The world had shrunk. For Zarius, the vast, frost-bitten expanse of the North, the political maneuvering, the looming threats of the Capital, even the biting wind outside the cave, had ceased to exist. Everything had been distilled into a single, pulsing point of agonizing heat: Cherion.
He was drowning. That was the only way to describe the pheromones. The scent didn't just linger; it got under his skin, skipping logic completely and went straight for the marrow. It was vanilla and honey, yes, but layered beneath that was the scent of rain and a hidden, terrifying sweetness that acted like a drug on Zarius's system. It was systematically melting his legendary willpower, turning the Duke into a creature of pure instinct.
He was pinned. Not physically, he could snap the man in his arms like a dry twig, but emotionally and biologically. He was trapped between the sacred promise he'd made to stay honorable and the terrifyingly loud demand of his blood to claim, to mark, to consume.
