His Human Queen

From water to wine

Maeve:

Despite the darkness surrounding us, that hot wave still burned bright just beneath my skin.

I couldn’t name this feeling, so I didn’t even bother, I only held onto him tight enough to keep myself from falling to my death and then released him abruptly the moment I felt the familiar solid surface of tile beneath my boots.

“I’m sorry I kept you from your friends and girlfriend.” I said swiftly, my guilt burning just as hot as whatever that burning ache beneath my skin was.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, and even if I did, it would never be Roxy.” Dante’s quick reply made my skin prickle, icy and soothing to the fire burning my cheeks.

“I’m sorry I stabbed your friend, I thought I was protecting you.” He laughed, a hearty and warm melody.

“Don’t apologize, you were doing your job. Besides, I enjoyed it.” His smile… it was… mesmerizing, as sinfully beautiful as the rest of him.

He stepped into me, so close I could feel the heat of his breath fanning my hair.

“Are you jealous of Roxy, Maeve?” I swallowed hard. Was that the feeling I had? Is that hot burning pain… jealousy?

“Why would I be jealous?” I asked through dry lips.

“I was hoping you could answer that for me,” his chest was nearly brushing mine.

“I’ll make dinner since you made breakfast.” Stepping away from him, going to my room to change out of the leathers and into something more comfortable.

I knew one thing with certainty, whatever that was that happened back there, I couldn’t let it happen again.

Dante:

I watched her take a sip of the red wine she’d poured into a glass, her head tilted back slightly, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. I watched the delicate muscles work as she swallowed, and a low heat coiled in my gut. It was the same fire that had ignited when she was pressed against me, her body trembling, her fear a palpable thing that had only made me want to pull her closer. I’d called it jealousy, a taunt to see her fluster, to get a reaction. But standing here now, I knew it was something deeper, more primal.

It wasn’t just her body, though God, that was a masterpiece in itself. It was her scent. It wasn't the cloying perfume of the women I usually encountered. It was clean, like soap and the faint, metallic whisper of gunpowder that never quite washed away, layered with the rich, earthy smell of the wine and the sharp, appetizing scent of the food she was making. It was a scent of life, of resilience. It was the smell of a warrior who still knew how to make a home, even if that home was just a temporary fortress against the darkness.

She hummed a low tune, something I didn't recognize, as she stirred the sauce. The sound vibrated through the quiet space, settling somewhere in my chest. It was an intimacy I hadn't allowed myself in decades, a quiet moment that felt more dangerous than any fight I’d ever been in. Fights were simple. You knew the rules. You knew the enemy. This… this was uncharted territory. This was watching the woman who’d stabbed my friend, who’d looked at me with a terror so profound it was a mirror to my own soul, now calmly making me dinner as if we were just a normal couple.

And the most terrifying part? I wanted it. I wanted every second of it. I wanted to watch her, to breathe in her scent, to memorize the map of her scars. I wanted to be the one she made dinner for. The thought was a punch to the gut, a stark admission that went against everything I’d built myself to be. I was the man who walked alone, who kept everyone at arm's length to protect them.

But as she turned, catching my eye and offering a small, hesitant smile, I knew it was too late. She’d already slipped past my defenses, past the devil-may-care facade and the centuries of cynicism. She was right there, just a few feet away, and the darkness that surrounded us felt a little less suffocating with her in it. The fire she’d ignited wasn't just burning beneath my skin anymore; it was threatening to consume me whole. And for the first time in a long time, I found I didn't really mind the burn.