Fate Strings

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His breaths even a little.

And I slowly raise myself, lifting my hand from his cheek. If he was going to sleep, it was best to let him be. He needed as much rest as he—

His eyes are wide open.

I freeze in surprise. There's a growing blush in his cheeks, almost matching the shade of his dark crimson eyes. His lips are parted, and I can see the tips of his sharpened teeth underneath. He looks like a surprised deer.


Goodness sakes.

A flustered heat slowly pools in my stomach.

"Good. You've woken." I say, dusting the front of my dress. "Stay right here, Taehyung. You need the Healer— I don't know why in the world you were like that in the bathroom. Do you realize what you did?"

I turn.

"All this water—"

I feel him softly cling onto the back of my top. His fingertips are uncertain— so full of it that I can practically see everything he's thinking when I look at his expression.

You kissed me. I felt it.

Why, Mistress? I thought you would hate me after how stupid I was. You told me those things.

So why.

I see the hunger slowly bleed into the doubt. The longer I stayed close to him, the worse it would become. He didn't even have his mask.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier." I murmur, wrapping my hand over his. "I didn't mean it at all— I was just not myself then."

"Will you forgive me, Taehyung?"

He nods without a breadth of hesitation. His eyes continue returning to my lips. I feel him trying to fight against the urge that must be clawing him apart inside.

The heat pooling in my own chest slowly rises in temperature. His hand, under mine, is so rough and littered with calluses from handling his sword for such a long time. His skin has turned a shade of gold from staying hours under the sun. It somehow deepens his rouge eyes and lips.

If I kiss him here.

And if I let my heart show.

My hand slightly tightens. Would he be able to hold back? Or would he rip me apart, having lost the battle to his own self?

Choices. All these choices, and the strings of fate attached to them.

What if I let him know that I returned his love, in some way? What would that lead to? Would we look at each other in the same way ever again? Would either of us ever be able to hold back from getting closer and closer, when physical touch was the bane of both of our existence?

I couldn't fathom a Tarakan's hunger. Neither could he, entirely. He was still young. And I knew how lust could so easily sway and blind the senses.

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