Jane didn't sleep that night.
The potion sat on her desk, sealed and still warm. The antidote. Useless for now, but she couldn't throw it away—not when she still didn't know what her parents might try next.
She hadn't drunk the poisoned tea. She was certain of it.
And yet… the thought lingered. What if they found another way?
Across the room, John lay curled on the small velvet sofa, one arm slung over his eyes, his sword resting on the floor beside him. The fire in the hearth had died down to embers, casting the room in flickering gold and shadow.
He had insisted on staying the night.
"I'll be close, just in case," he'd said.
Just in case they came sooner.
Jane leaned against the edge of her desk, eyes tracing the lines of the mark on her arm. The roots had climbed just above her elbow now, glowing faintly in the darkness. Her reflection in the mirror showed violet eyes, wide and too bright, hair like silk tumbling over her shoulders.
It still startled her.
The girl staring back didn't look like Jane of House Aveline anymore.
She looked like someone who could burn kingdoms to the ground.
And something inside her… wanted to.
Her breathing grew shallow.
Her skin felt too warm, too sensitive, like even the brush of silk against her legs was a whisper too loud.
She pressed her thighs together, frowning at the heat pooling low in her stomach.
Side effects, she thought. Level Two.
The book had warned her: increased desire, heightened sensitivity, overwhelming urges after extended spell use.
She had spent hours reading, touching spells with her bare hands, absorbing knowledge straight from the sacred script. And now she was burning from the inside out.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk. Hard.
Across the room, John shifted in his sleep.
His tunic had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of his waist and the line of muscle beneath. His face—unguarded in sleep—looked younger, softer. Honest. The way it used to look, before betrayal, before chains, before pain.
Jane bit her lip.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Not this strong. Not this soon.
She turned away, cheeks flushed with heat, then poured herself a glass of cold water from the pitcher. Her fingers trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. The water cooled her throat, but did nothing for the fire inside.
She could hear her heartbeat. Fast. Loud.
Her mind wandered—dangerously.
What would he do… if I woke him? If I told him what I needed?
Would he touch me like I belonged to him? Or would he kneel again, like he did before?
She gasped softly, squeezing her eyes shut.
No. She couldn't lose control. Not now. Not yet.
She was still human.
Wasn't she?
"Jane…"
Her head snapped up.
John stirred, his voice low and rough with sleep. His eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded, before landing on her.
He frowned. "You okay?"
Jane hesitated. "Couldn't sleep."
"You look… flushed," he murmured, sitting up slowly. "Did you take something?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. Just tired."
His gaze moved to her arm, where the mark glowed faintly under her night robe. "It's spreading again."
"Yes."
They both knew what it meant.
The air between them thickened. Neither spoke.
Jane looked away first, pretending to sip from her glass again. Her body was still burning, the ache between her thighs relentless now. But it wasn't just lust—it was power. It was hunger. It was the magic growing inside her, waking up.
Becoming something else.
Something dangerous.
"I can leave," John said suddenly, voice quiet. "If it's too much."
Her eyes flicked to him.
And for a second, something wild flickered in her violet gaze.
"No," she said.
Not yet.
Not when her need to survive… to feel… to control… was clawing its way to the surface.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, still facing away from him, still breathing too fast.
Behind her, she heard him shift again. The soft creak of the sofa. Then silence.
"John," she said finally.
He answered with a quiet hum.
She didn't turn around.
"Do you think," she whispered, "that the book is changing me?"
John was silent for a long time.
Then: "Yes. But not in the way you think."
Jane's fists clenched around the blanket.
Then her voice, soft and trembling: "Stay."
"I wasn't planning to leave."
⸻
"You know… I want something," Jane said.
"What do you want? Is there something I can do to help?" John asked as he sat on the sofa, turning to face her.
Jane gripped the edge of the bed. Her body felt hot—burning—and she kept pressing her thighs together, trying to control the overwhelming desire rising inside her.
"You'll do anything, right?"
"Sure."
"Then come… kneel before me."
"What—"
"Please."
John stood up, confused, but walked over and knelt before her without protest.
Seeing him so obedient—this boy she once loved—awoke something dangerous inside Jane. Her lips curled into a slow, wide smile as she looked down at him.
Then she snapped her fingers.
A violet arc of magic crackled into form, binding John's hands behind his back with glowing restraints.
"Wait—Jane, what's going on?"
But Jane didn't answer.
Instead, she rose to her feet and sat down on his lap, straddling him. Her hips began to grind instinctively, slowly, as their faces drew so close only a breath apart. Her hands roamed across John's chest like a curious flame, wild and unrestrained.
"Jane—" John started, but the words caught in his throat.
Jane cupped his face with both hands, her fingers tracing gently over his eyes, down his nose, and finally resting on his lips. She stared at his mouth as if it were the center of her world.
"You know… this is part of the side effect. It's not all me," she whispered—then kissed him.
Fierce. Hot. Nothing like their first kiss, which had been pure and delicate. This kiss was hungry. Starved.
John didn't kiss her back at first, but the fire in him broke free. He responded with equal intensity, devouring her lips, and Jane smiled into the kiss—victorious.
Her hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one, revealing the sculpted curves of his chest. She paused just to admire him for a moment, then began kissing his chest, his stomach—leaving him breathless.
"Stop it, Jane—we need to stop."
But Jane couldn't. She didn't want to. Every touch, every reaction from him only made her want to tease him more.
She stood, then sat at the edge of the bed again. John was still kneeling, his shirt open, sweat glistening along the center of his chest.
Jane smirked. Then she crawled back toward him like a cat, slow and predatory. She licked the edge of his ear, and John let out a low groan.
"Ahh… J-Jane… please."
Again, she pulled away, returning to sit at the edge of the bed. Her foot reached out—brazenly brushing against John's leg. Slowly, her foot trailed upward, higher and higher, until it stopped right above his groin.
John was losing control.
He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the unbearable pleasure. Then a soft moan slipped from his lips.
"Ahh…"
Jane stared at him, stunned.
"Wait… did you…?"
John's face turned crimson.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."
"It's fine," she said with a wicked smile. "But you have to help me now."
She slid back onto his lap, grinding against him lazily, while her fingers gently played with his curls.
Her eyes shimmered—lust and power swirling within them.
And then she stopped.
With a single thought, she released the magical chains from John's wrists. Though her own chains still clung to her ankles, untouched.
That night, they both fell asleep tangled together on the carpet—where warmth lingered, and the shadows whispered.