The girl did not attack. She did not claw.

  Her slender arms loosely circled Arka’s waist, as if she knew he had nowhere to run. Her touch was feather-light, yet to Arka, it felt like a golden snare locking down his entire nervous system.

  Arka stared at that face from mere centimeters away.

  She was the definition of lethal beauty. The girl's eyes—lucid yet bottomless—were like abyssal wells sucking away Arka’s consciousness. Her long lashes fluttered slowly, in rhythm with the jasmine scent now feeling like a thick fog filling his lungs.

  Damn it... just a little more... Arka thought, his teeth grinding.

  He tried to summon the remnants of Sagara pride. He tried to picture his grandfather's stern face, or the heavy weight of the Karpharah sword in his hand. But those images shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer.

  His final defense broke.

  Arka’s face flushed a deep crimson. His blood no longer flowed; it boiled, pumping torturous heat into every nerve ending. His pulse hammered at his temples, matching the mysterious heartbeat of the girl before him.

  All logic, plans, and caution evaporated.

  Arka no longer cared if this was a trap, if she was a ghost, or if she was a blood enemy of his family. Under the influence of the dense jasmine magic, he saw only one objective.

  He leaned his burning face forward.

  Kiss.

  Arka captured the girl's lips.

  The contact was like a simultaneous explosion of ice and fire. Her lips felt cool yet impossibly soft, providing an agonizing contrast to Arka’s incinerating body temperature.

  Arka squeezed his eyes shut tight.

  Instantly, the world outside them ceased to exist. Gone was the rustling of pine trees, gone was the biting mountain wind, gone was the crushing weight of the Sagara name.

  Arka’s universe constricted to a single focal point.

  His sanity had suffered total defeat. His identity as a knight and an Aksesa evaporated into the ether along with the pool's steam. What remained standing there, naked and trembling at the edge of the stone basin, was merely a vessel of mortal flesh driven by primitive instinct and overflowing desire.

  In the dark behind his eyelids, Arka surrendered control completely. He let himself drown in the jasmine perfume, becoming a marionette for the beautiful priestess whose identity remained a profound mystery to his family's history.

  Beneath the canopy of hissing pines, Arka’s reason had fully dissolved, usurped by impulsive urges dictated by the intoxicating jasmine sorcery.

  While continually adrift in that dreamlike kiss, Arka’s hands moved instinctively. His calloused fingers met the fine silk of the priestess's garments.

  One by one, the fabric ties were undone.

  The pristine white tunic and the blazing red hakama slowly slid from the girl's shoulders, falling in an aesthetic heap upon the dark, wet andesite stone. Clothing was no longer a barrier between them.

  Arka opened his eyes slightly, gazing at the figure before him under the dim veil of the pool's steam.

  He beheld flawless perfection. The girl's skin was milk-white, yet radiated an unnatural warm flush amidst the freezing mountain air. The curves of her body were a masterpiece impossible for nature to forge—every line, every angle, appeared too beautiful to be real.

  Arka pulled her close.

  His athletic arms wrapped tightly around her, drawing that petite, graceful frame into his embrace.

  Instantly, the searing sensation of skin against skin detonated across his nerves. It wasn't merely physical heat; it was a warmth that seeped down into his very soul, as if all the exhaustion and emptiness he had felt all this time were entirely filled in a single breath.

  He kissed her again. This time not with surprise, but with profound tenderness.

  Arka buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the jasmine scent now fused with the natural musk of her skin. The subtle friction of their contact made Arka feel as though he were no longer tethered to the earth.

  The outside world—the freezing wind, his grandfather's doubts, the Shade Walker threat, and the heavy destiny of House Sagara—all faded into an irrelevant background.

  At the edge of that pool, under the silent vigil of the ancient pines, Arka let himself sink. He no longer cared if this was lethal dark magic or an unforeseen boon from heaven.

  He only wanted this moment to be eternal. To feel this impossible softness, for just a breath before reality violently reclaimed him.

  On the wet, slick rim of the andesite basin, the boundary between reality and dream had collapsed entirely.

  Arka no longer felt the bone-piercing chill of the mountain air. The only temperature he registered was the blistering heat from the girl's skin—a supernatural fire that seemed to melt away the dregs of his rationality.

  The struggle commenced amidst the thick sulfurous vapor.

  Their bodies entwined, moving to a primal rhythm that demanded no words. Arka, with all his physical might as a conditioned knight, felt as though he were the one being subjugated. The girl—the mysterious priestess—moved with an intoxicating grace, guiding his every touch and drawn breath.

  Upon the unforgiving stone, Arka held her fast.

  Their movements escalated in intensity, as if both were striving to devour the other's soul. Every gasp that escaped their lips was instantly swallowed by the burbling water and the rising howl of the pine wind, as if the universe itself held its breath bearing witness to their union.

  That jasmine scent... it was no longer merely a fragrance.

  It became the atmosphere suffocating them. The higher the crescendo of their pleasure, the thicker the aroma bled from the girl's pores, setting Arka’s mind spinning in unbearable euphoria.

  The muscles of Arka’s back went rigid, his hands gripping the girl's shoulders as wave after wave of sensation crashed into him.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  They rolled slowly, half their bodies submerged in the scalding water, the other half exposed to the glacial air. The thermal shock engineered a sensory overload that multiplied the ecstasy. The hot water caressed their skin, while the rising steam veiled their faces in a white shroud.

  The girl's gaze—half-lidded—peered at Arka with a strange, glinting satisfaction. As if she were drinking Arka’s vitality, while simultaneously gifting him an ecstasy no mortal man had ever known.

  "Arka..." she whispered amidst ragged breaths.

  Arka could not answer. His throat was choked by overflowing pleasure. He could only tighten his hold, surrendering entirely to the violent current of desire sweeping him away.

  There was no past. There was no future.

  There was no Black Keep. There was no Ironseat.

  In that moment, at the edge of the sacred Sagara pool, Arka truly drowned. He drowned in an ocean of sensation, in the warmth of a mysterious body, and in a fusion that felt eternal. He let himself plummet into that abyss of pleasure, devoid of any desire to be saved.

  They had abandoned the cold stone lip of the pool. Now, they were inside a small wooden hermitage located just paces from the hot spring.

  Upon the wooden tatami mats layered with simple cloth, the game continued unabated.

  Moonlight pierced through the window slats, illuminating their sweat-slicked bodies. Arka stared at the girl's face. The enigmatic priestess appeared profoundly overwhelmed.

  Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her beautiful eyes now glazed, half-closed to endure the relentless waves of sensation battering her. Her petite frame trembled violently beneath the cage of Arka’s far more powerful physique.

  He didn't know which round this was. Arka had lost the concept of numbers.

  Eight... or nine? he thought hazily.

  Every time the girl thought the storm had passed, Arka dragged her back up. Forcing her to scale the peak of pleasure once more, and again. Arka’s stamina tonight felt inhuman, as if the void energy in his blood had transmuted into an inexhaustible fuel of lust.

  Midnight had long passed.

  The pine forest outside was dead silent, yet within the hermitage, the sounds of heavy breathing and moans filled every corner of the room.

  The moans grew louder.

  No longer stifled whispers. The girl gripped Arka’s shoulders tightly, her nails digging into the skin of his back, seeking purchase as the world spun wildly in her head. She threw her head back, exposing her slender neck, her mouth open to release a long, piercing cry of fulfillment.

  Arka responded. His movements grew faster, deeper, driven by a primal instinct to bring everything to an absolute end.

  The jasmine aroma in the room was now so thick it felt suffocating, intermingling with the raw, natural musk of their bodies.

  Then, the moment arrived.

  Arka felt the muscles around his waist lock rigid. A monumental tidal wave of heat gathered at a single point, primed to detonate.

  "Arkaaa..." the girl cried out breathlessly, her body arching taut like a fully drawn bowstring.

  Arka unleashed a low, guttural growl from deep within his chest.

  With one final, profound, and powerful thrust, Arka shattered the limits of his own restraint.

  It was an explosion that whited out their vision.

  It felt like a colossal dam bursting instantaneously. Arka felt not only a physical release, but as if a fragment of his very soul had spilled out, fusing into the girl's body.

  They both screamed in unison—a raw, honest harmony of absolute completion—that echoed against the wooden walls of the hermitage, drowning out the night wind outside.

  The girl convulsed momentarily in Arka’s embrace, her entire body going rigid before finally collapsing, utterly spent. Arka slumped over her, his chest heaving violently, his heart hammering madly against his ribcage.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of their heavy breathing in the darkness.

  The absolute summit had been breached. And there, at the nadir of exhaustion, Arka’s consciousness slowly began to dim, dragged forcibly toward a deep, pitch-black slumber.

  Arka lay flat on his back on the disheveled wooden tatami.

  He was still panting, his chest rising and falling violently in a desperate bid to gorge on oxygen. Sweat drenched his entire body, gleaming faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the window slats.

  Beside him, the girl moved languidly.

  She didn't pull away. Instead, she draped herself over Arka from the side, resting half her body weight against his still-tense ribs.

  Her lips moved, drawing close to Arka’s ringing ear.

  And there she dropped the bomb.

  "Aira..." she whispered, her voice raspy and wet. "... Aira Lysandra Rahessa."

  The name slithered into Arka’s ear not as an introduction, but like a lethal, ancient incantation.

  Rahessa...

  Arka’s previously glazed eyes instantly snapped wide open, staring at the dark ceiling of the hermitage.

  His heart felt as if it had stopped beating. His blood, boiling with passion moments ago, suddenly froze to ice.

  That name... it wasn't just any name. It was a name buried in dust-choked history books forbidden to be opened in the Sagara library. A name carrying the crushing weight of enmity, blood, or perhaps something even older than that.

  Arka’s body went rigid, preparing to vault upward.

  "Ssshhh..."

  The girl—Aira—hissed softly. Her smooth hand stroked Arka’s chest, pressing him back down to remain lying flat. The touch was bizarrely tranquilizing, as if forcibly terminating the danger signals blaring in Arka’s brain.

  Arka turned his head stiffly, glaring at the girl now using his right arm as a pillow.

  "You..." Arka’s voice was gravelly, heavy with accusation yet devoid of strength. "...you bewitched me."

  It was the only logical explanation. Arka Sagara, the Aksesa, could not possibly lose control so catastrophically just because of a beautiful woman. There had to be hexes. There had to be magical pheromones.

  However, in the darkness, Aira shook her head slowly. Her long black hair swept across the skin of Arka’s arm.

  "No, Arka..." she answered softly, her eyes meeting his with a terrifying honesty.

  Her index finger tapped Arka’s solar plexus.

  "It is your body that cannot lie..."

  Aira smiled faintly, a smile harboring secrets thousands of years old.

  "The body of a Sagara... always thirsts for the body of a Rahessa..." she whispered. "It is not magic. It is biological destiny. It is the curse of our blood."

  Arka fell silent, his brain spinning violently.

  What concept is this?

  Blood curse? Biological attraction between bloodlines?

  Arka stared intently into Aira’s eyes, hunting for a lie.

  Was this girl spinning tales? Was she fabricating this mystical nonsense just to deflect the accusation that she had ensorcelled him? Was this her way of manipulating him so he wouldn't feel violated by magic, but rather "surrendering to fate"?

  But...

  Arka remembered how perfectly their bodies had fit together. How every touch felt like a lost puzzle piece finally coming home. It felt far too organic for a synthetic spell.

  "Rahessa..." Arka mumbled again, still in disbelief that an enemy or an alien entity was now naked and embracing him warmly.

  The confusion slowly dragged at his consciousness. Extreme physical exhaustion, compounded by the mental shock of that name, made Arka’s eyelids heavy.

  He wanted to ask more. He wanted to demand answers.

  Arka stared intently into Aira’s eyes.

  The name "Rahessa" still rang shrilly in his skull, a blaring siren of danger. He should have leaped backward. He should have choked this girl or at least created distance for an interrogation.

  But his body... this damned flesh reacted to the contrary.

  When Arka realized who was in his embrace—that he was holding a "taboo," a woman from a bloodline that might be the enemy or the antithesis of Sagara—his adrenaline actually spiked.

  The tension in the air shifted drastically. No longer cautious tension, but a dense, suffocating electricity. Arka’s heart pumped blood back into his vital points. The post-orgasmic exhaustion from earlier vanished without a trace, replaced by a surge of aggressive, feral energy.

  Aira felt it. She felt the muscle of Arka’s arm—her makeshift pillow—harden to stone again. She felt the shift in the man's breathing rhythm.

  Instead of fear, the girl offered a thin smile in the dark. Her exquisite eyes glinted with wicked mischief, challenging the beast residing within Arka.

  Her wicked hand slid downward, delivering a provocative caress that made Arka’s breath hitch.

  "Do it, Arka..." she whispered, her voice like sweet venom paralyzing logic.

  Aira tilted her head up slightly, pressing her wet lips against Arka’s tensed jaw.

  "...you want it again, don't you?"

  The question was not an inquiry. It was a verdict.

  "Damn it..." Arka growled through gritted teeth.

  His mental barricades shattered instantly.

  To hell with the name Rahessa. To hell with history. If this was a trap, then Arka willingly hurled himself into it. His flesh demanded this union with a terrifying hunger, as if the Sagara blood in his veins was truly screaming in delight at meeting its mate.

  Arka did not answer with words. He answered with action.

  He flipped the girl over with a swift, dominant motion, pinning Aira beneath him once more. There was no tenderness this time. There was only raw, demanding urgency.

  They began again.

  This round was far more savage. There were undertones of fury and desperation mingling with lust. Arka touched her, kissed her, and took her with an intensity that seemed intent on eradicating the name "Rahessa" from the girl's memory and branding her with his own.

  The creaking of the wooden tatami clashed with the sound of ragged breathing.

  In that small hovel, Arka and Aira grappled once more, devouring and giving to each other, proving that the theory of "blood attraction" might not be mere fabricated nonsense after all.