What we burn for

Iris

His breath was still warm on my skin, and I hated how it made me ache.

He looked at me like I was both altar and threat—like if he prayed hard enough, I’d spare him. And maybe that was the worst part: knowing that somewhere under the smirk and the silk, Nicholas Bianchi believed I could save him.

And God help me; I wanted him to try.

“You’re a fucking addiction,” he said, voice low and uneven. “Every time I get near you, I forget who the hell I am.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t let him see that something cracked in me. That I wanted to fall into that same forgetfulness and drown in it…instead, I tilted my chin up, let the cold bleed into my voice.

“Then maybe you’re not as strong as you pretend to be.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch. He never did. He just watched me—like a man waiting for the fire to tell him if he’d be burned or blessed.

“You think I’ll break for you,” I said, stepping forward anyway. “Like I haven’t rebuilt myself a thousand times.”

He didn’t stop me. His eyes dropped to my lips for just a second before locking back on mine.

“I don’t want you to break,” he said. “I want to hold the pieces.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“You want to worship something you can’t keep,” I murmured. “But your hands aren’t safe, Nicholas. They burn.”

His hand hovered…just above my wrist. Not touching. Not yet. But his heat was enough to melt the air between us.

“Then let me burn,” he whispered.

His fingers brushed mine…light, reverent. And still, I didn’t pull away. Not yet. Because somewhere in that breathless moment, I believed him.

But altars demand sacrifice.

And I wasn’t done taking.

“You don’t own me,” I said, voice like smoke curling through the heat. “I’m not yours to keep.”

“No,” he murmured, “but you’re mine to want. Mine to burn for.”

Something between us cracked wide open. Not trust…never that. But heat. That terrible, beautiful thing that made monsters into lovers.

I stepped closer, fingers trailing the line of his jaw. He was warm beneath my touch: steady, strong, wild.

“You’re playing with fire,” I warned.

“And yet,” he breathed, “here we are.”

His lips brushed mine…just a whisper. A promise. A dare.

And I let him.

Only for a moment.

Because the world outside this room was bleeding. Fiore was moving in the dark. My father’s name had become a curse, and Nicholas had kept his silence like a sword in his coat pocket.

We were always going to burn.

But I wouldn’t burn alone.

I pulled back slowly, breath catching, pulse roaring like war drums in my throat. His hand lingered on my waist. My fingers ghosted over his chest.

“I don’t trust promises,” I said.

“Then don’t,” he replied, eyes like storm-washed sky. “Just trust this.”

He kissed me again…this time with purpose. And I let him, even as my mind screamed not here, not now. I kissed him like he was a battlefield I’d already conquered, and he kissed me like I was the only war he’d ever surrender to.

We broke apart slowly, breathless, wrecked.

And still, I didn’t speak.

Because if I did, I might tell him to stay.

And if he did, I might never let him leave.

Instead, I turned around. Walked to the door. Let my silence speak the words I didn’t trust myself to say.

At the threshold, I paused.

“You’d let the world burn for me,” I said quietly. “But you’d never say it.”

He didn’t answer.

And he didn’t need to.

Because that was the game we played.

And we were both too good at it to stop.

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Nicholas:

The door closed behind her with a whisper, but it might as well have been a gunshot.

I didn’t move. Not right away. The air still carried her scent: rosewater, smoke, defiance. It clung to my skin like something earned and undeserved.

She always left like that. With silence that echoed louder than rage. As if she knew it was the only weapon, I had no defense against.

I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, staring at the space she used to fill like it owed me something. I’d kissed her like a man with nothing left to lose…and maybe I didn’t. Not when it came to her.

She was fury wrapped in silk, a storm with too much history and not enough mercy. And God help me; I’d follow her into the fire if it meant keeping her from walking into it alone.

 But that’s the thing with Iris.

She didn’t want to be saved.

She wanted to be chosen, even if it meant dragging you into the ruins with her.

And I had. A thousand times over.

“You’re a fucking addiction,” I’d said.

It was the only truth I’d let slip, and even that tasted like weakness.

Because I did want her. Wanted her in the way men wanted absolution: quietly, painfully, desperately. I worshipped her in the dark, behind locked doors, in the weight of every decision I made with her in mind.

But I’d never say it. Not out loud.

Because if I gave it voice, it would become real.

And if it became real, it could be used against me.

That was the game we played. Silence instead of surrender. Proximity instead of peace.

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly.

She didn’t trust me.

Not with her rage. Not with her past. Not with the ruin her father left behind.

And she was right not to.

Because I’d known the truth and buried it in strategy. I’d watched her bleed while I stitched power together in boardrooms and backrooms, hoping she'd stay too focused to look back.

But she always looked back eventually.

And when she did, she saw everything.

I leaned against the edge of the table, her voice echoing like it had claws.

You’d let the world burn for me. But you’d never say it.

No. I wouldn’t.

Because love like that doesn’t survive in daylight.

Because saying it would mean admitting that I was never in control.

And if this whole empire crumbled tomorrow, the only thing I’d reach for in the wreckage would be her.

Even if she was the one who lit the match.

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