THE UNFORBIDDEN KISS

The forest was never silent. Even in the dead of night, it whispered — the shifting of branches, the crackle of unseen life, the low hum of power that breathed through every root and leaf. Azriel knew these woods as others might know the lines on their palm, every shadow and scent a familiar mark in the endless dark. Yet tonight, something unfamiliar threaded through the air — sharp, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

A scent reached him first. Human. Faint, frayed by fear. It was out of place here, trembling on the edge of vanishing. The thread of it pulled him forward, deeper into the trees, until the shape of a girl emerged from the shadows.

She stumbled between roots and thorns, branches clawing at her gown, breaths ragged with desperation. Mud streaked her skin, and her eyes — wide, glassy — carried the frantic glint of prey too close to the hunter. Something followed her, hungry and reckless.

The creature struck from the dark, claws flashing in the moonlight. Azriel moved with lethal precision, steel and strength ending the threat before it could touch her. Silence rushed in to fill the space where the beast had been.

The girl crumpled to the earth, too weak to rise.

Azriel’s gaze lingered on her — the uneven rise and fall of her chest, the tangle of hair across her cheek, the fragile pulse fluttering just beneath her skin. Mortals were fleeting things, their lives no more than sparks against the vast sweep of time. She should have been nothing more than another shadow swallowed by the forest.

Yet his feet would not carry him away.

Something about her anchored him there. Not beauty, though there was an unpolished grace in her features. It was something quieter, buried deeper — a pull that defied reason.

Her breathing faltered, lips parting slightly as if even the act of drawing air cost too much. Without thought, his hand rose, fingertips brushing the curve of her jaw. Her warmth bled into his skin, startling in its fragility.

He should have left her.

Instead, he leaned down.

The forest seemed to still, holding its breath. His lips touched hers in the barest whisper — not hunger, not possession, but something far more dangerous in its restraint. A silent claim. A mark he had no reason to make. She did not stir, yet the echo of her lingered, threading itself into him like a seed taking root.

He drew back, his jaw tightening. This was not what he did. He did not save mortals. He did not touch them. And yet she was alive because of him.

Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her easily, her head falling against his chest. The small weight unsettled him more than the fight itself. The woods around them were quiet now, the danger gone, but the strange heaviness in his chest remained.

The walk back to the estate was slow, measured. Each step felt deliberate, as though haste might disturb the fragile thing he carried. She shifted once, a faint sound escaping her lips, and his hold tightened without conscious thought.

It would be easy to frame this as necessity — to claim that leaving her here would draw unwanted eyes to his borders. But beneath all logic, one truth stood bare.

He could not watch her die.

By the time the estate’s dark spires broke through the treeline, the moon had begun its descent. The gates opened without question, though the servants who caught sight of him froze, their eyes flicking from his face to the girl in his arms. No one spoke. Madam Grace’s gaze lingered a fraction longer before she dipped her head in silence.

Azriel carried the girl — Sophia, though her name was still unknown to him — into a chamber long unused. The firelight inside caught the gold threads in her hair and softened the sharp lines of her face.

Lowering her onto the bed, he stepped back, as if distance could dull the strange pull that bound him to her. But it lingered — in the memory of her warmth, in the phantom of a kiss he should never have given.

He stood there for a long time, watching the slow, steady rise of her breathing. She was safe now. That should have been enough.

And yet, deep in the quiet, it was not.

Azriel turned from the bed, the soft rustle of her breathing fading behind him. The door closed with a muted click, sealing her inside.

The corridor stretched ahead, dim and quiet, its shadows deepened by the pale light bleeding through the high windows. His footsteps echoed softly, though each one felt heavier than it should. The air within the estate was warm, but a chill coiled in his chest, the kind that came not from the cold but from something unshakable and unwelcome.

She would live. That should have been the end of it.

No lingering thoughts. No restless weight pressing against his ribs.

And yet her presence clung to him like a trace of perfume that refused to fade. The memory of her lips — the faint, unplanned brush of them — returned in fragments, unbidden. It had been nothing, a breath, a fleeting contact. But it had shifted something, and the change was neither simple nor safe.

Azriel’s hands curled into fists at his sides as he descended the last steps. Servants passed in the distance, offering brief bows before vanishing into other halls, careful not to linger. None dared to question why their master had brought a human girl into his home. Perhaps they already understood that some answers were better left untouched.

In the silence, the truth remained — saving her had not been a decision born of strategy or reason.

It had been a surrender.

He reached the doors to his study and paused, staring at the intricate carvings. The night had begun with nothing but routine patrol, yet it had ended with a stranger sleeping under his roof and a question he could not name taking root in his mind.

Why her?

No answer came. Only the quiet echo of the forest and the memory of a kiss that still burned faintly on his lips.

A shift in the air made him turn. Madam Grace stood waiting in the corridor, hands folded neatly before her, eyes sharp despite the late hour.

“See that she is tended to,” he said, his voice low but threaded with command. “She stays among the servants.”

Grace inclined her head, though her glance slid past him toward the closed door. “And if she asks questions?”

“She will,” Azriel replied. “Answer only what keeps her calm.”

No more was said. He moved past her, the matter outwardly dismissed. Yet as he walked away, the image of the girl — pale against the dark sheets — followed him down the corridor, a weight he could neither name nor cast aside.