The knock came again.
Same as the one from the journal.
No voice. No threat.
Just a quiet, patient presence.
Lyra opened the door without thinking.
Lucien leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes gleaming gold in the low torchlight. His hair was loose, slightly tousled, like he hadn't slept. Or had been pacing, agitated, waiting for this moment.
"You didn't answer the first time," he said softly.
"I didn't ask you to come."
"And yet, here we are."
He stepped inside without waiting for permission. The scent of him—smoke, spice, the faintest trace of crushed pine—wrapped around her like a memory. He didn't speak again. Just moved through the room with an ease that made her skin crawl and tingle all at once.
He brushed his fingers along her dresser.
Lifted the candle lid and replaced it.
Paused beside her desk.
Finally, he turned to face her, eyes dark and unreadable.
"You've been marked three times now."
Lyra stiffened. "That's not my fault."
Lucien's mouth curved, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "No. But you didn't stop it, either."
"What do you want?"
He walked closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… certain.
"I want to know what it feels like."
"To be branded?"
"To be chosen," he murmured. "To carry prophecy in your blood. To dream in fire."
Lyra's jaw clenched. Her heart was already racing, but she refused to let him see it.
"You think this is something I wanted?"
"I think," he said, "that part of you is starting to want something. You're just too afraid to name it."
He stood in front of her now.
Too close.
She could see the fine line of a scar on his collarbone. The way the firelight danced across the hollow of his throat. His chest rose slowly, deliberately.
Her voice came out lower than she intended.
"What do you think I want, Lucien?"
His hand lifted—slow, slow—fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
And then he leaned in.
Not to kiss her.
To whisper, hot and unholy, against her ear.
"To stop pretending you're not burning."
Her breath caught. Her spine stiffened.
And then—
The mark ignited.
Not just warmth.
Fire.
It crawled across her collarbone like a brand reawakening. She gasped, staggering back, one hand clutched over the glowing flesh.
Lucien flinched. His eyes widened—not with fear. With recognition.
"She's waking up again," he breathed. "You feel it, don't you?"
But Lyra wasn't listening.
The room was shimmering.
The air thickened.
And then—
The shift.
She stood in a forest.
Not the Hollow. Not the nightmare from her youth.
Somewhere… older.
The trees were tall and silver-leafed, the moss beneath her feet glowing with faint blue light. The air smelled of jasmine and woodsmoke and something heady—something wild.
She looked down.
She was barefoot.
Barely clothed—her shift thinner, softer, nearly translucent in the moonlight.
Lucien stood behind her.
No shirt. No boots. Just black pants riding low on his hips, his skin painted with gold runes that pulsed like heartbeat against his flesh. His eyes glowed brighter than they ever had—lit from within like flame trapped behind glass.
"What is this?" she asked, voice shaky.
He didn't answer.
Only stepped forward until his chest brushed her back.
Her whole body went still.
He lifted her hair with one hand, slow and reverent, and let it fall over her shoulder.
Then his mouth—hot, hungry—found the base of her neck.
She gasped, legs weakening.
This wasn't real.
But gods, it felt real.
Lucien's hands ghosted down her arms, fingers grazing her hips as he whispered:
"You called me here."
"No, I—"
"You did. With your mark. With your fear. With your want."
His voice was deeper now.
Not quite human.
Her mark pulsed again—heat spreading down her chest, curling low in her belly.
She turned toward him—slow, trembling—and placed a hand against his bare chest.
It was hot. Alive.
He looked down at her like she was something sacred and cursed all at once.
"I could ruin you," he whispered.
"You already are," she breathed.
He caught her chin in one hand.
Tilted her face to his.
Their mouths were so close.
Too close.
Her lips parted.
But he didn't kiss her.
Instead, he leaned in and dragged his teeth—gently—along her jawline.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her easily, hands sliding beneath her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She clung to him, breath shuddering, thighs instinctively tightening around his waist.
Lucien walked her back into a tree, pressed her against it, and pinned her there—just with his body.
No claws.
No bite.
Just heat and shadow and maddening control.
"You could tell me to stop," he murmured, mouth brushing hers.
She didn't.
She couldn't.
But she didn't say yes either.
Lucien hovered.
A breath away.
One more second—
And then the dream shattered.
She fell to her knees.
Back in her chamber.
Sweating. Shaking.
The mark still glowed through the thin fabric of her shift, flickering gold like it had caught real flame.
Lucien stood over her, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides.
He looked wrecked.
More than wrecked.
Ravenous.
His voice was raw when he finally spoke.
"That wasn't mine," he said. "That wasn't just power."
She looked up at him. "Then what was it?"
He shook his head. "Something inside you called it forward. Something old. Something bound to us."
She rose unsteadily.
"You think I summoned you into a dream?"
"I think you're not dreaming anymore," he growled. "I think the mark is fusing our instincts. Merging them."
"That's not possible."
"It wasn't supposed to be."
Silence stretched between them.
Hot. Tense.
Lucien stepped forward and reached for her face.
But this time, she stopped him.
Not with her hand.
With her voice.
"Do you want me?" she asked.
His eyes locked on hers.
"Every time you breathe."
She swallowed. "Do you want to use me?"
His answer took longer.
"No," he said finally. "But I might break you anyway."
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Fire That Waits
She didn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
Because of him.
Because even now, hours later, she could still feel the press of Lucien's body, the ghost of his breath against her mouth. Her thighs still ached from how tightly she'd gripped him in that dream—if it was a dream.
Lyra sat cross-legged on her bed, the moonlight silvering her skin. The mark had dimmed, but it hadn't gone quiet. It pulsed faintly now, like the distant throb of a war drum waiting to be answered.
She picked up her journal.
No new writing.
No warnings this time.
Just a page that smelled faintly of pine… and smoke.
She didn't remember pressing her fingers there. But there was a print.
Singed at the edges.
Her own.
She whispered into the dark:
"What's happening to me?"
No answer.
But in the silence, something inside her stirred.
Not fear.
Not desire.
Anticipation.