C H A P T E R T H I R T Y
She needs to see. It may be the only way I get her to believe me.
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y
Olwyn
M y skin prickles with anticipation, like waiting for the first drop of rain in a thunderstorm.
I stand in the centre of a dimly lit room I can’t quite make out, the walls draped in shadow and flickering candlelight. Everything feels hazy, the edges of my vision soft and blurred, the dream making everything feel safe and comfortable. The carpet beneath my feet is as soft as wolf’s fur, making me want to lie in it.
But someone steps out of the dark. Altair is there, his eyes like molten obsidian that gleam with a hunger that sends a thrill skittering down my spine. He steps closer, and my breath hitches, my body reacting to the mere proximity of him. The air between us crackles, and I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, seeping into my own. His gaze locks onto mine, and I can’t look away.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against my cheek, trailing down to the curve of my jaw with a touch that feels both possessive and gentle. The cool tips of his fingers leave a trail of fire in their wake, and my eyelids flutter as I lean into the contact, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Altair’s lips part slightly, his breath mingling with mine, and I can feel the faint pull of his shadows curling around my ankles, and brushing up my legs, whispering promises that make my blood sing.
“Olwyn,” he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive rumble that sends a shiver through me. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, and I can’t help the soft sound that escapes me—a half-whimper, half-moan that makes him groan.
I want him.
I crave the darkness he offers, the consuming fire that threatens to swallow me whole.
He leans in, his mouth hovering just above mine, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath, the barest brush of his lips against my own. My heart races, every nerve alight with the promise of his touch. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and just as our lips are about to meet—
The world shifts.
I blink, and Altair’s dark eyes shift, lightening into a familiar hazel. Iolas’s face looms before me, his features carved in shadow and candlelight, but the energy is different. The playfulness that usually dances in his gaze is gone, replaced by something sharper, more urgent. I gasp, the sudden change jolting through me, but my body reacts on instinct, driven by the undeniable pull between us.
Iolas's hands find my waist, his grip firm, almost desperate, and a soft growl rumbles from his chest as he pulls me flush against him. My head spins, confusion mingling with desire, and I can’t help the way my fingers curl into his hair, anchoring myself to him even as the world tilts around us.
The heat between us intensifies, a slow, building fire that burns from the inside out. Iolas’s lips are mere inches from mine, and I can feel his breath, hot and ragged, against my skin. His thumb grazes the hollow of my throat, and I gasp, my body arching toward him, craving the release that his touch promises.
“You’re playing with fire, little witch,” he murmurs, his voice rough and edged with a warning that only stokes the flames higher.
I know this is wrong. The rational part of my mind screams that this isn’t real, that I shouldn’t be here, like this, with him. But the line between what I want and what I should do blurs, lost in the haze of heat and longing that coils in my belly.
Iolas’s lips finally crash against mine, and the world dissolves into a haze of sensation—the press of his body, the taste of him, the rough drag of his teeth over my lower lip. The kiss is urgent, almost bruising, and I meet him with equal fervour, my hands fisting in his hair as if I can’t get close enough, as if I need to consume him to quench the burning in my veins.
His hands roam over me, exploring, claiming, and every touch sends sparks dancing across my skin. My breath hitches, and I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the intensity of the kiss. Iolas deepens it, his grip tightening, and it feels like we’re both on the edge.
But then, something shifts. The taste of him changes—familiar yet darker, sharper. The hands gripping my waist feel different, slender, more possessive. It’s subtle at first, like my mind is playing tricks on me, but then I realise… it’s not Iolas anymore.
It’s Altair.
His scent invades my senses—dark and musky, tinged with the sharp tang of a storm on the horizon. The kiss changes, too. It’s no longer frantic and wild but deliberate, demanding. The way his lips move against mine, the way his tongue teases my mouth open… it’s as if he’s staking a claim, branding me with every kiss, every touch.
My heart races, confusion mingling with desire as I try to pull away, to make sense of the shift. But his hands grip tighter, holding me in place, his body pressing into mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to think.
“Altair?” I whisper against his lips, my voice shaky, uncertain.
He doesn’t answer, just pulls me closer, his lips trailing down my neck, leaving a burning trail in their wake. My breath catches, my body betraying me as heat floods my core. Every inch of me aches for him, even though my mind is screaming that this is wrong, that this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
But he doesn’t care. His hands are everywhere, claiming me, owning me. And I find myself melting into him, unable to resist the pull, the gravity of him. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be able to pull away.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the dream fractures, the sensation of falling pulling me away from the tangled heat of their embrace. I gasp, my eyes snapping open to the still darkness of my room, my heart hammering in my chest as reality crashes back in.
The room is quiet, the shadows familiar and still, but the echoes of the dream linger, hot and heavy in the air. I press a trembling hand to my lips, the phantom sensation of their kisses still tingling on my skin. My heart is a chaotic drumbeat, caught somewhere between fear and exhilaration, and I can’t quite shake the feeling that, in some way, the lines between dream and desire have blurred irrevocably.