Blood and Fire

The night reeked of danger, the air heavy with a storm that hadn’t yet broken. In the heart of the ruined cathedral, where stained glass hung in jagged shards like the teeth of a predator, two figures stood locked in the kind of silence that wasn’t quiet at all—it vibrated, thrummed, sparked like live wire ready to snap.

Seraphine’s fingers curled around her wand but she didn’t raise it. She didn’t need to. Her power, wild and sharp as a blade, shimmered around her body, licking her pale skin in tendrils of violet light. Across from her, lounging like sin made flesh, Lucien leaned against a crumbling pillar, every inch of him reeking of arrogance. His smile was too sharp, too knowing, too infuriating.

“I should kill you,” Seraphine hissed, every word dipped in venom.

“Funny,” Lucien drawled, stepping forward, his boots crunching over broken glass, “because I was thinking the same thing. Only…” His eyes—those molten red eyes that seemed to see straight through her skin into the pounding of her pulse—dragged down the length of her body with no shame. “…I’d rather fuck you first.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t let him see it. “Arrogant bastard.”

“Witch.” He said it like a curse and a prayer all at once.

The storm cracked outside, lightning spilling through fractured windows, painting them both in silver fire. Neither moved at first. It was a duel without spells, a war fought in the tightening of jaws, in the way breath quickened, in the pull of something far more dangerous than hate.

And then Seraphine snapped.

Her wand clattered to the stone as she shoved him, hard, into the pillar. He caught her wrists before she could strike again, his laughter low and dark against her ear. She bit down on the sound of her own gasp when his body pressed into hers, unyielding, unholy, hard everywhere she wanted to deny she felt it.

“Admit it,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, “you’ve thought about this.”

She spat in his face. He laughed harder.

“Keep hating me,” he growled, dragging her arms above her head, pinning them there with one hand while the other traced the neckline of her dress. “It makes this sweeter.”

Her power surged, but instead of blasting him across the room, it licked along his chest as though it wanted him as badly as she did. She cursed herself even as her thighs squeezed together.

“Bastard vampire,” she whispered, but her hips betrayed her, arching against him.

He groaned, the sound guttural, primal. “You want me.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Then die on my cock.”

She should have set him on fire. She should have carved him open with her spells, left him bleeding. Instead, she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him like she was trying to rip his mouth off. Their teeth clashed, her nails scraped his scalp, his fangs grazed her lip, drawing blood. He sucked it eagerly, moaning against her mouth like it was the sweetest wine he’d ever tasted.

“Witch blood,” he groaned. “Fuck, you taste—”

She cut him off with another bruising kiss, rolling her hips into his. He tore at her dress, fabric shredding under his clawed hands until her skin was bare, goosebumps prickling under the chill of the ruined cathedral. She should have felt exposed. Instead, she felt powerful. Desired. Wanted.

And gods help her, she wanted him too.

Lucien shoved her against the stone wall, grinding his erection against her soaked core through the last barrier of cloth. His fangs traced her throat, lingering over the frantic beat of her pulse.

“Say it,” he demanded.

She bared her teeth at him, chest heaving. “Never.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

His mouth crashed to hers again, hungrier, rougher. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him tighter. He growled approval, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed nothing, slamming her back against the wall, the shock making her moan into his mouth.

“You’re going to scream for me,” he promised, his voice a razor sliding over silk.

“Try me.”

Lightning flared again, illuminating his hand sliding between her thighs, tearing away the last scrap of fabric. His fingers stroked through her wetness, and her head slammed back against the stone, a strangled sound leaving her throat. He smirked, watching her unravel even as she tried to glare at him.

“So wet for someone you hate.”

She clawed at his chest, nails drawing blood. “Shut up.”

He groaned, the sight of his own blood on her fingers driving him insane. “Fuck, you’ll be the death of me.”

His cock pressed against her, thick and hard, the tip sliding against her entrance. She gasped despite herself, nails digging deeper into his shoulders.

“Beg me,” he whispered, fangs grazing her lip again.

She spat out a laugh. “Fuck you.”

He thrust into her in one brutal stroke.

Her scream echoed off the cathedral walls.

There was nothing gentle in it—he claimed her like a storm breaking, every thrust punishing, every movement fueled by hate and hunger and desire so dark it scorched them both. She clawed at him, bit at his throat, arched into every merciless drive of his hips. He groaned her name like it was a curse, a litany, his fangs sinking into her shoulder as he fucked her harder.

The pain only made her wetter.

“Yes,” she gasped, nails dragging bloody lines down his back. “Harder, damn you—”

He obeyed with a growl, slamming into her, the wall shaking with the force of it. Their bodies were a war, a collision of fire and shadow, her magic sparking uncontrolled, his hunger spiraling out of control. Her orgasm ripped through her so hard she screamed his name, her magic exploding in violet light around them.

Lucien didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her tight walls squeezing him, her nails raking his flesh, her blood still on his tongue—it was too much. He drove into her with brutal precision until his own climax tore through him, spilling hot and deep inside her with a feral snarl.

They collapsed against the wall, both panting, both shaking. Her head rested against his shoulder, his fangs still buried shallowly in her skin, tasting every last thrum of her pulse.

When she finally found her voice, it was a whisper. “I still hate you.”

Lucien chuckled darkly, pressing a blood-smeared kiss to her throat. “Good. Because I’m not finished with you.”

And neither of them was lying.