice hoarse. It’s all he can muster. There’s no mention of the moment we shared. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to my feet. My body complains, but I manage to stand. “We need to leave. Wildspont creatures might return. And…” My words fade.And what happens with us?Our ephemeral truce can’t last, can it?

He hauls himself upright, wincing. The tension thickens again. We stand a step apart, the memory of heated kisses an invisible tether neither acknowledges out loud. My heart hammers with the realization that nothing has changed about our predicament. He remains the Overlord’s enforcer, I remain his quarry, and the world beyond these ruins demands we pick sides.

I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Last night… we were just surviving,” I mutter, half to reassure myself. A flicker of hurt or regret flickers in his eyes, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

A curt nod is his only reply. Then he retrieves his sword, sliding it into the scabbard. That single gesture triggers a surge of alarm in my mind—my illusions are still drained. If he decides to seize me, how hard would it be in my current state? The memory of our uneasy cooperation wars with the knowledge that duty might override whatever moment we shared.

I steel myself, gathering the faint dregs of magic left. The next words slip out before I can censor them: “If you still plan to take me… you’ll have to fight me again.” My tone is defiant, even though I’m barely standing.

He exhales, gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I have orders,” he says, voice stiff. Then he lifts his eyes, and the swirl of conflict returns, etched in every nook and cranny of his face. “But I can’t do it. Not now. Not… after last night. We shared something we can’t explain.”

An odd sense of relief loosens the knot in my chest, though caution warns me he might change his mind later. “Then… let me go,” I say softly, heart pounding. It’s a plea as much as a demand.

Silence stretches. Somewhere beyond the broken walls, a crow caws, cutting the hush. Slowly, Vaelin nods, as if each muscle rebels against the motion. His next words emerge in a broken whisper: “Go.”

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