Lucarion lingered in the shadows of the cave, his gaze fixed on Eva. She sat against the stone wall, chewing thoughtfully at bread.
He expected indignation—the kind his distance always provoked. But she didn't bristle.
She seemed… reassured. Comfortable, in a way he rarely elicited in others.
Lucarion tilted his head, considering. His coldness had always served as a boundary, testing those around him, pushing them to reveal their instincts. Most reacted with caution, resentment, or fear. She, however, simply assessed and adjusted.
A flicker of amusement touched his lips. Puzzling, yes—and satisfying.
He drank from his cup, firelight curling against the cave walls.
Her ragged cough returned, bending her body. Lucarion shifted closer, watchful. Fever flushed her skin. "You're burning, and you can't breathe. Allow me."
Wary eyes met his.
He warmed his palm by the fire, then gestured. "May I?"
After a pause, her shoulders yielded.
His hand slipped beneath the cloak, pressing to her back. The other he kept near the flames, feeding warmth into his body so she could draw from it. Her breathing grew steadier, the tight clench of her jaw visibly loosening.
A faint tremor ran through her ribs as she leaned into his warmth. Her heartbeat thudded against his palm—uneven at first, then steadier. Each pulse seeped into him, a fragile reminder of how close she was.
The night deepened, colder still. Color drained from her lips, her fingers stiffened, her breathing turned shallow. Her eyelids fluttered.
"Eva," he said, low, urgent. "You're getting worse. Let me under the cloak with you. I'll keep you warm."
Her gaze lifted, searching his face as before, measuring intent. She nodded once.
He guided her down by the fire, then slid in behind her, drawing the cloak over them both. One arm settled across her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest. His other hand stayed near the fire, feeding heat through his body into her.
The change was immediate. Her rigid muscles loosened; a shudder ran through her as circulation returned. Her breath deepened, her body melting inch by inch against his. Lucarion stilled, noting each shift—the weight of her spine, the faint pulse at her throat.
The air carried her scent: sweet, with a faint trace of spice—the edge that flared when she was angry—now softened, lingering like an aftertaste, grounding him in her quiet intensity.
Her eyelids drooped, lashes shadowing her cheeks. Her body slackened in his hold, as if the warmth itself were dragging her under.
"I shouldn't sleep," she rasped.
"You need rest," Lucarion murmured near her ear. "But not yet. Stay with me a while longer."
Her fingers dug faintly into his arm. "I will."
A hum of approval rumbled from his chest. Stray strands of her hair brushed his jaw. Her ragged inhales began to falter less, easing into the steadier rhythm of his own.
The awareness coiled sharp in him. He cleared his throat, "so, you call yourself an expert in killing your grooms. Tell me—how do you plan to kill me?"
A weak laugh broke from her, surprising them both. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"
"Very much."
Her eyes wavered shut then fought open again. She had been guarded—but now words began spilling out, unbidden, as if fatigue had pried them loose.
"It wasn't only the kidnappers," she whispered.
Lucarion stilled. A shift in her tone—a confession.
"There were others. Men I agreed to wed. One…" Her breath caught, a cough stealing the end of it.
She pressed on, voice thin. "One I even loved. I thought I could ignore the signs. Pretend he was the one chosen for me. Bend a god's will to mine."
Her throat worked against his arm as she spoke.
"At first, it was bearable. The urge was constantly there, but every time I forced it down, it seemed to lessen. By the time we stood at the altar, I thought I had mastered it."
His hand stayed steady at her shoulder, though something in his chest pulled taut.
"At the wedding night…" Her voice cracked. "The moment he kissed me, it returned — the hunger I thought caged. He smiled at me, and I—" She broke, breath ragged. "When I woke, he was limp. Neck snapped."
Sparks hissed in the silence.
Her eyes shut, her body sagging against him. The words she had spoken hung between them, raw and unguarded.
Lucarion's voice came low, his chest vibrating against her back. "So… is that how it always happens? The moment they touch you, you cannot hold back?"
Her eyes opened, dim firelight swimming. "No. Not always. With the ones I didn't want, I chose it. I killed them before they even thought to touch me, with His blessing. But with the ones I wanted, the ones I thought I could live beside…" Her lips pressed thin. "My hands became His. I could only watch as they died or fled."
Her breath trembled. "There were those who tried to force me… they were different. Easier. His power surged, tempered by my wrath."
Her eyes slid shut again. "The three guards in your dungeon—that's why, and how I killed them."
She swallowed, voice thinning. "It's always the same. The moment a man looks at me with want in his eyes, His hand moves through mine. Nothing can stop it. No chains, no walls. Desire is the spark, and death the sacrament."
A quiet, bitter tautness threaded her words. "When you stripped me, I waited for it. For the urge to kill, the surge of power. But it never came. Your thoughts never strayed that way. Your indifference saved you."
Her weight sagged fully into him, each exhale faltering against his skin.
Lucarion's jaw tightened. He held her closer, even as her words hung like a curse between them. If her god punished intent, then he should be long dead. Because he had already claimed her. In his mind she belonged to him. Yet he lived.
The fire spat a hiss of sparks. He bent his head toward her hair, breathing her in until her scent filled his lungs—sweet, spiced, grounding. His heartbeat fell into rhythm with hers, as though some greater hand drew them into sync. He let it anchor him.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Silence.
Her breath halted mid-draw.
Lucarion's eyes opened, instincts sharpening.
Her body went rigid in his arms.
He looked down, voice low, warning. "Eva?"
The answer came as a shudder, unnatural and violent, wracking her frame as though seized from within. Her eyes snapped open—molten gold, burning with something ancient and merciless.
Her hand darted beneath the cloak. When it emerged, a sharpened stake gleamed in the firelight.
Lucarion's reflexes caught before thought. His palm closed around her wrist as the stake plunged. The point bit into flesh—shallow, searing. He twisted, forcing her arm away.
The laugh that spilled from her lips was not hers. It split the air like iron on a whetstone, raw and reverberant, echoing as though dragged across centuries.
"Bold, mortal. You touch the forge of my making, and think your hand shall not burn?"
She tore free, rolling across the cave floor with inhuman speed. The stake flashed again, striking from a crouch. He pivoted, the blade grazing his ribs. Heat spread as blood welled beneath his tunic, but he did not falter.
Then she moved—truly moved—not as Eva ever could. She ricocheted from wall to wall, a predator loosed. Stone cracked under her bare feet, dust raining from the ceiling.
Lucarion tracked her with the precision of a hunter. Angles, distance, momentum—he measured everything, his body already turning before her strikes landed. She was faster, stronger, unrelenting. But he endured. He absorbed. He gave no ground.
Each clash jarred his bones, each near-miss hissed a promise of death. She came from above, the stake plunging for his heart. He caught her wrists mid-air, twisted with all his strength, and slammed her to the ground.
She writhed, shrieking with divine fury, teeth snapping at his throat. The cave floor quaked beneath her struggle.
Pinned.
He bore down with his full weight, muscles burning, lungs dragging fire. His grip did not waver.
From her throat spilled a voice not hers—low, resonant, layered as if spoken from every battlefield since the dawn of men.
"I will break you. I will unmake you until your bones remember nothing but me."
Her body bucked with god-born force, surging again and again, driving him back toward the fire. The stake chipped against stone as it struck wide. Lucarion tore it from her hand and hurled it into the dark.
She shrieked, the sound rattling the cavern walls, rage vast and possessive.
Again she lunged, fists like hammers. Again he absorbed the blows, turned her weight, forced her down. Every motion was pain, but pain meant he lived. Endurance was his weapon, and he wielded it like a blade.
Time unraveled into a haze of violence.
The cave reeked of sweat, smoke, and blood. His arms ached, ribs throbbed, jaw split. But still he held. Each time she broke free, he dragged her back into the earth. Each time she struck, he bore it until her fury met the stone of his will.
By the time dawn bled pale across the cave mouth, her body sagged against him, trembling and spent. The fire had died to embers. Her head lolled against his shoulder, sweat-slick hair clinging to her cheek.
From her lips came a voice not her own, the sound layered, thunderous, as if ten thousand war-cries spoke through her at once:
"Worthy."
Then silence.
Lucarion pressed his brow to hers, chest heaving, every nerve aflame. He did not release her.
The God of War had tested him. And found him enough.
She was his.