The forest near the edge of the Blighted woods was colder than expected. The moon, full and pale, bathed the trees in silver as a fog crept low between the trunks. Each bootstep crunched softly on the damp underbrush as I kept my rifle slung over my shoulder, fingers lightly brushing the trigger guard out of habit. I was meant to scout ahead, map the terrain, and return before dawn. But the stillness in the air? It felt like something watching—no, stalking—me. And I knew exactly who it was.

The sudden thundering of hooves behind me was the only warning I got. I turned just in time to see the dark silhouette atop his nightmare steed, his cloak snapping in the wind like wings, a flicker of spectral fire trailing behind him. Before I could lift my rifle, a strong leather-gloved hand yanked my back collar, dragging me bodily off my feet. I cursed and struggled as the world blurred past me—branches whipping my face, my legs kicking—but he was too fast. Too strong. I knew that power too well from our countless fights. Fights where fists met steel, words turned venomous, and yet—my eyes always lingered too long on the curve of his chest, the way his body radiated heat, the way he touched me too hard for a simple brawl.

I didn't know where he was taking me until I felt stone under my back—cold, damp—and smelled the mossy musk of an old cave. The horse vanished into the mist behind him, obedient. I lay there panting, dazed, until he loomed over me. His armor gleamed faintly in the darkness, and though he had no head, he spoke. The sound came from his body—low, guttural, otherworldly. It rumbled through the air like thunder rolling inside my chest.

"You don't follow orders well, soldier," he growled. His tone was mocking, but there was heat in it. "Were you trying to get caught by the blights?"

I spat to the side and glared up at him. "You think I'd let a bastard like you take me down without a fight?"

"You didn't fight," he rumbled, kneeling, gloved fingers running up my shirt to grip my jaw. "You let me."

My heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out his voice. His scent—smoke, metal, and something deeper, like scorched pine—invaded my senses. I hated how my body reacted to him. Hated how right it felt to be beneath him. Every time we crossed paths, it ended in blood, bruises, and bared teeth... but there was always something else between those moments. The way he'd linger too close. The way I'd dream of that body towering over mine. I told myself it was hate. I knew it wasn't.