Between Fire and Silence

Rosaline's POV

Three days had passed since the shrine.

Three days since my magic had wrapped itself around Adam like a flame-clutching shadow wild, fierce, and irrevocable. Since my body had welcomed him in a way that shattered every fragile boundary I'd built around my heart. The seal between us pulsed inside my chest, loud and relentless, as if the stars themselves might fracture under its weight.

And still, not one word had been spoken about it.

Not a single breath of acknowledgment between us.

The world hadn't crumbled. No thunder had cracked the sky. No fire had rained down from the heavens. But something fundamental between us had shifted, trembled, and neither of us dared to name it aloud.

We had returned to the penthouse, perched high above the indifferent city a cold fortress of glass and steel. It felt different now. Colder, somehow. Sharper, like the very air had become brittle and cautious, like it knew secrets too heavy for daylight.

Adam let me step inside first, as always. A silent ritual of care and distance wrapped in one.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, tracing the maze of glittering lights below so many lives moving, unaware of the ancient magic thundering beneath my skin. The secret pulse of the fourth seal, coiled tighter than a heartbeat, waiting to break free.

Behind me, Adam shed his coat, the fabric falling heavily onto the long velvet-backed couch. The sound echoed in the vast space soft, yet final.

And then silence.

No words. No touch.

No reminder of how his hands had held me like a sacred flame, fragile and fierce all at once just days before.

He passed through the kitchen with quiet precision, handing me a steaming mug of tea without a word. Cinnamon and ginger mingled with something softer, deeper his subtle attempt at comfort. He remembered. How could he not?

But his fingers brushed mine with the weight of distance, measured and careful.

He was pulling away. I recognized the shape of retreat too well.

"Thank you," I said, breaking the quiet. The first real words we'd exchanged since that night.

He nodded once, his eyes not meeting mine. "You didn't eat last night."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You need to be. The magic… it's feeding off more than just your emotions now."

He turned away, busying himself with a task that needed no fixing. I watched his back, tall and rigid—the very picture of composed control.

But beneath that calm, I heard the ghost of a sound—the raw, low breath he'd released when he'd entered me. A man who hadn't allowed himself to feel in two centuries.

I sipped the tea, setting the cup down harder than I intended.

"Are we really just going to pretend it didn't happen?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His shoulders tensed briefly before easing. He turned slowly, the faintest trace of vulnerability in his eyes.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie."

He didn't argue. Instead, he met my gaze, his eyes unreadable, like centuries of restraint pressed between us.

"I don't regret it," I whispered. "Do you?"

A pause stretched between us.

"No."

"But…"

He stepped past the counter, stopping just out of reach.

"But it changes everything."

"Good."

His jaw clenched as if holding back a storm.

"You don't understand."

"I think I do. You're afraid."

He flinched, the movement subtle but real.

"You've always been my protector," I said softly, stepping closer, "but you've never allowed yourself to need me."

"I'm not allowed to."

"Who says?"

"The part of me that remembers what happens when I get too close."

I searched his face, breath catching.

The space between us was small. But the ache, monumental.

We stood still two statues carved of pain and desire.

But the air around us pulsed with everything left unsaid.

"I'm not the same girl you protected from the shadows," I said quietly. "And you're not the man who stayed hidden behind them."

"I'm not a man," he said, bitter and cold.

"No," I whispered, "you're something else entirely. And I chose you."

His eyes locked with mine, raw and exposed. I saw it then the years of watching, waiting, and longing hidden behind cold facades. The centuries of silence were all focused on me.

I reached out, letting my fingers brush lightly against his wrist. His muscles tensed beneath my touch.

"You can't pretend it didn't happen," I said, voice firm. "Not anymore."

"I'm not pretending," he said. "I'm controlling."

"Why?"

"Because the moment I stop…" His voice dropped low, rough with emotion. "I won't be able to walk away."

"Then don't."

He closed his eyes briefly, just for a second a breath held between past and future.

Then he stepped back, creating the distance he feared.

"You have a meeting in an hour," he said, shifting the conversation like a blade twisting between us.

A tight knot formed in my throat.

So this was how it would be.

Office mode.

Back to the roles we both knew assistant and guardian. Polite exchanges. Neatly measured steps around the fire between us.

Fine.

"If we're going to pretend," I said, walking past him, "then let's do it properly."

I didn't look at him as I passed.

But I felt him—like a shadow tethered to my skin, the tension thick and sharp, the hunger between us simmering beneath restraint.

I dressed quickly for the meeting with the external researchers tied to our cover organization the magically masked intelligence front that reconstructed celestial myths. They knew nothing of the truth, only just enough to be dangerous and useful.

Adam stood by the office doors when I arrive crisp, sharp, and unreadable. His black shirt buttoned to the throat, hands clasped behind his back.

No one would guess what had passed between us in the dark.

Or the fire still coiled beneath my skin.

He opened the door for me. Our fingers didn't brush.

The meeting flowed waves of information, reports, fragments of myths echoing the Devani bloodlines buried beneath false prophecies and rewritten histories. I nodded, spoke carefully, and controlled my breathing.

But every time our eyes met across the room, something inside me clawed.

Afterwards, I passed him in the corridor. No words.

Then I stopped.

Turned.

"You're still mine," I said.

His eyes flared red, just for a heartbeat fierce and raw.

"And you're still fire," he whispered, voice low. "Which means I'm already burning."