The door did not open. It detonated. Wood splintered inward as Castel's telekinesis struck before he even touched it. Hinges screamed. The air shifted with him charged, unstable like lightning waiting for ground.
The room was prepared like a fantasy. Rose petals shaped into a heart. Silk sheets glowing in candlelight. Floating petals drifting lazily through warm air. Romance. Manufactured. The violence in him did not match it. He turned toward her. For a moment, neither moved. Then his mouth was on hers. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't brutal. It was inevitable.
Her hand rose to his jaw not to pull him closer, not to push him away but to steady herself. His breath tasted like heat and something darker. His fingers tightened at her waist. He carried her to the bed as if she weighed nothing. As if she were fragile. The second he released her, she scooted back, spine straight, chin lifted.
"You look like you're about to duel me," he murmured.
"Maybe I am." A slow smile.
"Is this your first time?" he asked, and for a flicker of a second, there was something almost boyish in his tone.
"My first time what?"
"Being intimate." She arched a brow. "I've never made love," she said coolly. "But I am not ignorant." That earned him a grin.
"Good." In one sharp motion he tore open his shirt. Buttons scattered. The tie snapped loose. She stared.
Not subtle. Not embarrassed. Her gaze traced the lines of him the strength in his shoulders, the tattoos along his hips, the quiet power in the way he stood.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. He laughed.
And the laugh did something dangerous to her stomach.
"Enjoying the view?" he teased.
"I think I'll survive it." He stepped closer. Took her hand. Placed it flat against his chest. His skin was hot.
His heartbeat steady. Strong. She hadn't noticed before how controlled he was. How deliberate. Even now even with that hunger in his eyes he wasn't shaking. He was choosing.
Her fingers drifted lower without permission from her mind. He inhaled sharply. That sound It tightened something low in her stomach. She pulled her hand back. He caught her legs instead and dragged her toward him in one smooth motion. She gasped as she fell back against the mattress. His hands slid up her thighs, slow. Not rushed. Claiming territory. Her breath hitched. She hated that it did. He leaned over her, bracing one arm beside her head. His mouth hovered near her neck.
"You're not afraid," he murmured.
"I should be."
"Yes." His lips brushed her skin. Slow. Measured.
Her body reacted instantly — pulse racing, breath thinning, warmth spreading where she did not invite it.
He kissed along her throat, down the curve where her collarbone met silk. Her hands curled into the sheets.
"Stop," she said. But it came out soft. He stilled immediately. Not because he was told. Because he was watching.
"You see," he said quietly, eyes dark, "that wasn't a command."
Her chest rose too fast. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His fingers slid to the open neckline of her dress. He pulled with force. Fabric parted. Her hair spilled free as beads scattered across the floor. Her breast spilled out exposed. His gaze moved over her — not rushed. Not greedy. Appreciative. That was worse.
For the first time, she wanted him to touch her again.
That terrified her more than anything. She reached up and traced his cheek with her fingers. His eyes flared faintly. He lowered her back down slowly, one hand resting lightly at her throat — not squeezing. Not threatening. Just there. His thumb brushed her lips.
She parted them. Just enough. His breath caught.
A low sound left him — restrained, but strained.
He lifted her slightly, pulled his thumb free, and kissed her hard.
This time she kissed back and that shift. That shift changed the air. The kiss deepened. Slowed. Her nails dragged lightly down his back. He exhaled against her mouth.
"Arastella," he said, and her name in his voice was not a title. It was need. A flicker of her father's voice echoed in her head. She shoved him. Castel flew backward stopping himself before hitting the wall. He laughed.
Not angry. Not offended. Amused.
"You felt that," he said.
She sat upright, breathing hard. "I told you to stop."
"You didn't." He approached again, slower this time.
"You want control," he said softly. "You want to choose."
"Yes."
"Then choose." He stopped just out of reach.
"You can leave. Right now." He didn't move. Didn't touch her. Just waited.
Her body was still warm. Still aching where he'd touched her. She didn't move. A slow, dark smile returned.
"That's what I thought." He leaned in again — not pinning her this time. Hovering. Letting anticipation coil tight between them.
"I won't take what you don't give," he whispered. "But if you stay... I won't pretend to be gentle." Her fingers tightened in the sheets.
"Look at me," he said. She did. The glow in his eyes was brighter now — not from power. From want.
He kissed her again — slower this time. Deeper.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen. Her breath unsteady.
"You're thinking about stopping me again," he murmured.
"I'm thinking about surviving you." A low chuckle.
His hand slid to her pulse again.
"So loud," he whispered. Her heart betrayed her.
"Say the word," he said. "And I stop." Silence stretched.
He gave her space. He always gave her space.
"You didn't give me time," she said. They stared at each other. Heat. Challenge. Danger.
"Aack esie, olos," she muttered with a smile. He blinked once. Then smiled back. And that smile that small, private smile was more intimate than anything they had done.
Because she had insulted him. And he had liked it.
The air shifted suddenly. Magic cracked. The door burst open. Astelion (granddaughter from the future.) staggered inside, breath ragged, dropping to one knee so hard the stone rang beneath her. The future had just arrived. And the night was no longer theirs.