The silence didn’t last. It shattered like glass beneath a boot when Thorne’s low voice carved through the air, sharp and dangerous, “You think this is a stage?” “Flirting with strangers, waving yourself around like a banner? He’s not looking for me, moonling. He’s looking for you. And every fool you bat your lashes at is another mouth that could whisper your name to the wrong ear.”

Aelorian stared up at him. The whole world seemed to tilt under the weight of Thorne’s fury.

This wasn’t what he’d expected. Not shouting. Not shaking rage. He’d imagined something else entirely when the ogre pulled him upstairs—something rougher, yes, but softer, too. Desire. A pull. Anything but this brutal reminder of how small he really was in the world’s eyes.

The realization stung worse than any reprimand.

“I was protecting you,” Aelorian snapped, though the words trembled. “They would have turned on you. I couldn’t let—” His breath caught—half from the thought of Thorne being hurt, half from how close the ogre stood, the heat of him wrapping around the edges of every word. Pride and panic tangled sharp in his chest.

“You made yourself a target, Lori!” Thorne’s snarl shook the room, rolling thunder that vibrated through bone and marrow. “Don’t you understand?  Seredane’s men—and half the bloody world—are hunting for you—and not everyone wants to bring you back alive! You might have escaped, but you’re not free!”

Aelorian’s chest rose and fell, sharp, uneven, defiance flaring like wildfire in his veins. “I am free! I’ll do as I please! You have no right to control me any more than Seredane did, Thorne Harrowbranch! You don’t—”

Thorne moved, swift and brutal, a storm incarnate.

Aelorian was suddenly slammed against the nearest dresser. The wood cracked beneath the force, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs in one violent gasp. Thorne crowded against his back. One massive hand clamped around his throat, iron-hot and unyielding, anchoring him against the heat of Thorne’s body. The other hand slammed to the dresser beside his hip, the surface rattling like it could cave under the weight, trapping him between the wood and raw, uncontained tension.

“You want to play games, elf?” Thorne’s gaze drilled into Aelorian’s in the mirror, his growl rolled low and visceral, vibrating through Aelorian’s bones, making nerve endings hum with equal parts fear and something darker, hungrier. He leaned in, breath scorching the edge of Aelorian’s ear. “You got no idea what you’re toying with,” he said. “You think you can dance in the fire without burning? You’re too damn naive to know what kind of danger you’re calling down.”

Aelorian’s mind screamed at him to shove, to spit, to bite—but his body betrayed him. Every fiber of him was aflame. Thorne’s heat pressed into his back, silk sliding over skin, arms brushing his shoulders, fingers grazing just enough to ignite a thousand delicate sparks of sensation. Breath ghosted across his nape and collarbone, teasing, testing. All he could think of was movement—the imagined weight of those rough hands if they ever really touched him, the sounds Thorne might make if he finally stopped holding himself back. It wasn’t even the act he saw in his mind so much as the surrender of it: the loss of control, the burn, the wildness of being wanted that fiercely.

He leaned in before his pride could stop him. Thorne didn’t move, but Aelorian felt the tension snap through him when his soft fingers touched the ogre’s wrist to keep it in place—like the vibration of a bowstring pulled too tight. That single shiver of restrained strength was enough to make Aelorian's thighs quiver. 

“You don’t own me,” Aelorian breathed, trembling—not with fear, but with a reckless, dangerous defiance that vibrated through his words, sharp and raw.

Thorne’s amber gaze blazed, molten and unblinking, voice a guttural snarl that wrapped around his spine like fire. “Then stop asking me to claim you.”

The mirror caught them both—the elf, wild and luminous, black hair falling across cheeks flushed with heat; the ogre, massive, coiled, dangerous, the bulge behind his loincloth pressing insistently against the cleft of Aelorian's ass through their clothes, a thick, insistent promise of ruin. 

Every exhale, every heartbeat, thudded through the room like a drum of impending ruin or ecstasy.

"Aelorian--" Thorne began to growl.

But before he could say more, Aelorian tore the silk of his robes open with a reckless, deliberate yank, the fabric parting like a whispered confession under his fingers. It cascaded from his shoulders in a silken whisper, sliding down his lithe arms to bunch at his elbows, leaving his upper body bare to the room's sudden chill. 

Cold kissed his pale skin, making gooseflesh rise along the delicate planes of his chest. Lamplight danced over a gold nipple piercing, the bar glinting wickedly as a pearl dangled from it—a hidden gem swaying like forbidden fruit between flickering shadows and the cool glow of moonlight. His nipple stood erect, a firm peak flushed with arousal against the soft, pink areola, begging for touch amid the taut plane of his torso.

Thorne’s pulse lurched. He hadn’t seen that before—not in the river, not ever. His brain stuttered, caught between confusion and the punch of raw desire. The air thickened until it felt dangerous to breathe.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Thorne’s voice came out low, splintered with restraint, every word scraping against the edge of control.

Aelorian's pulse raced under Thorne's grip, his exposed skin tingling from the ogre's radiating heat, nipples tightening further in the cool air. He tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat under the ogre’s grip, a silent dare as his free hand trailed up his own chest, thumb tweaking the pierced bud to make the pearl dance.  “Do you like my pearl, Timberlord?” he purred, the title sliding off his tongue like a sin he meant him to taste. 

Thorne blinked, actually startled, confusion cutting through the fury for a breath. “Timberlord?” His voice went rough, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Gods, Thorne. It means you’re supposed to—” Lori’s breath caught, feverish. “—you’re supposed to take me against the wall and ravish me!” His voice rose higher, growing angrier and more desperate. “What are you waiting for?”

Thorne stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about, elf?”

“Tempted by the Timberlord!” Aelorian snapped, cheeks blazing crimson even as he flung his bare chest forward in challenge. “Chapter forty-nine! The hero doesn’t stop when the noble elf bares himself—he doesn’t walk away like some brooding ox with morals! He claims him!”

“I am not—” Thorne’s voice cut through the charged air, firm, lethal in its clarity. “—the Timberlord, Aelorian. I’m not a story. I’m not some fabled brute for your moonlit fantasies. I am Thorne. An ogre. Nothing more, nothing less. And you—” He shook his head, amber eyes blazing with equal parts fury and disappointment, “—you’re pushing too far.”

Aelorian’s breath came shallow, uneven. For a moment, he just stood there—bare, trembling, the chill biting through what little bravado he had left. His smile flickered once, twice, then broke apart completely, leaving only the stunned, naked hurt beneath it.

He looked away, the defiance bleeding out of his posture like ink in water. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” he murmured, voice paper-thin, fraying at the edges. “I was only—” He stopped, jaw locking, as if the rest of the sentence might strangle him on the way out.

Thorne exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy with something that wasn’t anger anymore. “Only what?” he asked, softer now, though the words still rumbled low.

“Only trying to feel wanted,” Aelorian snapped, the confession half-swallowed by his own fury. He took a step back, clutching at the fallen silk like it might shield him from the weight of his own words. “Stars, Thorne, I don’t even know how to do this! You—” His voice cracked, rising like a wound tearing open. “Why can’t you just let me breathe? Why can’t this—we—be anything but a fight?”

Thorne’s shoulders dropped, the fury bleeding out of him like smoke through open fingers. His voice came quiet, steady, almost tender. “Because we’re not safe, Lori,” he said, rough but careful. “I won’t let you get hurt. Not by anyone.” His amber gaze softened just enough to undo him. “Not even by me.”

“I don’t need you protecting me!” Aelorian’s voice broke, sharp and trembling. “I didn’t ask for your pity, your orders, or your chains!”

“I’m not giving you chains!” Thorne snapped, knuckles whitening on the edge of the dresser. “I’m trying to keep you alive, godsdamnit!”

“Well, congratulations,” Aelorian spat, shaking, furious, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m alive—and you’ve killed the mood.”

He yanked his robe closed, the fabric whispering against skin as he hid the pearl like a secret snatched away. His voice turned cold, sharp as broken glass. “Enjoy your brooding alone tonight, Timberlord—oh, pardon me, Thorne. You’re so good at that.”

He shoved past the ogre, scent of moonlight, defiance, and bare skin trailing after him like the ghost of a challenge, and slammed the door hard enough to make the hinges shiver.

Thorne flinched. The sound cracked through him like a blow, chest tightening as though the slam had landed there instead. For a long moment, he stood frozen—listening to the echo fade into the stillness, into the emptiness he’d somehow earned.

The room felt wrong without him. Too quiet. Too still. The air still carried Aelorian’s scent—wild, electric, impossible.

And yet. Every flare of that anger, every glittering look of defiance, every teasing, reckless word still coiled in Thorne’s chest. He wasn’t the Timberlord. Saints knew he wasn’t. But the pull lingered. The want. The almost-touch. Fire on skin, ache behind ribs.

He let out a low sound, somewhere between a sigh and a curse, and dragged a hand over his face. “Saints preserve me,” he muttered to the empty room. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”