bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

She was a tsunami trapped in those meek brown eyes and he only had to brush against the edges of her before she explodes into a dazzling array of color. He wonders if she recognizes the beauty of her, the power of her, the kaleidoscope of emotions constantly simmering beneath the surface—a vibrant, vivid emotion he has only ever felt around her. She groans in her throat and his hold on her tightens, surprised by the way it pulls at his lower belly, at the hunger she ignites in a heart that usually feels so hollow.

When she lifts her chin, exposing her throat, he doesn’t hesitate. His stubbled mouth trails from her painted lips, to her jawline, teeth grabbing the sensitive part of her earlobe before trailing down her neck. His mouth is greedy as he bends his head, tasting the sweet flesh and the scent that is all her.

The doors open and patrons from inside pour out but he pays no attention to their drunken banter. He is lost in the world that is her. Her hand finds its way under his shirt and he growls in response, his own grip finding her waist and hosting her up, pressing her back against the wall and letting her legs wrap around his waist. One calloused palm runs up her exposed thigh before it traces its way back up the side of her body, finally coming to a rest as it cradles her face, the kiss deepening until he nearly drowns in it.

It was like an electric shock to the heart.

He can feel his pulse racing, skin heating, and it’s completely alien—wholly different—and he is nearly drunk on it. More intoxicated than the whiskey has ever made him. “Wallace,” her name is soft on his tongue as he whispers into her, the edges of it dark and tangled and lost, as lost as him. “Wallace,” he repeats it again, pulling her head down to his, her dark hair curtaining around his vision.

She tastes like cinnamon and liquor and his stomach muscles clench.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, still holding her against the wall, his arms trembling with the effort it takes to keep himself in check. He bends his head, pressing her forehead into the crook of her neck, against her chest. He breathes her in deep, breathing ragged. “I lose control around you,” his voice is low, teeth gritted, his left hand holding her right leg in place. He opens his mouth again but instead he leans up, tilting his head back, something wicked in his emerald eyes. “So next move is on you.”

His left hand remains on her thigh, his right on her waist.

“The ball is in your court, Wallace.”

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

Woolf has never been an emotional or sensitive man.

He has spent his life as an observer, a scientist—someone who indulges himself in only the ways that he thinks can expand his own understanding of the world around him. It has led to a life outside of others. He has a child, but it was purely for curiosity sake; he had felt no hunger, no need during it. It was only when he was with her that he felt something else slip beneath the surface, her own wild emotions cutting him to his quick, peeling back his layers of indifference to leave him vulnerable and aching.

Her thoughts are a constant ripple in his own mind, and for the most part, he is too lost in the moment to dive into them. Too lost in the feel of her against him, the heat that kindles to life between them, to try and discern the doubts and the fear in her—but when he pauses, when he rests his head against her, trying to gain some semblance of control, they come screaming to life, and he frowns. He tips his head back, watching her untangle her own emotions, untangle her own desires, doubt spreading through her.

When she dips her head back down to him, trailing her teeth and lips along his jawline, he smiles, the emotion as wolfish as his name—but he isn't ready to leave. Not yet. His right hand comes up, cradling her jaw, his thumb brushing across her soft cheek. “Okay,” he breathes, voice thick, “but first, you need to admit to me that you know what I actually want—from you, from this.”

He reaches for her palm, pulling it to his forehead, letting it rest there. His emerald eyes look to her and then, blood starting to bead along the wound, he opens his mind to her the way her mind has always been open to him. He lets it rush out, letting her pick through the desire, the want, the newness of it all. He lets her feel the heady emotions he’s felt since their first encounter, the lust that flicks like flames up the side of his mind and the simultaneous, trickier emotion that rides like an undercurrent beneath it all.

His eyes go a little dark, somber as he pulls her hand away, pressing a rough kiss into the palm before releasing it. He clears his throat, fire still simmering in his belly, when the rest of the world comes screaming back into stark reality. The bubble he has placed around them pops, snow beginning to drift in closer, as the metal flowers strike ground. Something shifts in Woolf, and he slides Wallace down, her body still pressed close to his, but his eyes going flat, his handsome features taking on a keen edge.

He knows about Kerberos.

Known about him since the first day he had met Wallace when she had thrown open her mind and nearly drowned him in the memories of her first encounter with the man. He remembers the moment as if he had experienced it himself. Her fear. Her pain. Her shame when her hair was sheared off. His lips peel back over his teeth, one arm pulling Wallace behind him. Not because she can’t handle herself, but because he can’t, and the last thing he wants is to let her get in between him and the man of iron—

Not now, not here.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, the wicked scar curving over his shoulder splitting open as he greedily opens the floodgates of his own power. Flames begin to lick down his arms, completely harmless to the woman behind him, although she may feel the hints of warmth. He knows that Wallace has somehow found it in her heart to forgive Kerberos—or, at least, forgive him enough to continue to let him in her life, but he doesn’t forgive as sweetly. It’s clear in the hard edge of his mouth.

“I’ve always been curious to know the temperature that iron melts,” he spits the words with venom, barely holding himself back, the fireball in his left palm pulsing as it begins to fade from orange to white.

“Unless you leave right now, you’re going to find out with me.”

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

His temper isn't exactly a dormant thing, but he cannot remember the last time it flared like this.

He can feel it white hot underneath his skin, as volatile as the flames running down his arms. It clouds his mind, makes his tongue thick and puts a film over his eyes. His muscles are taut beneath his skin, green eyes molten as he watches Kerberos, just wishing that the guy would give him an excuse—any excuse—to fling off the final threads of restraint so that he could lose himself in the bloody, bare-knuckled fight.

Instead, Wallace’s son arrives. Woolf doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything except flex his fingers, feeling the fire twist around his hands, small burns charring his skin where he is too reckless to protect himself. He doesn't feel them. Doesn’t feel the blood smeared across his chest under his throat. His face remains hard, unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line, but he doesn’t say anything else. He barely nods, jerking his chin when Kharon acknowledges him, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the suppressed rage.

The only thing that snaps his mind out of it, the only thing that does anything at all to put a dent in his rage, is Wallace’s voice. His stomach twists at the reminder that the son of a bitch sired her family but he cools at her insist voice, surprised she had that much say in his reaction. The fire snuffs out, leaving thin tendrils of smoke to wind around his neck and up through his hair, and he takes a deep breath, wide chest expanding as he fights for some level of control, some semblance of ability to contain himself.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Kerberos, mouth remaining closed and instead letting his voice sear into the other’s brain, blocked from his son’s natural abilities. You ever touch anyone like you touched her—especially her—ever again and you will have me to answer to, you understand? His brow furrows together, a flare of fury still in the set of his mouth. I don’t give two shits that you think you’re a changed man. If I catch wind of you laying a finger on someone, that finger is coming straight off.

And then, at the whisper of Wallace, he releases his hold on Kerberos, letting him leave.

When they are alone, he angles his head toward her, ignoring the jacket she holds out to him.

“No,” his voice is hard, entirely different from what it had been but minutes before and he turns on his heel so that he can face her. His face is stripped raw, unfamiliar feelings of protectiveness leaving him vulnerable and furious for it. “I’m not leaving, Wallace.” He takes a step forward, grabbing her chin with his charred thumb, the flesh still warm, and tilts it upward, the move surprisingly gentle despite the adrenaline that still courses through him. “And you aren’t either. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

His eyes search hers, releasing her chin so that he can push back her hair, thumb gliding over her forehead and then down to her cheek. “I see you, Wallace,” he responds to her thoughts as easily as if they had been spoken aloud. “I have always seen you—from the very first moment.” He doesn’t dip his head down, doesn’t take the liberty although he still wants to, the hunger having never quite been sated.

“And I’ve wanted you since then. Every piece of you.”

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste