Fire Beneath the Skin

Rosaline's POV

{mature content}

The stars were cruelly beautiful that night.

I sat alone on the rooftop of Adam's penthouse, knees tucked to my chest, a blanket draped over my shoulders, the wind tangling my hair. Below, the city pulsed distant, unconcerned, alive in ways I no longer felt connected to. But up here, time was slow. It felt like the world had paused waiting for something to shatter… or begin again.

The pendant beneath my collarbone pulsed gently. Not a warning. Not magic.

Just… present.

Like him.

I didn't need to turn to know he was there. I always knew.

The air shifted thicker, sharper, like the first breath before thunder cracks. That strange calm that belongs only to storms. My skin prickled, not from fear, but from something deeper. Awareness. A magnetic gravity that always pulled me in his direction.

"You always find me when I need silence," I murmured, my voice barely louder than the breeze.

"And yet," he said softly, "you never ask me to leave."

His voice was velvet dragged over ancient stone. Gentle. Undeniable.

He sat beside me, leaving just enough space to honor my unspoken invitation, just close enough to remind me that he was there. That he would always be there, even when I didn't know how to ask.

I glanced sideways. The wind had undone him hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, collar unbuttoned. He looked less like a creature of immortality and more like a man caught between control and unraveling. No red glow in his eyes. Only quiet stormclouds.

"Do you regret it?" I asked.

His gaze didn't waver from the skyline.

"What?"

"Binding yourself to me. The vow. The curse. All of it."

He exhaled slowly. "No."

"You didn't even think about it."

"I've had two centuries to think."

I looked away. The silence between us swelled—not awkward, just weighted with the things we hadn't said.

"I don't know what's happening to me," I whispered. "The fire. The visions. The way the pendant pulses when you look at me."

"You're awakening," he said.

I nodded. "It feels like dying."

"No," he said, turning his head to look at me fully. "It feels like becoming."

His words echoed through me like prophecy.

"Then why does it terrify me?"

"Because you're trying to hold on to a version of yourself that died the moment you opened that tunnel. The girl who walked out of Devana's vault… she was reborn in fire."

I faced him fully now. "Do you ever want to run?"

He nodded once. "Every day."

"And why don't you?"

His voice lowered. "Because you never stop calling me back."

My breath stuttered. The air around us shifted again denser now, heavier with anticipation. His hand lifted slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek.

That one touch unraveled me.

It was like I'd been holding my breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale. My heart thudded against my ribs, not with fear, but with longing. Hunger. Need.

"Adam," I whispered, his name catching between my lips like something sacred.

"I shouldn't," he said, voice torn and raw.

"Then don't," I breathed.

He studied me slowly, reverently. Not like a man starved, but like someone who had waited a lifetime for permission.

Then he moved.

His lips brushed mine just barely a question in the shape of a kiss. I answered it by leaning forward, pressing my mouth to his in a slow, sure motion that made the earth tilt. He kissed like he carried centuries in his soul and wanted to forget all of them in one night.

His hands came up to cup my face. My fingers curled into the front of his shirt. We deepened the kiss together, like we'd always known how, like our mouths had been waiting to find one another in this very moment.

The soul pendant burned hot between us, glowing brighter, syncing our magic.

We didn't speak.

We didn't need to.

He stood and extended his hand.

I took it.

The bedroom felt like another realm half-wrapped in moonlight, the walls breathing quiet magic. Something about the air had changed. It felt expectant. Sanctified.

He pulled me to him again, kissing me slowly by the window, hands at the curve of my waist. I let the blanket fall away.

His hands moved to the hem of my shirt.

He paused.

I nodded.

He undressed me with care—not like I was fragile, but like he knew what it meant to be seen. When my shirt fell, his eyes didn't just linger. They honored. Worshipped.

His hands were gentle as they slid up my back, thumbs tracing the dip of my spine, memorizing the lines of me. He touched me like he was writing a scripture in skin and breath.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured.

"What did you expect?"

He smiled faintly. "Something I'd have to let go of."

I reached for the buttons of his shirt, slipping them loose one by one. When the fabric fell away, I took in the scars across his chest—faint, silvered things that told stories I hadn't heard yet.

I traced one near his collarbone.

"What's this from?"

"Loyalty," he answered, voice thick. "Misplaced."

I kissed it.

He shuddered.

We moved to the bed like something sacred was guiding us.

Our bodies found each other without hesitation. We weren't just skin and breath we were memory and prophecy and things too deep for words.

He kissed my collarbone, then lower, across my ribs, down to my hips, like he needed to know me with his mouth before anything else.

"You don't have to be careful," I whispered.

He looked up at me. "But I want to."

His fingers slid between my thighs, slow and searching. He watched my face as he touched me, reading every shiver, every gasp, like it was scripture.

When he entered me, I gasped not from pain.

But from recognition.

It didn't feel like being filled.

It felt like completion.

Like some piece of me that had been waiting for centuries had finally returned.

His movements were slow at first. Controlled. Reverent. Each thrust measured with care, as though we were dancing inside a ritual. My legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper, anchoring him to me.

The pendant flared between us, bright red and gold, casting patterns across the ceiling. Wind stirred at the edges of the room. Magic whispered across our skin. I could feel it crawling through my veins, rising behind my ribs like power about to spill.

He pressed his forehead to mine, breathless.

"This," he said, "this is a vow."

"I accept," I whispered.

We moved together faster now, synced in rhythm and breath and soul. His mouth found my throat, my shoulder, the hollow above my heart. I arched into him, into the feeling of something ancient awakening between us.

And when I came undone, I wasn't quiet.

His name broke from my lips in a cry that echoed with fire.

He followed seconds later, groaning into my skin, his grip tightening like he might disappear if he let go.

We collapsed into stillness.

My chest rose and fell against his.

He rolled to his side, pulling me into his arms. Our legs tangled. My head fit perfectly beneath his chin.

The soul pendant between us dimmed but didn't go dark. It pulsed slowly. Steady.

He kissed my forehead.

"You are mine," he whispered.

I smiled into his chest.

"And you are home."

We drifted into sleep like that, our magic tangled, our breath synced. But somewhere beyond the edge of that peace, I could feel it.

Something had noticed.

A thread had snapped in the world.

And far away—in a temple built of celestial bone and haunted oaths an ancient force opened its eyes.

The heavens had felt our union.

And they were no longer watching.

They were coming.