3th

Episode 1: The Storm Room

The manor echoed with the storm’s fury, thunder rolling like distant war drums.

Elara stood barefoot at the edge of Cassian’s private studio, drawn there by a pull she couldn’t name. She didn’t speak when he stepped in behind her—didn’t even flinch. She could feel him, the heat of him, like something primal.

“You said not to wander,” she murmured. “I did.”

Cassian exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between restraint and resignation. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, turning to face him. “Should I be?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hands gripped her waist as if trying to push her away—but instead pulled her closer. His kiss was searing, all teeth and hunger, years of restraint unraveling in a heartbeat.

They crashed back against the canvas-stained wall, his mouth devouring hers, her body arching into his like fire into oxygen. Her fingers dug into his shirt, pulling him closer, not flinching as he backed her toward the massive chaise by the window.

“You want danger?” he rasped against her skin. “This is what it feels like.”

She moaned in response, and that was all he needed.

What followed wasn’t gentle. It was the raw kind of passion that leaves bruises—not on skin, but on memory. He worshipped her like something he’d tried to forget for years, and she let him, gasping his name like a secret she never knew she had.

Later, her body still trembling beneath his, she whispered into the dark:

“I don’t want safe.”

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🌘 Episode 2: Velvet Confession

The next night, she found him in the library, standing beside the fire, sleeves rolled up, a glass of dark scotch in one hand.

He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m already here,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Are you going to send me away?”

When he turned, his gaze was molten.

“This will ruin you,” he warned.

“Then ruin me.”

That broke him.

This time, it wasn’t a storm. It was a slow burn—a velvet unraveling. He pressed her against the bookshelf, kissing her so deeply it felt like a claim. His fingers trailed down her spine, slow and deliberate, until she was gasping his name again.

They moved to the floor, the rug a cushion for sins neither of them would take back. His hands guided her like a sculptor shaping a masterpiece. She gave herself to him fully, every moan a confession, every breath a surrender.

It wasn’t just lust. It was something else—darker, deeper. He looked at her like she was both redemption and punishment.

When it was over, they lay entangled in silence, the fire casting golden patterns across bare skin.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he whispered.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she replied. “Neither could you.”

The end of this story let's meet in another one later

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