I can do it again, I know I can.
My hands shake with the effort of conjuring the ice shield, my heart splitting with helplessness as the fire consumes everything in its path.
The roof above us groans, a terrible sound that sends a jolt of dread through me. My eyes widen as I see it start to collapse, fiery debris falling like deadly rain.
“No!” I scream, my voice raw as I push forward, as if sheer will alone could stop the destruction around me.
But I’m frozen, powerless as the flames reach out to claim us all.
Then, suddenly, a sense of warmth surrounds me—not with the burning fury I’ve come to expect, but with a strange comforting tightness, an embrace that holds me in place. The sensation is almost comforting; the flames that should be searing my flesh instead cradle me in their heat. I gasp, fear momentarily giving way to confusion, and that’s when I hear it—a voice, soft and reassuring, cutting through the chaos.
“Relax,you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The words are a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink of panic.
The flames surround me,but they don’t burn. It’s as if they know me, as if they’re protecting me, keeping me safe from the destruction that’s tearing the village apart. The voice is close, impossibly calm amidst the chaos, and as the world blurs and spins around me.
“Relax,you’re safe. I’ve got you,” it repeats.
The panic recedes,the tension in my body unwinds, and I allow myself to believe the voice, to trust in its promise of safety.
Slowly, the fiery scene begins to fall away, the flames fading into the distance as darkness takes over, soft and enveloping. The village, the screams, the fear—all of it dissolves into the void, leaving only the warmth and the reassuring presence holding me close. The world around me slips into nothingness, and I let myself be carried into the darkness, surrendering to the voice that promises I’m safe, that I’m held.
And then,there is nothing but peace.
When I wake up,I'm still wrapped in that warmth. Protected.
The remnants of the dream linger as I become aware of my surroundings, the comforting heat that cradled me in my sleep still holding me close. But as my eyes flutter open, the reality of the situation dawns on me. Rylan is wrapped around me, bare chested, one bronze cuffed arm pressed protectively against my back, holding me close to him. His hand is splayed against the curve of my shoulder as if ready to pull me back to him at the first sign of movement. My head, in turn, rests on his shoulder, his bare skin hot against my cheek. Under the shared blanket that covers us from the waists down, I’m curled desperately close against his side, like I’m a battered little fishing boat, and he’s a safe port in the storm. My heart pounds, not from fear or panic, but from the unfamiliar intimacy of it all. I’m scared to move, afraid of breaking whatever spell has conjured this perfectly peaceful moment.
I tilt my head back slightly, careful not to disturb him, and take the opportunity to study his face in the soft light filtering through the room. He looks different when he’s asleep, his features softened, the tension that so often lines his brow gone. His jawline is still as strong as ever, but there’s a gentleness to it now, a subtle relaxation that makes him look almost boyish.
His dark lashes rest against his cheeks, even longer than I realised, framing those piercing eyes that are now hidden, giving him a look of vulnerability. His lips, usually set in a firm, controlled line, are slightly parted, and I can’t help but notice how full and perfectly shaped they are.
There’s a calmness about him that I haven’t seen in him when he’s awake, a peace that’s so at odds with the man who is always buzzing with intensity, as I’ve seen in the last few days. I find myself wondering what he’s dreaming about, what thoughts fill his mind when he’s not burdened by theweight of his awake thoughts. He seems almost… human like this, stripped of the defences he usually wears so well.
My gaze traces the contours of his face, the high cheekbones that give him that chiselled, noble look, the slight roughness to his skin that tells of a life lived with purpose and intensity. His hair is tousled by sleep, with a few strands falling across his forehead, gifting him a softness that is the difference between him looking merely handsome and utterly… beautiful.
But what makes him so perfect… is, ironically, an imperfection.
This close up I finally spot a scar, long and jagged, running from the curve of his jaw and snaking all the way down his neck to his shoulder, the pale, pink line in contrast against his sun-kissed skin. My breath stills as I take it in, wondering how I missed it before. Maybe because he never lets anyone see him like this, vulnerable.
Curiosity—and something else, something sharper—takes over as my fingers reach out on their own. I trace the scar, featherlight, feeling the smooth texture. It’s deep, uneven, a brutal memory etched into his very being. What could have left a mark like this? The thought twists in my chest, a pang of sadness swelling as I imagine the pain he must have endured.
I wonder how long he’s carried this with him, both the scar and whatever caused it. My mind races with questions, but mostly, I feel the weight of something I can’t put into words—something that makes me want to hold him, to protect him in the way he’s protected me.
He stirs slightly at my touch but doesn’t wake, and I lay a kiss to my fingertips and press it to the scar, letting my hand linger for a moment before pulling it back, my heart aching with a sadness I hadn’t expected to ever feel for my captor. What battles did he fight to earn a scar like this? And why do I feel so deeply about something I barely understand?
Travelling down his body, my eyes catch on something I hadn’t noticed before.
And it makes me gasp.
Embedded right in the middle of his chest, dead centre on his sternum, is an obsidian coloured gemstone. So black, it looks like it would swallow the slight sliver of light that passes by. My breath stills as I reach out to touch it, but as my finger nears, the stone flares red hot, and I quickly draw my hand back, biting back a squeal. What could it be? Is it the source of his power? Again, a million questions rise to my tongue, but a soft, sleepy exhalation escapes his lips and my thoughts quiesce. I can ask them any time. I don’t want to disturb his sleep.
That’s when I suddenly realise, given the chance, I could stay like this forever, just watching him, memorising every detail of his face, his body in this rare, unguarded moment. There’s something almost sacred about it, as if I’m seeing a side of him that no one else gets to see, a side he doesn’t even show to himself.
I lie completely still, forgoing my breath in exchange for another moment of getting to feel the steady breath filling his chest, the natural pressing of his warm body against mine. There’ve been times I sought out these moments of connection during the fleeting dalliances with men who never stayed for long. But they always came up short, often leaving me worse off, and it’s been an age since I last let myself indulge in something so simple, so intimate as just being held. But this, this tiny moment of closeness with this virtual stranger, is surpassing anything I dared to dream of in the past.
His chest continues its rhythmic rise and fall, and my fingers reach out, avoiding the gemstone, to trace the corded ridges of his impossibly toned body. Up his abdomen, over the clean bandage covering his wound, his chest, up his neck and finally… against his sculpted mouth.
