The Primordial Flame

Fire lit passion.

“It real vane, I’m here.”

A ragged, trembling exhale leaves Vane’s chest, the sound rough and choked with pure relief.

For seven months, he had worn the mask of the insolent scout, the easy partner, the man who let things roll off his back. But in the amber glow of the mountain fire, with my hands tangled in his hair and the cold crags rising around us, the fortress he kept around himself comes down in an instant.

"Ame," he breathes, the name dropping like a vow against my lips.

He pulls me in again, but this time the kiss isn't fevered or desperate. It is slow, deep, and heavy with a quiet reverence that makes my eyes sting. His mouth moves over mine with an unhurried, intoxicating tenderness, tasting of night air and warmth, claiming every corner of my breath until my head spins.

His broad hands slide down the heavy leather of my cuirass to the small of my back, lifting me just enough to pull me securely into the crook of his lap. With practiced, effortless ease, he shifts our weight back against the rolled wool of our packs, settling into the alcove where the granite walls reflect the heat of the hearthstones.

"Here," he whispers, nudging my cheek until my head rests naturally in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck.

One large, calloused hand reaches down to unbuckle the heavy leather clasps at my collar, easing the stiff collar open so the mountain chill doesn't pinch my skin.

With his other arm, he drags a thick fur mantle up over both of us, tucking it snugly around my shoulders until we are wrapped in a cocoon of trapped heat, cedar, and the clean scent of his skin.

My ear presses directly against his chest. Beneath the linen of his shirt, his heart is pounding, fast, steady, and alive.

Vane’s chin rests lightly against the crown of my head, right between my twin French braids. His fingers weave slowly through the loose ends of the plaits, unhurried, his thumb brushing a rhythmic, soothing pattern over my temple.

"No shadows," Vane murmurs, his gravelly voice vibrating straight through his ribs and into mine. "No cold fortress walls. Tomorrow we take the magistrate, and we ride south as full partners. But tonight, you sleep right here little tiger."

His arm tightens gently around my waist, grounding me so completely against his warmth that the lingering fears, Bram’s broken promises, the four months in the dark, the bloody contract waiting at dawn, slowly loosen their grip on my mind, fading into the steady crackle of the pine embers.

“How can you possibly sleep? We’ve just kissed for the first time vane, my heart is beating like a war drum.”

A low, gravelly vibration rumbles straight through the broad wall of his chest, rattling against my ear where it rests over his ribs.

"Sleep?" Vane echoes, a breathless, rough sound that sits halfway between a laugh and a groan.

He shifts beneath the heavy fur mantle, lifting one hand to catch my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face gently upward until my eyes meet his in the dying amber light.

His pupils are wide, almost swallowing the stormy grey iris whole, and the muscle in his carved jaw is locked with brutal tension. He takes my other hand, the one resting against his collarbone, and presses my open palm flat against the centre of his chest.

Beneath the rough linen and the warm, hard plane of his pectoral, his heart isn't just beating. It’s slamming. Hard, heavy, frantic, a savage, hammering tempo that rivals my own.

"You think I'm asleep, Ame?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that makes every nerve along my spine stand at attention.

"Feel that. That’s seven months of wanting you, seven months of biting my tongue till it bled, all trying to kick its way out of my ribs at once."

His thumb sweeps across the flushed curve of my lower lip, lingering with an agonising, possessive slowness.

"I told you I've got the watch because if I close my eyes right now, I'm going to pull you under this fur, tear these leathers off you, and lose my mind completely,"

Vane rasps, a wicked half smirk curving the corner of his mouth even as his gaze burns with unvarnished hunger. "And as much as every inch of my body is begging me to do just that, we've got an ambush at dawn. I need you rested, little tiger. Sharp enough to split a mark down the centre."

He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine, his hot breath washing over my mouth in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

"So don't close your eyes if you can't," he murmurs, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer into his heat. "Stay awake with me. Count the beats in my chest. Because I'm not going anywhere, and come sunrise, you're still waking up in my arms."

“Was it like you imagine? You told me this is exactly how you wanted our first kiss to be. Was it as good as the dreams?”

Vane’s eyes soften, the dangerous, predatory hunger giving way to something so entirely stripped of pretence that it takes my breath away.

He slowly shakes his head, the dark strands of his hair brushing against the fur mantle tucked around our shoulders.

"No," he whispers, the single syllable scraped down to pure gravel.

He slides his palm up the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the soft curve beneath my ear, feeling the violent, fluttering rhythm of my pulse against his skin.

A faint, crooked smile touches his lips, vulnerable and sharp all at once.

"In the dreams, you were a ghost, Ame.

You were a phantom I made up to keep from going crazy in the dark. It tasted like whatever I had to tell myself to survive the night, always slipping away right when I reached for you, always leaving me waking up cold with an ache in my chest I couldn't cut out."

He leans in until his mouth is hovering a mere breath from mine, his warm, steady exhale brushing across my lips with an agonising tenderness.

"The dreams didn't have this," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a deep, smoky resonance that vibrates straight through my ribs. "They didn't have your pulse jumping under my fingers.

They didn't have the way you shuddered when I pulled you in, or the sound you made in the back of your throat when my hands found your waist. They didn't have the fire, or the scent of pine, or the way you look at me right now, like I'm the only damn thing that exists on this mountain."

He presses a slow, searing kiss to the corner of my mouth, lingering against the sensitive skin before his lips graze along my cheekbone, unhurried and reverent.

"The dreams were a pale shadow," Vane rasps against my skin, his arms tightening around me like iron bands, anchoring me firmly against the hard heat of his chest. "This, you, here, tangled up in my lap while the world sleeps, is ten times more dangerous. And a thousand times better."

“My goodness Vane, who knew you were such a romantic?”

A soft, breathy huff vibrates against the hollow of his neck, and a low, crooked grin instantly tugs at Vane’s mouth. The smoky vulnerability from a breath ago doesn't vanish, but that familiar, insolent spark flares right back to life behind his eyes.

"Romantic?" he echoes, the word rumbling out in an amused, velvet purr that tickles the hair at my ear.

He shifts beneath the fur, his fingers casually tightening their hold on my hip, pulling me just that fraction tighter against the solid ridge of his thighs.

"Don't go spreading rumours across the guild, little tiger. I have a reputation to uphold as a callous, cynical bastard who only cares about coin, good steel, and quiet perimeters."

His thumb wanders lazily up from my waist, tracing the seam of my leather vest until it brushes the sensitive dip at my throat. His gaze follows the path, heavy and unapologetic, drinking in the flush that refuses to leave my skin.

"Besides," he murmurs, tilting his head with an unrepentant smirk, "I'm not a romantic with the world, Ame. I don't write poetry, I don't give a damn about courtly manners, and I’d sooner gut a bard than listen to him strum about fate. It’s only ever been you."

He catches the lower edge of my jaw, tilting my face upward until my lips are parted mere inches beneath his own. The amusement softens into something raw, fierce, and entirely devoid of jest.

"You're the only one who gets this part of me," Vane whispers, his eyes darkening to slate in the dying amber coals. "The rest of them get the blade. You get the man holding it. So laugh all you want, but you're not getting rid of him."

“I’m not laughing, I don’t find it amusing at all. If anything it’s making me feel like I have a thousand butterflies fluttering in my belly.”

The insolent retort waiting on Vane's tongue dies before it can form.

His hand on my jaw goes utterly still. In the amber glow of the coals, the grey of his eyes widens just slightly, caught completely off guard by the bare, unvarnished honesty. He isn't used to hearing his effect on me named so openly, not after months of guarded looks, deflected banter, and crowded fortress rooms.

A slow, ragged inhale pulls through his chest, making the leather of his cuirass creak softly against mine.

"Butterflies, huh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rough and thick with a wonder he can't quite hide.

His fingers slide from my jaw down the curve of my neck, his palm flat and warm over the rapid, erratic thump of my pulse.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand travels lower, past the lace of my tunic, past the curve of my ribs, coming to rest gently against my stomach, right over the centre of where those frantic wings are beating.

His broad palm is heavy, solid, and radiating heat through the wool and linen, pressing just firmly enough to feel real.

"Good," Vane rasps, a faint, devastatingly tender smile softening the hard corners of his mouth.

"Because I've felt like my whole chest was on fire every single time you looked my way. It’s about damn time you felt a fraction of it."

He leans in until his lips brush against the shell of my ear, his hot breath sending a fresh shiver racing straight down my spine.

"Let them flutter, Ame," he whispers, his fingers splaying wide over my belly, grounding me against the stone floor and the mountain wind. "Every single one of them belongs to me now."

I shift across his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, the movement drawing a sharp, ragged hitch from his throat. Planting my hands firmly against the solid curve of his shoulders, I slide my fingers up into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck and pull him down to me.

The kiss is fierce, sudden, and entirely on my terms. I take the warmth of his mouth before he can anticipate the strike, letting seven months of quiet yearning surge into the contact.

When I finally pull back, it’s only by a fraction of an inch, just enough for the cold mountain air to bite at our swollen, fevered lips.

"You’re infuriatingly smooth," I whisper, breathless, my eyes locking onto his gaze with fierce, unapologetic heat.

"I can see why the tavern girls swoon when they hear your name. And I swear to the gods, Vane, I intend to ruin you for any other woman ever again."