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– 1 –

Laughter In The Leaves

It wasn’t the first time in her life that Cathleen of Brokilon had to climb out a window to avoid being detected. The thrill cursing through her body never eased, no matter how often it occurred. And to be completely honest, it happened quite often. Usually, she had to hide from guards or knights who caught her snooping around. More often than not, it was mages she fled from, not being particularly interested in meeting the magic wielders face-on. There even were times when she had snuck out of windows to avoid being stoned by people who believed her to be a demon, sent straight from hell to torture the folk. It couldn’t be further from the truth – Cathleen wasn’t a demon, had never even seen one. Still, she had given up trying to explain that to the people who accused her. Running away was easier. And far less frustrating.

And even though she was used to quietly slipping out of windows, it was the first time she did so because of a witcher. She had felt his presence long before he had actually entered the tavern, the tiny hairs on her arms rising up as her muscles went rigid even though he was still a few paces away from the door. Without bothering to leave a coin to pay for her beer, she had quietly slit from the wooden bar stool. She had just reached the window when the witcher had opened the door, his huge body barely fitting through the frame. He hadn’t even looked her way, which didn’t come as a surprise to her – other people were rarely as aware of their surroundings as she was. Using the noise of conversations and laughter around her as a cover, she pushed open the glass panel just in time before it went quiet around her. It seemed the residents of this small village – so small Cathleen had forgotten its name – finally noticed the witcher in their midst.

She didn’t tear her eyes off him as she hauled her body through the window, careful to not make a sound as her boots hit the mossy ground outside the tavern. The witcher stalked toward the counter, apparently totally unbothered by the stares and the heavy silence around him. Cathleen pressed her back to the wall next to the window, still in hearing range but out of sight as she forced herself to breathe through her nose, small and shallow breaths that wouldn’t catch his attention.

She didn’t even know

why

she had slipped out that window because as far as she knew, no one here believed her to be a monster, so there was no harm to be expected from the witcher. For whatever reason she couldn’t fathom, her instincts had urged her to hide from him. They never betrayed her before so she’d be an utter fool to ignore them just because she couldn’t see immediate danger.

“I am here for the Leshy.” The voice unmistakably belonged to the witcher. Deep and gruff, its sound vibrated right through her body, weakening her knees and stirring something in her she couldn’t place. Gods, she’d never heard a voice this deep and deprived of emotion. Of course she had only been able to catch a glimpse of him in the dimly-lit tavern during those two seconds it took her to sneak out the window but from what she had seen, his exterior fit his voice – both gruff and scary.

“Aye.” Cathleen recognized the voice of the innkeeper, even though it broke – probably due to the witcher’s appearance scaring him shitless – resulting in him having to clear his throat. “Ya prob’ly here to assist ya college, eh?”

“My

college

?” the witcher asked, suspicion easily detectable. Cathleen pressed her lips together, focusing on silencing her breathing even more.

“Ye, the woman!” the innkeeper explained, straining his voice with forced ease, “she’d some trouble, ‘parently. Her usual tactic didn’ work, she said.” A low hum was the only response from the witcher and she frowned at what the innkeeper said next. “Don’t wonder me she needs help. Women, right?” A nervous laugh followed and it took a good amount of self-restraint to not just climb back through the window and tell the innkeeper exactly what

women

could do. Especially with a closed fist.

“To be honest,” Cathleen rolled her eyes upward, suppressing an annoyed sigh. Did that idiot

ever

shut up? “I was surprised to see a female witcher. We all are! Always thought they don’t exist.” It was silent for a second and Cathleen held her breath, curious to hear the witcher's answer.

“There aren’t.” Two words, but the way he delivered it didn’t leave room for any debate. At the same time, Cathleen could hear the pure indifference of the witcher on the matter – he didn’t care if the innkeeper believed him.

The wood creaked beneath his boots as the witcher started walking, his steps fading slowly as he approached the door. A mischievous smile tugged on her lips. Perhaps a little spying was in order.

Something was entirely wrong with this village. Maybe not the village itself but something inside it. The second Geralt of Rivia rode past the first few houses on Roach, he felt odd. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant but most definitely … odd. It wasn’t just the leshy because even though the spirit could leave a sour taste behind, a part of him just

knew

.
He followed the sensation, stirring Roach through the muddy streets until he stopped in front of a tavern. The moment he stepped inside though, it vanished, leaving him irritated.

Geralt didn’t care about the stares or the barely shushed murmurs of terror and disdain. What he did care about was the woman who claimed to be a witcher. There might have been a time in which it was possible that he didn’t know every single witcher alive. But now, with so few of them left …

Whoever she was, she was deceiving people for her own gain. Normally, he wouldn’t care about some woman spreading lies but this was his business, whether he wanted it to be or not. Sullying the reputation of witchers was bad for business.

The leshy became a second priority as Geralt left the tavern, he instantly began his hunt for her. There had been some lingering scent of hers left in the building, an odd mixture of oranges and woodsmoke. Following it outside, he halted his steps, grunting in irritation. How could he have missed this unique scent? Surely it should have caught his attention upon arriving, even if only for a moment.

“Something’s not right,” Geralt muttered as he reached Roach, stroking along her neck. The horse let out a heavy huff in response, jerking his head upward as if agreeing. Geralt hummed hoarsely, patting Roach’s throat twice before following the lingering trail of the woman’s scent. But even this, the trail, was odd. The scent was faint and way too straight, not quite behaving like the scent of a person should. It was too … orderly, neat. No matter what creature, nothing and no one moved this straightforward and left always the exact amount of scent behind. It was unnatural.

Gerald followed the woman’s scent after tying Roach to the nearest post. It led him through the small village, the locals giving him all sorts of looks as he passed them with watchful eyes, varying from utter aversion to scared shitless. Some even started praying upon seeing him. Geralt didn’t care though, as he made his way through the muddy and dirty streets. He was aware of his imposing nature, he was aware that he looked scary, and justifiably so – he

was

dangerous. Perhaps he wasn’t the monster humans usually made him out to be but that didn’t mean he couldn’t become one if he had to. Just like in Blaviken.

His step faltered ever so slightly, his brows tucking downward as the memory of Renfri crossed his mind, the princess equally beautiful as lethal. The image of her face stayed with him, back in the forest. The way she had smiled, the way her lips had felt on his. Then the image shifted in his head and her beautiful smile was replaced by a pained gurgle, those soft lips tinted with her own blood as she lay dying in his arms. He had done that. He had killed her.

Yes, Geralt could be a monster. Because sometimes he acted like one. No matter his noble intentions – in the end,

he

had killed the princess.

With a guttural grunt, Geralt forced the image from his thoughts and instead focused on the task at hand: follow the scent, find the woman and then– Then what, exactly? He couldn’t really

force

her to stop pretending to be a witcher now, could he? But then again, he probably didn’t have to. Scaring her would be easy and then he could just threaten her a bit with death looming over her by his hand – something he’d never do, of course – and everything would turn out to be fine.

He shook his head, taking a deep breath to sniff out the trail. It led right out of the village, into a small, seemingly abandoned barn. With a scoff, he halted. Obviously a trap. But what for? Did she want to kill him, steal his potions and medallion to make the ruse more believable? Apparently, that wasn’t necessary since this sorry excuse of a village blindly believed her lies. Perhaps she wanted to sell them, earn some extra coin those things would surely bring if sold in the right place. Or she was just scared and had hid in the hopes of him not finding her.

Approaching the barn, Geralt drew his steel sword. As silently as the rusty hinges allowed him to, he pried the door open and slipped inside. There, he found … exactly nothing. The barn was completely empty, not even sacks of hay lay around. No, safe from some dust, there was nothing there. Even the woman’s scent had vanished, from one moment to the other, which was impossible. Even if she were a mage and had opened a portal to flee, he’d still be able to detect a lingering of her scent. Not this … nothingness.

Geralt grunted in frustration and seethed his sword, leaving the barn with angry steps. Only to come to an abrupt halt right outside, coming face to face with a woman. The huge grin on her face told him everything he needed to know.

Watching the witcher walk around, following her fake-trail was fucking hilarious. Cathleen had a shit-eating grin on her face the whole time, giggling as he spoke to his horse and then went off stalking through the village, looking all grim and grumpy. She had to admit, the witcher did look scary as fuck. He was

huge

and built out of pure muscle. Even if he hadn’t rolled up the sleeves of his black tunic to his elbows, showing them off perfectly, his strength became evident in the way he moved. Yet, his steps were silent, each movement deliberate, as he walked with something Cathleen could only describe as lethal grace.

And as if the way his body was built wasn’t enough, his face and hair did the rest to frighten people away. There was no color in his hair, every last strand of the tangled mess on his head was plain white, only tinted by dirt. He had tied half of it to the back of his head but a few strands had found their way out of the knot, falling into his face with every jerk of his head. Not that he seemed to be bothered by it – his face as grim and serious as ever … as if he truly wasn’t capable of emotions. In the past, she had always assumed the stories were lies, or at least by far exaggerated, because it was impossible for a living thing to be emotionless, right? Now, watching the witcher, Cathleen wasn’t so sure anymore.

His eyes, an odd color of yellow or ember didn’t help to improve his emotionless stare – on the contrary, actually.

Still, it was highly amusing to watch him follow the trail she had laid out for him. For her little jest to work, she had to harden the air around herself, masking every sound he might pick up on from her – her steps, her breathing, her heartbeat – as well as her scent. Instead, she forced the wind to carry her scent where she wanted it to linger, leading him right into the barn.

Now, as she stood right in front of him, grinning at him like she was having a blast (which she totally was) she knew he was freaking out internally. Because she was still hiding everything about her that wasn’t visible.

Cathleen tilted her head to one side, curious to see his reaction. She watched the witcher with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes. Her grin never faltered as she took in the way he paused, the first crack in his stoic composure, before his gaze fixed on her, unusual dark eyebrows furrowing. The heavy silence between them seemed to stretch for an eternity, though it was only a few moments.

The witcher’s eyes flickered, scanning her from head to toe. His posture didn’t change, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword, but there was a subtle shift in his presence. Like a predator sizing up its prey. Cathleen didn’t move an inch, even as the weight of his yellow-gold stare seemed to pierce through her. She could almost feel the thoughts churning behind those eyes—calculating, assessing.

“I can’t hear you.” Cathleen huffed at the gruff statement, knowing fully that he didn’t hear it. Raising her chin slightly, she let her magic rest, the shield made out of hard air around her dissolving.

“Oh, but I do,” she said with a soft grin, watching his nostrils flare as he was able to smell her, the hand holding his sword jerking ever so slightly – the sudden appearance of her heartbeat probably startled him.

“You,” he spoke, his voice dry, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to be frustrated or intrigued. “You’re the one I’ve been tracking.”

The edge in his voice was unmistakable, and Cathleen couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled in her chest. She stepped a little closer, the grin still in place, eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“I suppose you could say that,” she replied with an easy, playful tone. “Though, I wouldn’t call it tracking.’ More like... entertaining.”

The witcher didn’t move, didn’t speak. His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, and Cathleen could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind as he assessed her. She could practically see the cogs in his head click into place—an odd woman with strange powers, hiding in plain sight, leading him on a wild goose chase.

But what surprised her was that there was no immediate sense of danger from him. No sudden attack or demand for answers, which only piqued her curiosity further.

“You are not a witcher,” he said, the words coming out flat, but with an undercurrent of suspicion that was impossible to miss. He wasn’t accusing, more like stating the obvious.

Cathleen’s smile widened. “Do I look like a witcher to you?” She gestured to herself, sweeping her arms out in mock self-deprecation. “No, I am not. I really don’t know why those villagers keep calling me that.” A half-truth. Theoretically, she knew why but telling him outright was no fun.

“You’re no mage either,” the witcher continued, his voice laced with certainty and frustration, as if the pieces weren’t quite fitting together. Her grin widened at his statement ever so slightly. “So who are you, then?”

Cathleen could feel his every word tug at her instincts, pushing her toward a more serious side of the conversation, but she resisted. She didn’t want to give him an easy answer. That wasn’t her way. Not with someone like him. Instead, she let the question linger in the air between them, a teasing game she had no intention of letting go.

“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?” She stepped closer again, her boots making barely a sound against the dirt. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she studied him, the silence stretching uncomfortably long. “I could tell you,” she continued slowly, voice low, “but I don’t think you’d believe me. You’ve got that look about you...”

His brow twitched in slight irritation, but there was no anger, no aggression. Just the quiet intensity of someone used to getting things done in their own way.

“I don’t like games,” he said, his voice a growl, the tension in his shoulders shifting, but never fully breaking.

Cathleen’s smile softened because she had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate a playful pout, and raised a hand, brushing a lock of hair from her face. His eyes tracked the movement with precision.

“To be honest, I don’t really know what I am,” Cathleen started, sensing the witcher in front of her would soon lose his patience. “The villagers call me a witcher because I am a witch who collects coins for slaying monsters.”

The witcher raised his eyebrows at that, his eyes tracking her body down once before he stepped closer. She held her ground, waiting for him to stop walking, which he did about four feet from her.

“So you are a mage,” he concluded, giving her an annoyed look. She rolled her eyes upward.

“No, not quite. I don’t cast spells, my magic doesn’t work like the chaos of the mages.” She raised a hand and wiggled her fingers playfully, amused by his precise tracking of her every movement.

“They don’t like being called the same as me, therefore … witch.”

Silence stretched between them again, but this time it was thicker, heavier, as the witcher in front of her clearly turned over what she said in his head. His gaze didn’t leave her, and she could feel the sharpness of his attention like an actual physical weight. He wasn’t buying it, but she wasn’t done yet.

She raised a brow. “So, do you want to continue the chase, or do we talk? I’m pretty good at that, too.”

The witcher’s lips twitched ever so slightly, the first sign of anything other than rigid professionalism. He seethed his sword before folding his arms across his broad chest, standing tall and imposing. “I don’t chase, woman. I track.”

“Very well,” she said, smirking. “Let’s call it what it is, then. Though you didn’t answer my question.” Earlier on, when the witcher had first come near her, her magic had urged her to flee. Now it was pulling her closer toward him, which was odd but nothing she’d fight against. Her magic, her

instincts

were always right. And if they told him to be near the witcher, she’d fucking stay attached to his hip, whether he’d appreciate it or not.

He didn’t respond to that, but Cathleen could see the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. The tension between them was palpable now, and for a moment, she just stood there, watching him, as if daring him to make the next move.

Finally, after a long pause, he broke the silence, his voice still cold, but with the faintest edge of curiosity. “You’ve arranged this, then.” He gestured to the barn behind them.

Cathleen’s grin returned, wider than before. “Oh, most definitely. And I’ve been enjoying every minute of it.” An annoyed scoff was his answer.

“Of course you did.” He looked at her, lips pressed together as he clearly waited for something. He was here for business, not for her games.

“You’re no fun, you know that?” Cathleen stated with a feigned whine before rolling her eyes. The witcher didn’t deign to answer her.

“Fine,” she sighed and turned on her heel, presenting him her back. She knew the implication of such wouldn’t go unnoticed by him. “Come on, I’ll lead you to the leshy.” Looking over her shoulder, she taunted, “that’s why you’re here, right?”

Some part of her knew he’d follow her, so she didn’t wait up as she faced forward again. And a moment later, she heard him mutter “Fuck,” under his breath before the sound of his footsteps reached her ears. Grinning to herself, Cathleen led him into the forest.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 2 –

Into The Thicket

Geralt wasn’t even sure why he was following her. He didn’t need her to find the leshy, he was more than capable of doing so himself. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. Yet, something had urged him to walk as the distance between them grew. He wondered if she’d put him under a spell to make him act this unusual but if she had, he wouldn’t be aware of it.

He kept his gaze on the woman walking ahead of him, her gait unhurried yet purposeful. Her ginger, slightly wavy hair was pulled up in a similar way as his own, only that her hair was long enough to sway around her waist with every step that she took. She didn’t wear a dress, which was a smart choice while moving in this forest. Geralt couldn’t detect any weapons on her except for one small dagger strapped to her right thigh.

The playful sway in her step—intentional or not—made his teeth clench. Something about her put him on edge, and it wasn’t just the way she had effortlessly slipped through his senses earlier. No, it was more than that.

She was dangerous. Not in the way a mage was dangerous, with their chaos-fueled spells and unpredictable tempers. Not in the way a monster was dangerous, driven by instinct and hunger. No, this was a different kind of danger—something subtle, something he couldn’t quite pin down. Which made him insanely nervous.

Geralt silently followed, letting his boots crunching softly against the damp earth so that she knew he was still there.

The weight of his steel and silver swords was a familiar comfort against his back. He didn’t trust her, but his instincts weren’t screaming at him to cut her down either. That alone was enough to keep his hand off his hilt.

The forest thickened as they moved deeper, the trees stretching taller, their canopies thick with dark green leaves. The air grew damp, heavy with the scent of moss and wet bark. It was the kind of place where sunlight rarely touched the ground, where the silence felt watchful.

She led without hesitation. That was the first thing that caught his attention. No second-guessing, no stolen glances at the surroundings to find her bearings. She knew exactly where she was going.

“You’re sure it’s a leshy?” he asked, breaking the silence. The villagers might have easily confused it with something else – for them, every monster was the same, him included.

Her head turned slightly, just enough for him to catch the corner of her smirk. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, pressing on. “Have you seen it?”

She hummed a yes in response, lifting a hand to brush her fingers against the bark of a tree they passed. “And felt it,” she added. “The forest is the wrong kind of quiet as it should be. Something’s watching.”

That, at least, was true. The woods had the kind of silence that settled when the natural order had been disturbed. He could feel it too, the subtle wrongness in the air.

“Then why haven’t you killed it?”

That made her pause. Two steps later, he had caught up to her, her shoulder nearly brushing his upper arm as he came to a halt next to her. She stared ahead for a second before turning her head to look at him, her blue eyes flashing with forced
amusement.

“I thought I’d let you have some fun first.” A bullshit excuse and they both knew it. He had only arrived here an hour ago and obviously, she had been here longer than that. The innkeeper had said that her usual tactics hadn’t worked, whatever the fuck that meant.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine, she didn’t need to tell him. His focus remained on the job. “Leshens don’t usually wander so close to human settlements,” he muttered, scanning the treetops for signs of the creature’s influence—claw marks, bone totems, crows lingering too long in one place. “Something must have provoked it.”

“Probably,” she agreed, her tone unreadable before she set her legs into motion again.

Geralt’s jaw tightened as he followed. He didn’t like how easily she avoided details, how she danced around answers without ever truly lying. It was infuriating.

She was watching him again, her pace slowing just slightly.

“You always this talkative?” she teased.

“Only when I need answers.”

“And here I thought you witchers didn’t care about the ‘whys,’ just the ‘how much.’”

Geralt didn’t rise to the bait. He simply stared at her, waiting.

She held his gaze for a beat longer before sighing dramatically, as if indulging him.

“Fine,” she relented, “I don’t know what pissed it off. But I do know it’s been hunting people. I was tracking it before you arrived.”

“Tracking,” Geralt echoed flatly. “Or playing games?”

Her lips twitched. “Can’t it be both?”

His patience thinned. “Leshens don’t play games.”

That finally wiped the smirk from her face.

“No,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “They don’t.”

For the first time since they met, the amusement in her eyes flickered—replaced by something else. Something serious. Geralt studied her, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She wasn’t just leading him to the leshen. She had a reason for being here, a purpose she hadn’t yet shared. The question was: what was it?

He would find out soon enough.

For now, they had a hunt to finish.

His presence near her was an odd feeling. Not necessarily unpleasant but … odd, once again. Everything regarding him was just

odd

.

The last time she was in this forest, she nearly died. The leshy had almost killed her and as much as she had tried, every single one of her strikes did exactly zero damage. To be honest, Cathleen was glad this witcher came along. Because she needed the help, she couldn’t beat this alone.

His heavy steps next to her seemed to shake the ground, yet he didn’t make a sound, unlike he did earlier. One side of her mouth curled into a tiny smile. Whatever he was, he was also considerate of her.

“I am Cathleen, by the way,” she offered her name, voice unusually soft. She cleared her throat to put some strength back into it. It wasn’t by mistake that she avoided telling him where she came from.

“Geralt,” the man huffed in reply and her eyebrows scrunched together, the name not foreign to her.

“Geralt … of Rivia?” He huffed in agreement, his eyes sliding to her, assessing. Waiting.

Of course she had heard the stories – Geralt of Rivia, the butcher of Blaviken. The tale had spread like a wildfire, reaching everything and everyone on the Continent.

She glanced up at him, not halting her steps and their eyes met. She could see the expectation in his eyes, which seemed more golden the closer she came to them. But there was no emotion behind that expectation, no resentment or anger or anything similar. Just pure … acceptance, as if he were indifferent to it all.

She didn’t mention what she had heard and instead offered him a smile free from any playfulness.

“Pleasure to meet you, Geralt of Rivia.” Cathleen knew that he was aware of her knowledge about him. He didn’t comment on it though, and only dipped his head before both of them faced forward again.

She wasn’t sure what she expected after learning his name, but the way he simply accepted it—without hesitation, without explanation—was oddly grounding. Like a rock in a storm. No excuses, no protests. Just

this is who I am.

Cathleen wondered what that kind of certainty felt like.

The trees whispered around them, a rustling that didn’t belong to the wind. The closer they got to the leshy’s territory, the heavier the air became, pressing down on her skin like a thick, invisible weight. She had walked these woods before, felt the wrongness creeping in, but with Geralt beside her, the sensation was different. Sharper. More pronounced. As if the presence of a true predator had drawn the monster’s attention.

She knew what that meant. It knew they were coming.

As if Geralt realized this now as well, he reached for one of the two swords on his back, drawing in silently.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, magic humming beneath her skin. It responded to her unease, to the way her pulse quickened as they stepped over twisted roots and ducked under gnarled branches. The witcher kept close to her, probably as much aware of her unease as her magic was.

A flicker of movement to her right. Too fast for human eyes to track, but she felt it. Not the leshy itself—not yet—but its influence. The way the forest bent to its will, the way the creatures that once lived here had either fled or been twisted into something unnatural.

Cathleen didn’t slow, but she shifted her stance, adjusting the weight of her steps.

Let it think we don’t see it. Let it think we’re still prey.

Geralt, to his credit, had already adjusted his grip on the hilt of his silver sword. He walked like a man who had done this a thousand times before. No wasted movement. No unnecessary tension. Just the quiet readiness of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. She wondered if he viewed her as dead weight or as an asset, able to help him slay this beast.

The forest thickened ahead, the trees crowding together like the ribs of a great beast, and she knew they were close.

“Your dagger won’t be any help.” His words were a raspy murmur and she turned her head to see him looking down her body, to where the small weapon was strapped to her thigh.

“I know,” she breathed back, not daring to raise her voice, “it’s more of a precaution than anything else. My weapon is my magic.”

Geralt scoffed lightly in response, his gaze shifting to meet hers. “No wonder you couldn’t kill it,” he stated, “leshen are immune to magic.” Her sassy answer got stuck in her throat as her eyes fell on the leshy before them. Tall and huge, the wood spirit stood several yards before them, like a humanoid statue carved out of a tree. Only that this wasn’t a statue – no, it was very much alike.

Geralt’s growl rumbled through her as he widened his stance, efficiently stepping between her and the monster.

“Stay here,” he ordered, his tone not letting room for any debate. “And if I tell you to run, you better fucking run.” Then he took off, just as she scoffed at his order. Like hell she’d run. But she would stay here, that was for sure. Without her magic, Cathleen was helpless, she was well aware of the fact. She just hoped she was far away enough from the leshy to not draw its attention to her.

Cathleen watched Geralt move closer to the beast and barely three steps in, it abandoned its pretended stillness. Roots raised from the ground, thick and long enough to kill a bear and then everything happened so fast, she had trouble following it with her human eyes.

With a stroke of his hand over his sword, the silver blade suddenly started to glow in a deep orange color. The heat radiating from it reached her even this far away and Cathleen watched with huge eyes as Geralt did what a witcher did best – killing. Last time she was here, she hadn’t been able to get past those huge roots. They had gone right through her defenses and then had slammed into her body, hurling her efficiently several yards away. Thanks to that, her whole skin was covered in bruises.

Geralt on the other hand didn’t seem to struggle at all. It seemed almost too easy for him, how he danced around the attacks of the leshy, dodging and jumping, cutting down the roots with his sword mercilessly. The sight made a shiver run down her spine, seeing this man look anything but human. Because he wasn’t, she had to remind herself. Not fully, at least. He was a mutant, genetically designed specifically to kill. Of course she had heard of the knowledge before but … hearing of it and seeing it… It knocked the breath right out of her lungs.

But apparently, even a witcher had his limits. Dodging one of those vicious roots, he had no time to avoid the other as it came flying, hitting him in the side.

The impact made him grunt out in pain – she would have screamed, probably – and then sent him flying, his body turning in the air, sword slipping out of his hand.

“Shit,” Cathleen breathed out, stepping forward as far as she dared, raising her hands high. Hardening the air was one of the first things she learned, so it came as easy as breathing to her. It was like forming an invisible wall, in which Geralt slammed, making sure he didn’t fly as far as she did two days ago. Naturally, he was still high in the air though and was now plumbing down, another growl left his lips. Her bones would have broken as soon as she’d hit the ground and she had

no

idea how resistant his witcher-bones were, so as he fell down, she made sure to soften his fall by raising his palms, letting him slide down gently on a wisp of wind until his feet hit the ground. Staggering for balance for a second, he turned around, golden eyes wide as he stared at her. She stared right back, eyes wide, her breath coming quickly.

“Leshy!” she reminded him forcefully and his head snapped back toward the beast.

“I know,” he growled and went to pick up his sword, returning to the fight.

“‘I know’, my ass,” Cathleen muttered, aware that he had indeed been distracted by her. Still, she retreated to her previous place, watching him finish the job. Or at least, well … try. Because no matter how many roots Geralt cut down, the leshy just summoned new ones. His grunts became more frequent as she watched him struggle and Cathleen frowned, wishing she could help him, maybe block the roots from trying to smash him to death. They would just swish right through her magic though.

Her eyes followed his form, observing him as he moved. She wondered what his plan was but whatever it might be, he needed to get to the leshy to kill it. The roots just kept him away.

“Head or heart,” Cathleen muttered to herself, pressing her lips together. “Head or heart?”

Just then, an idea formed in her mind. And as if fate was going along for the ride, Geralt was hit by another root, not nearly as hard as before. Flying through the air, he managed to hold the grip on the hilt of his sword, falling down right in front of her with a grunt.

“Where do you need to go?” Cathleen asked as she hurried toward him, wanting to help him up. He stood up before she even reached him.

“What?” he growled, clearly frustrated.

“Head or heart?” she repeated, eyes boring into his with a frown.

“Heart.” He raised his sword, still radiating heat off of it. “Fire through the heart is the only way to kill a leshy.” Cathleen nodded, pointing forward.

“Alright, go. I’ll, eh, give you a lift.” He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly not trusting her. Groaning in frustration, she rolled her eyes.

“I

did

just catch you a moment ago, didn’t I? Now move your ass!”

Geralt snorted, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then he turned around and made for a run. Taking deep breaths through her nose, Cathleen widened her stance to ground herself. Lifting things was never easy – the heavier the harder. And Geralt of Rivia was fucking bulky, meaning she’d definitely struggle.

“Okay,” Cathleen whispered to herself, shaking out her hands to ease the tension. “Okay, okay, okay…”

Her eyes were fixed on Geralt as he dodged and avoided the roots, coming as close to the leshy as he could on his own. Breathing in, holding, breathing out. Magic pulsed through her veins, pressing against her skin from the inside, begging to be released.

“Cathleen!” Hearing her name roared from his lips made her flinch, but she forced herself to focus. Taking a deep breath in, she raised her arms inward toward her chest, palm upward. Tracking his steps with her eyes, she counted the perfect timing, before pushing her palms in his direction in a fast movement, releasing her breath – and with it, her magic.

A blast of air blew the leaves around him away while hurling Geralt up and she let out a gasp as she felt his weight on her arms as if she was attempting to carry him. The heart, he needed to get the heart. Cathleen prayed to the three-faced goddess that she hadn’t pushed him high enough.

With a precision she envied him for, Geralt plunged the heated sword right into the chest of the leshy. The beast let out a ragged scream, the roots around them moving aggressively and panicked until it all just … stopped.

The leshy let out one final, gurgling shriek as flames erupted from the wound, consuming its body from the inside out. It stumbled, clawed uselessly at its own burning chest, before collapsing in on itself like a tree rotted to the core. The fire crackled, illuminating the twisted forest around them, before dying down into embers.

Geralt landed in a crouch, rolling his shoulder as he exhaled. Cathleen swayed where she stood, knees buckling slightly from the exertion of her magic. The moment she let her hands drop, she realized just how much of her strength that had taken. Her pulse pounded against her skull, magic still humming faintly under her skin, but her body screamed for rest.

Geralt turned to look at her, his golden eyes assessing, sharp as ever. She straightened, pretending she wasn’t on the verge of toppling over.

“Nice throw,” he grunted, sheathing his sword.

Cathleen let out a breathless laugh, placing her hands on her hips.

“You’re welcome,” she quipped, though there was no heat behind it. She glanced at the scorched remains of the leshy. “I wasn’t sure if that was going to work.”

Geralt gave her a long look, then snorted. “Neither was I.”

She huffed, shaking her head. “You could’ve at least pretended to be confident.”

He didn’t respond, just started walking back the way they came, boots crunching over the forest floor. Cathleen watched him for a second before following, stretching her sore arms as she caught up. They walked in silence for a while, the oppressive weight that had hung over the woods noticeably lighter now. The unnatural silence was gone, replaced by the distant sounds of birds returning to their trees, of small creatures rustling through the undergrowth.

The air felt different. Cleaner.

Cathleen tilted her head, sneaking a glance at the witcher beside her.

“You know,” she mused, rolling her shoulders, “we actually make a good team.”

Geralt didn’t even look at her. Just exhaled sharply, a deep, familiar grunt.

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He shot her a sidelong look, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he shook his head slightly. “Hmph.”

Cathleen chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Well, at least we didn’t die. That’s a win in my book.”

Geralt hummed in agreement.

As they stepped out of the dense part of the forest and into clearer paths, the faint glow of torchlight from the village flickered in the distance. The promise of warmth, of food, of a bed that didn’t involve dirt and tree roots.

And maybe, Cathleen thought, just maybe, she wouldn’t mind working with this witcher again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 3 –

Between Paths

The walk back to the village was quiet. Not strained, but not easy either—just the kind of silence that settled between two people who weren’t sure what to say to each other yet. Geralt was used to that. He preferred it, most times.

But Cathleen’s presence beside him felt... different.

He couldn’t figure out why.

She walked with a human’s rhythm—her steps uneven, the occasional miscalculation on uneven ground forcing her to adjust. It made him want to reach out and grab her arm, steading her. He, on the other hand, moved with a hunter’s precision, every step measured, his body knowing the terrain before his mind even had to register it. He could hear the difference too: her breathing was inconsistent, changing with exertion, while his remained steady, controlled. Her heartbeat, still quick from the fight, gradually slowed the further they got from the forest. His, on the other hand, never really changed.

Human. Witcher. The differences had been drilled into him since childhood, and he rarely thought about them anymore. Until now.

Until her.

The village lights flickered in the distance, and the closer they got, the heavier the air between them became. Not because of anything either of them said, but because of what neither of them had said yet.

The job was done. Coin would be collected.

And then what? Normally, he wouldn’ think twice about it. Normally, he’d just leave without looking behind, without thinking twice about it.

Geralt cast a glance at Cathleen from the corner of his eye. She was fidgeting again—hands pulling on the fabric of her white tunic, then brushing against the hilt of her dagger as if checking it was still there. A tell. She was thinking the same thing he was.

Neither of them had said it out loud yet, but they both knew.

They weren’t going to part ways.

Not yet.

Geralt exhaled through his nose. He didn’t mind the company. That was surprising. Usually, by this point in a job, he was already thinking of the next contract, the next town. But now? He was... considering.

Why?

She intrigued him. Which was an odd thing in itself. Geralt wasn’t fond of people and their senseless troubles like politics and schemes, just like people weren’t fond of him. But she… No, there was something else here. Something he couldn’t quite put into words.

She was different.

Not just in the obvious ways—her magic, her quick mouth, her habit of smiling when other people would have looked at him with fear. But in the way she carried herself. The way she had watched him fight, not with admiration or awe, but with something else entirely. Calculation. Understanding.

And then there was how she had caught him. How she had lifted him.

How she had helped without hesitation.

That was the part that stuck with him the most.

His own brothers wouldn’t have caught him like that. Wouldn’t have risked exhausting themselves to make sure he landed safely. Afterwards sure, they would have checked on him, but not mid-battle.

Geralt didn’t know what to do with that thought.

By the time they reached the inn, the streets were mostly empty, save for a few drunken stragglers and the occasional dog rooting through scraps. The building was warm, firelight flickering through the shutters, voices murmuring inside. The scent of stale ale and old wood greeted them as they stepped in, and the few remaining patrons turned their heads.

The innkeeper straightened from where he had been half-dozing behind the counter. His eyes flicked between them, then over Geralt’s shoulder, as if expecting a third figure to be there.

“Well?” The man’s voice was cautious.

Geralt reached into his pouch and tossed something onto the counter. A severed leshy talon, which he had picked up from the battlefield before they left, still blackened at the edges where the fire had consumed its owner.

The innkeeper blanched. The room went quiet.

“So it’s dead, then.” He let out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before reaching beneath the counter. A heavy purse was dropped onto the wood with a solid thud.

Geralt didn’t count it. He could tell by the weight that it was the right amount.

“Should be safe to go into the woods again,” he said simply, sliding the coin toward himself. He turned to leave.

Then, before he could think twice about it, he stopped. Fished half the coins from the purse. And handed them to Cathleen.

She blinked at him, as if expecting a catch. “You’re—”

“You helped,” Geralt said simply.

Cathleen hesitated, then took the coins. “Didn’t expect you to share without a fight.”

Geralt grunted. “I don’t fight over coin.”

She hummed, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she didn’t argue further. Instead, she tucked the money away and followed him outside the tavern.

Geralt walked straight back to Roach, who was patiently waiting for him right where he had left him.

“Hello Roach.” Cathleen snorted and leaned her shoulder against the post, crossing her arms in front of her chest. He relaxed slightly as soon as his hand touched Roach’s throat but the tension between them remained.

Not the bad kind. Just... uncertainty.

Then, finally, Cathleen exhaled, drumming her fingers on her forearms. “So.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

She gestured between them. “This... whatever this is. Are we just going to avoid talking about it, or are you going to ask?”

Geralt stared at her unflinchingly, his other hand coming down on Roach’s snout as the horse jerked his head upward. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

Cathleen’s lips twitched, eyebrows rising in amusement.

“You’re saying you knew I’d come along?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back against Roach, studying her.

Her breathing had settled now. Her pulse, slower than before. She was comfortable.

She wanted to stay. With him.

And oddly enough, he wanted the same.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Geralt finally said, his voice low, thoughtful.

Cathleen arched a brow.

“That almost sounded like an invitation.”

He didn’t correct her. Her smile widened, and for some reason, the sight of it sent something unfamiliar twisting in his chest. Not unpleasant. Just... odd.

She turned her gaze away from him, giving him a chance to observe her profile as she considered him for a long moment before nodding, facing him again.

“Alright, then.”

And just like that, it was decided. Geralt wasn’t sure what it meant yet.

But for now, he was content to find out.

Roach flicked her ears as Geralt tightened the saddle straps. He could feel Cathleen watching him, standing just within arm’s reach. She wasn’t fidgeting anymore. If anything, she looked relaxed, as if she had always known this was where the night would lead them—traveling together, at least for now.

She hadn’t protested when he saddled Roach for two. That, more than anything, told him she had already made up her mind.

Still, when she finally spoke, there was a trace of hesitation in her voice. “You sure your horse won’t throw me off?”

Geralt ran a hand down Roach’s neck. “She might.”

Cathleen snorted. “Helpful. A horse with a temper. How

lovely

.”

Geralt lifted himself into the saddle with practiced ease before glancing down at her. “Come on.”

She exhaled through her nose, eyeing Roach for a moment before swinging herself up in front of him. He expected her to hesitate, to find some way to shift forward so they weren’t so close.

She didn’t. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe not. Either way, he felt it immediately.

The warmth of her back pressing against his chest. The way her body fit against his, smaller, softer than his own.

The scent of her—woodsmoke, oranges, sweat, and something else, something he couldn’t quite place but found himself wanting to chase.

Geralt rolled his shoulders, adjusting the reins in his hands. He wasn’t unfamiliar with close proximity. He had spent decades on the Path, sharing beds and saddles when necessary. But this felt different.

Cathleen shifted slightly, and Geralt caught the way her breath hitched, just a little, as his arm brushed her waist.

Interesting.

His body, traitorous thing that it was, reacted instinctively. Heat coiled low in his stomach, old instincts stirring in the back of his mind. Damn witchers and their heightened libido.

Not now.

He forced himself to focus on the road ahead, on the steady rise and fall of Roach’s breath beneath them.

But then Cathleen moved again—just a small adjustment, her back pressing more firmly against his chest. A quiet exhale left her lips, barely audible over the rustling trees.

Geralt felt that, too. She wasn’t unaffected by this.

The knowledge sent another slow wave of heat curling through him. He was trained to notice these things—the changes in breath, the quickening of a pulse, the way someone held tension in their body.

And right now, Cathleen was tense. Not afraid. Not uncomfortable.

Something else.

She tilted her head slightly, as if debating something, before finally speaking.

“This isn’t so bad.”

Geralt huffed a quiet breath, shifting the reins slightly. His arms, already loosely bracketing her waist, tightened just a fraction as Roach started forward, their bodies brushing against each other more firmly as they traveled the bumpy road.

He felt her reaction before she could stop it—the way her stomach tensed under his forearm, the way her breathing stuttered for half a second before she steadied it.

Not unaffected at all. Her reactions made him want to press his palm to her stomach, wanting to feel the way her body reacted to him more closely.

He wasn’t sure what this was yet—this thing between them, this growing awareness. But he wasn’t in a hurry to name it.

For now, he was content to let it be.

The night stretched ahead of them, quiet and vast, the sky split open with a scatter of stars. Thanks to the summer heat, the air was still pleasantly warm, none of them in need of a cloak.

Cathleen let her gaze drift toward the night sky, the back of her head slightly bumping against Geralt’s shoulder with the movement as the horse, whose name was Roach, as Geralt had informed her, carried them forward, her hooves a steady rhythm against the dirt road. The forest loomed ahead in dark silhouettes, the wind stirring the trees, filling the air with the scent of damp earth and pine. It was peaceful. Almost deceptively so.

She should have been thinking about where they were going. About what came next. Instead, all she could focus on was the man behind her.

Geralt was solid and warm, his presence impossible to ignore. His arms caged her loosely, the reins in his hands resting lightly against her stomach. It wasn’t much—just a simple, practical position for travel—but every time the horse shifted, every time his chest pressed against her back with the motion, she felt it. Felt him.

The quiet weight of him, his breath slow and steady against her shoulder. The faint scent of leather, iron, and something uniquely him clung to the air between them. It was grounding, in a way. And deeply unsettling in another. She was also highly aware that he didn’t let his arms rest. It would be more comfortable for him to set them down as he would have normally done, surely. The apex of her thighs were in the way though. He’d have to rest his arms upon them, increasing the contact between their bodies. Yet, he didn’t, either because he didn’t want to or out of respect for her.

She wasn’t used to this. Cathleen had spent years moving on her own, trusting no one but herself. She had learned, early on, that people weren’t reliable. That keeping company only meant opening herself to disappointment, betrayal, or worse.

Yet here she was, pressed against a Witcher’s chest, riding off into the unknown without so much as a second thought.

A mistake? Perhaps.

But she wasn’t turning back.

She had known, the moment they left the inn together, that she wasn’t going to walk away from him. And the realization should have come with more resistance, more hesitation. Instead, it felt inevitable.

She exhaled and tore her gaze from the sky, shifting slightly in the saddle. Geralt didn’t move at first, but she didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched slightly against the reins, the way his breathing deepened just the smallest fraction.

Not nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be, then. The thought sent an unfamiliar warmth curling low in her stomach.

“You alright?” His voice rumbled against her back, low and even.

Cathleen blinked, snapping herself out of her thoughts. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He hummed, the vibration of his chest passing to her back. Didn’t press.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He was watching the road, expression unreadable as ever, his jaw set in its usual stern line. But his focus wasn’t entirely on the path ahead. She could feel it.

It was in the way he held himself—too measured, too aware of the space between them. Or rather, the lack of it.

Facing the road again, she bit her lip, before exhaling silently.

“You can… drop your arms. If you want to, I mean.” Her voice was barely audible but she knew he was able to hear her just fine. “I don’t mind.”

Geralt was silent for a few moments, the only sound Roach’s hooves on the ground. Then he exhaled with a low rumble in his chest and his arms came down on her legs, resting there, brushing against her hips with every step Roach took. Tension radiated off him, probably waiting for her to change her mind. She wondered what it had to be like – being used to being hated so much by others that every unnecessary touch was viewed as something negative, something to loathe him for. As if to show him that she truly didn’t mind, she leaned into his touch slightly, her fingers brushing lightly against the saddle horn.

“Where are we headed, anyway?” Putting the attention on a different subject was probably best.

Geralt was quiet for a moment before he said, “North.”

She rolled her eyes. “Helpful.”

“Didn’t think you cared.”

Cathleen shrugged. “I don’t. Just figured if I’m tagging along, I should know what I’m getting into.”

“Nothing you can’t handle.” Something about the way he said it sent a strange, pleasant shiver down her spine. She wasn’t sure if it was the certainty in his tone or the quiet way he seemed to acknowledge her skill without question. Either way, she liked it more than she should have.

She bit her lip, glancing ahead at the winding road.

“Any particular reason we’re heading north?”

“No.”

“Of course there isn’t.”

He huffed a quiet breath—close enough to something like amusement that it almost startled her. She tilted her head, considering him.

“You always like this with your company?”

Geralt’s grip on the reins shifted slightly, his arm pressing into her hip a little more firmly.

“Don’t usually have company.” The words shouldn’t have carried the weight they did. But something in the way he said them—flat, simple, but with something unspoken beneath the surface—made her pause.

She had already known as much. Witchers didn’t travel in pairs, let alone with strangers. They were solitary creatures, forced into a life of isolation by nature and reputation alike. Still, hearing him say it aloud made something tighten in her chest.

She turned her gaze back to the road.

“Guess that makes two of us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like an understanding of sorts. A quiet acknowledgment of what they were—two people who had spent most of their lives alone, now sharing a road without really knowing why.

The night stretched on, Roach carrying them further into the dark, their path lit only by the moon and the occasional flicker of torch light from distant farmsteads.

Cathleen should have been uneasy. Should have been questioning her choices, her reasons for staying.

Instead, she let herself lean into the quiet.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 4 –

Of Wolves And Witches

The fire crackled, sending flickering shadows dancing across the undergrowth. The forest stretched around them, vast and quiet, its darkness barely softened by the waning moon. The sounds of the night settled into their usual rhythm—crickets in the brush, the rustling of leaves, the distant cry of an owl. But beyond that, there was silence.

Geralt sat against the trunk of a tree, arms resting loosely on his bent knees, his eyes trained on the flames. Sleep wasn’t something necessary, not yet at least. His body required less rest than a human’s, and even when exhaustion crept in, meditation would usually suffice. But tonight, he didn’t even feel the pull of that. His mind was too restless.

His gaze flickered to Cathleen.

She was asleep, curled in on herself beside the fire, her face softened in slumber. The tension that so often lined her features was gone now, leaving her looking… peaceful. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this. Every moment he’d spent with her so far had been laced with sharp words and quick glances, that knowing look in her blue eyes that told him she was constantly calculating, assessing. But here, now, she was just a woman sleeping beneath the stars, bathed in firelight, unaware of his gaze.

Geralt exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

Riding with her had been… different. He hadn’t expected the weight of her against him to feel so natural, nor had he anticipated the way his body reacted to her proximity. He was used to keeping people at a distance—both physically and otherwise. Yet she had pressed against him, warm and unguarded, and something about it had felt inevitable. Like a choice he had already made without realizing it.

What had surprised him even more was her offer—softly spoken, almost hesitant—that he could rest his arms on her thighs if he wanted. It had caught him off guard. People didn’t offer him touch. Not without hesitation, not without fear. And he damn well knew that her hesitation had only come from worry about

his

reaction. As if he would somehow ridicule her for offering him rest, ease. He knew what he looked like, knew that even for a witcher, his presence was imposing. That alone kept most at arm’s length, if not farther. But she had said it as if it didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t something to be avoided. And when he finally let himself lower his arms, resting them against her, she hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t stiffened. Instead, she had leaned into it, offering a quiet acceptance he hadn’t realized he craved.

It was dangerous, this pull he felt toward her. Unexplainable. He had spent years training himself to ignore distractions, to suppress desires that could interfere with survival. But Cathleen was an anomaly. She fit into none of the neat categories he used to understand people. She wasn’t afraid of him, wasn’t awed by him either. She challenged him, met his silences without discomfort, and looked at him like she saw something past the monster most assumed him to be.

He frowned slightly, tilting his head.

Even in sleep, her breathing was different from his—deeper, uneven. Her heart beat with a rhythm he wasn’t used to, unpredictable in ways he never had to account for with his own kind. She was human in a way he could never be again, and yet… she felt closer to him than most had in years.

His fingers twitched, and he realized he had been resting his hand against his thigh, as if resisting the urge to reach out. He huffed at himself. Ridiculous.

Still, he didn’t look away.

She shifted slightly, a quiet murmur escaping her lips before she settled again. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way the firelight cast a soft glow against her skin. He told himself he was only keeping watch. That was his duty, after all. A witcher didn’t let his guard down, not even in moments of quiet.

But deep down, he knew there was more to it than that.

He had let her in, in some small way. Let her sit in front of him on Roach, let her press against him, let her settle into his space as if she belonged there. And the strangest part? It hadn’t felt like a mistake.

Geralt sighed, running a hand over his face before dragging it through his hair. He needed to focus. He needed to push past whatever this was before it tangled him up in something he wasn’t prepared for.

But as the fire crackled on, and Cathleen remained asleep beneath his watchful gaze, he knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

Geralt didn’t let her sleep much, but Cathleen wasn’t bothered that he had awoken her before the sunrise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept this soundly, knowing full well that she was safe with the witcher keeping guard. Even in his sleep, he’d heard danger coming way before it got close enough to do any harm.

After snuffing out the fire and having a short breakfast – leftovers from the rabbits Geralt had killed in the night, they continued their ride. This time, Geralt didn’t hesitate to place his arms around her, letting them rest around her hip comfortably. Like the night before, she leaned into the touch, eager to show him that she didn’t mind it, didn’t mind

him

.

“Alright,” Cathleen sighed as the first few rays of sunshine hit her face, the sun rising slowly at the horizon. “Where are we going, exactly? Just so, you know, I don’t accidently die because of some lack of information.”

Geralt huffed in something she could only describe as amusement, which made her grin.

“Posada” he said and Cathleen turned her head to give him a questioning look over her shoulder.

“Why would we go there? It’s basically at the edge of the world.” His warm breath tickled her neck as he exhaled deeply, making her shiver slightly.

“Witchers follow the Path. And sometimes the Path leads us to the edge of the world.”

Cathleen snorted at that, facing the road again.

“What a stupid rule.”

“Sure it is.” His voice, rough as ever, held enough of a jest to make her chuckle slightly, shaking her body efficiently into his.

“Anything special that I should know about Posada? Some enemies of yours maybe?”

Geralt hummed softly. “There’s a werewolf pack there not entirely fond of me.”

“Sounds easy enough”, Cathleen remarked with a grin and she could basically

feel

him roll his eyes at that. She was enjoying it, joking around. It’s been a while since she held a conversation with someone not completely stupid and who actually understood her sarcasm.

Cathleen let the silence settle between them again, the rhythmic thud of Roach’s hooves against the dirt road filling the space where words had been. She found she didn’t mind the quiet with him. It wasn’t awkward or expectant—just easy. Comfortable, even.

She shifted slightly in the saddle, Geralt’s arms around her hip moving along with the movement. He didn’t put any pressure on her body, just rested them down comfortably. It was strange how natural it felt, how she didn’t second-guess leaning into him, even when every instinct should have told her to keep her guard up. Trust wasn’t something she gave easily. Hell, it wasn’t something she gave at all. Especially to a man. But somehow, with him, she felt… safe.

And that was dangerous.

She exhaled, watching the light of dawn stretch over the horizon, casting long shadows between the trees.

“How long until we get there?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“Before midday,” Geralt rumbled.

“Good. I could use a drink.”

She felt, rather than saw, the huff of breath that might have been a laugh.

The road stretched ahead, winding through the trees, and for the first time in a long time, Cathleen didn’t feel like she was running from something.

She was just… going.

And that, too, was dangerous.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 5 –

A Quiet Threat

The village was small—smaller than most—and the moment Roach’s hooves struck the uneven cobblestone of the main road, Geralt’s senses sharpened. Instinct more than conscious thought. He didn’t trust places like this. Isolated villages, tucked away at the edges of the world, always held the same kind of danger. Fear festered in them. And fear bred violence.

Naturally, he knew this village, had been here before. And the sight of it was always something unusual. Most people would just build

around

the steep, narrow mountains instead of building on it, making the buildings accessible with rope ladders and wooden stoops.

His eyes flicked across the open village, assessing. The buildings were squat and made out of bricks. Dusk and delicate sand clung to every surface, evidence of a dry period. The air was thick with the heat of the sun, now shining high above them, as well as the scent of stale ale, damp straw, and unwashed bodies.

The locals moved between market stalls and doorways, not a care in the world.

But as Roach carried them further in, heads turned.

The change was immediate. He felt it first in the shift of the air, the quiet murmurs that trailed them. A tension that curled through the space like a living thing. Not unusual. Not unexpected. He was used to the weight of their stares, the way their expressions twisted the moment they registered what he was.

A mutant. A monster.

The glares followed him like shadows, thick with suspicion, disgust, and fear. Some villagers turned away quickly, muttering prayers under their breath, as if even looking at him too long might bring some kind of misfortune upon them. Others didn’t bother hiding their contempt, spitting into the dirt as he passed, eyes narrowed with a hatred so deeply ingrained that it had no real reason. No real thought behind it.

But this time, something was different.

Because this time, he wasn’t alone.

Cathleen sat in front of him, loose and relaxed against the saddle, completely unaware of the shift in the air. She had spent the last mile talking about the absurdity of witcher paths, laughing quietly at his lack of explanation, her body warm against his. And now, as they rode into a village that reeked of hostility, she carried none of the wariness she should have. None of the tension that coiled tight in his own spine.

She didn’t need to, anyway.

Because now, he was watching for both of them. The realization was... unsettling.

Geralt had spent decades relying on his instincts—on the careful, practiced detachment that allowed him to move through the world untouched. He assessed threats, calculated the risks, and ensured his own survival without second thought. It was natural. A necessity. But now his mind wasn’t just focused on himself.

Now, every glint of steel, every twitch of movement at the edge of his vision, wasn’t just something that might become a threat to him. It was something that might become a threat to her. And despite her obvious skills, her body was still more fragile than his.

And that changed things.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the tension from his shoulders as he guided Roach toward a post in front of a tavern on one of the lower rising mountains.. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, barely held in place by rusted iron nails. The windows glowed dimly, the scent of stale beer and unwashed bodies bleeding into the air.

Cathleen had no trouble walking over the pendant bridge, even as Geralt followed, his weight making it swing slightly from side to side. Instead of holding onto the rope like he had assumed she would, Cathleen simply shifted her weight a bit and continued to walk in front of him. Full of surprises, this woman.

The moment they stepped inside the tavern, the stares hit him like a physical force. They recognized his wrongness despite the hood he had drawn deep into his face.

He was used to this, too. The way taverns always fell into uneasy silence the second a witcher walked through the door. It was always the same—men stiffening, hands curling around knives or tankards, lips twisting in quiet, simmering resentment. They looked at him like he was something unnatural, something that didn’t belong. At least the bard kept playing his lute, trying to hold the attention of the locals, despite his terrible music.

But this time, the weight of their attention wasn’t entirely on him. Some of them—the ones with heavy eyes and heavier hands—were looking at Cathleen.

And those stares were different. They weren’t filled with hatred or fear. They were filled with something else. Longing. Desire. Perversion.

They lingered on her body in ways that made his jaw clench, slow and calculating, drinking her in like they had already imagined what they’d do to her given the chance. Geralt didn’t need enhanced senses to read their thoughts. It was written in the way their gazes dragged over her form, following the sway of her hips as she walked, in the way one man wet his lips, in the quiet snicker of another as he nudged his companion.

They wanted to touch her. Wanted to see how she’d react beneath rough, greedy hands. Wanted to watch her squirm. And they surely wouldn’t wait for a ‘yes’ on her part.

Geralt imagined, briefly, what he would do to them if they tried.

He wouldn’t use his sword. Wouldn’t need to. A crushed throat. A shattered wrist. Bones splintering beneath his grip. He could end any one of them before they even realized they had made a mistake. And if any of them so much as laid a finger on her—

“Geralt.” Her voice pulled him from the thought.

Cathleen, still blissfully unaware, turned to him with a small grin, shaking her head as she moved toward the back of the tavern. She walked through the room as if she didn’t notice the eyes that followed her, as if she didn’t feel the filth of their thoughts clinging to her skin. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe she had learned long ago to ignore it. That didn’t make it any less infuriating.

He followed her and made sure to stay close, keeping his steps measured, controlled. He didn’t look at the men who watched her go, didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing anything in his expression. But he felt their stares all the same.

And he noted their faces.

By the time they reached the table in the back, the tension in his jaw had settled into something sharp and cold, something that curled in his gut like a barely restrained storm.

Cathleen, on the other hand, just dropped into the bench across from him, stretching slightly before grinning at the barmaid.

“Two beers,” she said cheerfully, tossing a few coins onto the table. “And whatever’s warm to eat.”

The barmaid glanced at Geralt warily before nodding, disappearing toward the kitchen.

Geralt exhaled through his nose, resting his arms on the table as he leaned back against the chair. His gaze flickered back toward the room, scanning, assessing. The men had gone back to their drinks, their conversations, but he knew better than to think they had forgotten.

He would remember their faces.

And if they tried anything, he would make sure they’d die with his being the last they’d see.

Cathleen watched Geralt with exaggerated relaxation and ease. She had almost wanted to snort as her magic had warned her of his increasing aggression. Men tend to forget how life as a woman was and as a witcher, she really couldn’t fault him for it either.

Obviously, she was aware of the stares she got wherever she went. Her hair alone, red and slightly wavy, was usually enough to draw attention to herself. And because of her field of work, her body was well formed and not hidden by impractical skirts. She was on full display and she was aware. Had always been aware from the moment it happened first, all those years ago. She hadn’t even had her cycle back then.

Geralt, apparently, wasn’t used to the stares men gave women, which made her both want to snigger at his ignorance as well as wanting to smile warmly at him – if he was surprised by these kinds of looks, it meant he didn’t give those looks himself.

Still, she wanted him to relax, wanting him to know that most of the time, these men would do nothing but stare. And if they did try to act on their disgusting thoughts, her magic would warn her to flee way ahead of time.

Even though Geralt looked at her, she was sure he didn’t actually see her right now, all of his senses focused on their surroundings. He didn’t even stir as the barmaid dropped off their food and beers.

“Thanks,” Cathleen mumbled with a small smile before raising the beer to her lips, watching Geralt's face. The second her lips touched the mug, his body went rigid, a low growl rumbling through his chest.

“Geralt.” The slight force in her voice shifted his focus to her. She held his gaze as she set the mug back down, watching the way his golden eyes flickered over her face, searching. For what, she wasn’t sure. Reassurance, maybe. A sign that she wasn’t oblivious, that she wasn’t some helpless thing who didn’t understand the world around her.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His fingers curled against the table, tension winding through him like a bowstring pulled too tight. He said nothing, but she could feel the sharp-edged storm rolling beneath his skin.

Cathleen sighed, tilting her head slightly.

“You look like you’re about to tear someone’s throat out,” she pointed out lightly, reaching for her food. Geralt didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything at all, only exhaled slowly, the breath measured, controlled.

Cathleen watched him for a moment before humming thoughtfully. “You know, it’s sort of sweet.”

That, at least, earned a reaction. His eyes narrowed slightly, his brow pulling together as if she had just said something utterly ridiculous.

She smiled, tearing a piece off the bread in front of her. “It is,” she insisted, tossing the bread into her mouth. “You wanting to protect me. It’s cute.”

Geralt grunted, clearly unimpressed with her choice of words. “Not cute.”

Cathleen snorted, taking a sip of her beer. “It is to me.”

His gaze flickered over her again, still assessing, still wary. She could almost hear his thoughts—how could she be so at ease, how could she sit there, drinking and eating, when the room was filled with men who would rather see her spread out beneath them than walking out of here unscathed?

She sighed, setting the mug down.

“Geralt,” she said, softer this time, “I’ve been dealing with men like this for most of my life. If I told you how long exactly, you’d probably hunt down every one of them.” She gestured vaguely toward the room. “You think this is the first time I’ve had disgusting eyes on me? It’s not. And I can promise you, they’re not going to do anything.”

His expression remained impassive, but his hands tightened into fists before he deliberately flattened them against the tabletop. “And if they do?”

She smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Then they’ll regret it.”

Geralt didn’t look convinced. He exhaled again, dragging a hand over his face before reaching for his own drink.

“I can take care of myself, Geralt.” She let the amusement fade from her voice, speaking instead with quiet certainty. “Between my magic and you, I have never felt safer in my life.” That, at last, seemed to land. She saw it in the way his shoulders loosened by the smallest fraction, in the way his grip on the mug wasn’t as tight. He still wasn’t relaxed—he never would be, not in places like this—but she had at least managed to pull him a step away from the edge.

For now.

She smiled to herself, taking another sip of her beer. “Besides,” she added, tilting her head, “I quite like the idea of you breaking a few bones in my honor.”

Geralt let out a low, barely-there chuckle. “You shouldn’t encourage me.”

“Oh, but I should,” she teased, grinning. “You’re very good at breaking bones.”

He shook his head, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. Better. Much better.

What wasn’t getting any better was the performance of the bard. He had a pleasant enough voice, for sure, but those lyrics…

So that your lady may get an abortion

“Go abort yourself!” Cathleen snorted at the comment of one of the locals, even though she did take a bit of pity for the bard as he was thrown at with bread.

“A topic men shouldn’t talk about,” she remarked softly while continuing eating.

Geralt grunted in agreement, his eyes closed. He was just sitting there, unmoving and unflinching, and even though she didn’t know why, she let him and instead kept an eye on their surroundings. She was sure he was as focused as ever but still, they were a team now – if he closed his eyes, hers would stay open and sharp.

Which is exactly the reason why she noticed the bard staring at Geralt oddly. Sliding her foot over the dirty floor until it made contact with Geralt’s, she warned him softly “the bard wants something.”

Geralt opened his eyes, their gazes meeting just as the bard appeared next to their table, leaning against a post.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.” There was a hint of hesitation in the bard’s voice but clearly not enough to keep him away. Cathleen eyed him from the corner of her eye, keeping her gaze fixed on Geralt, who looked utterly annoyed.

“We’re here to drink alone.” Cathleen pressed her lips together to hide the grin that wanted to creep up as his voice dropped even lower.

“Good. Yeah, good,” the bard replied, clearly not about to be shaken off.

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except…” He started walking closer, coming to a halt a step away from Cathleen’s bench. Now he had Geralt’s undivided attention, she was sure. She was also sure it wasn’t the attention the bard seeked.

“...for you. Come on.” He chuckled weakly. “You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.”

Cathleen let out a snort, amused by his humor. Geralt’s face softened impalpable at her shift in emotions.

“You must have some review for me,” the bard continued eagerly, swiftly sitting down next to her on the bench. “Three words or less.” There was enough space between the bard and Cathleen left that she signaled Geralt, who had tensed again, with her eyes that it was fine. A bit invasive, but fine.

Geralt stared blankly at the bard next to her. “They don’t exist.” His dry delivery made her chuckle, enjoying his sense of humor even more than the bards.

“What…don’t exist?” The bard’s confusion made her grin even more and she took a sip from her mug to keep from laughing out loud.

“The creatures in your song.”

“How would you know?”

Geralt didn’t move a single muscle at the bard’s oblivion, so Cathleen cleared her throat, turning toward him.

“See that medallion?” she said amused, pointing toward the medallion around Geralt’s neck. “That means he’s a witcher.”

The look on the bard’s face was hilarious as he leaned back slightly. “Oh, fun. White hair… big old,” with a glance to her, he added, “not-so-lonely loner. Two very…scary looking swords.”

Geralt was moving and Cathleen followed just as the bard said “I know who you are.”

They made their way through the tavern but the bard followed, saying loud enough for everyone to hear “You are Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt didn’t stop and neither did she as she followed him.

“A job I’ve got for ya. I beg you.” The voice of a lad made them turn.

“A devil – he’s been stealing all our grain.”

Cathleen looked back and forth between the boy and Geralt, who clearly didn’t want to be here any moment longer than necessary anymore.

“In advance, I’ll pay you,” the lad pressed, “A hundred ducat.”

Geralt looked down to her, gaze considering. She shrugged, letting him in charge of the decision.

“One fifty,” Geralt countered, meeting the boy’s gaze. He didn’t even hesitate to hand over the small pouch of coin.

“I have no doubt you’ll come through. You take no prisoners, so I hear.” Geralt's face hardened at that, she was sure because of what happened in Blaviken. Without another word, they left the tavern.

Walking over the pendant bridge, Geralt was hyper aware of Cathleen's presence behind him, only two steps away. The noise inside faded to a dull hum behind them. The smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies still clung to his senses, but at least out here, the air was fresher, the scent of the summer heat pleasing. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension that had settled there.

Cathleen walked beside him as soon as they were off the bridge, easy and relaxed, as if the entire midday hadn’t been one long exercise in restraint for him. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, watching the way she moved—calm, sure-footed, unaffected by the stares, the leers, the weight of being seen as something to take rather than someone to be respected.

She had spoken with certainty back in the tavern, her voice steady when she told him she felt safe. With him. The words had eased something inside him at the time, but now, as they made their way toward Roach, he couldn’t stop himself from going over the night again.

His jaw clenched at the memory of those men, their eyes lingering too long, their thoughts practically hanging in the air for him to pick apart and despise. Just shortly after Cathleen had entered the tavern, the whole room was filled with the scent of arousal. They had seen her as a thing—something pretty, something to touch, to claim. It made his blood simmer, because they didn’t know her. They didn’t know the strength in her, her strange magic that not even seemed to know much about, the sharp edge of her mind that cut through people’s illusions like a well-honed blade.

She had laughed, teased him, called his protectiveness

cute.

He hadn’t liked the word at the time, but now, with some distance, he found himself... less annoyed by it. If anything, it amused him that she found anything about him

cute.

He was a Witcher, a killer, a man feared more often than not. And yet, she found something in him worth smiling over.

Roach whickered softly as they reached her, ears flicking forward as Geralt ran a hand down her neck. He focused on the familiar movement of readying her for the road, checking the saddle and checking the straps, but his mind still lingered on Cathleen.

She hadn’t needed him back there. Not really. She could handle herself, and she knew it. But she still

let

him be there, let him step into that role, let him carry some of the weight. He wasn’t used to that. Wasn’t used to someone who neither feared nor resented his presence—someone who didn’t see him as a tool, or a threat, or a last resort. And then, the thought came unbidden.

Did she see him like

them

? The men in the tavern.

His hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shook the thought off. No. She didn’t. She never had.

If she did, she wouldn’t stand this close. Wouldn’t let him into her space the way she did. Wouldn’t lean into him like she had in the past, trusting his presence rather than shrinking from it.

He tested it now, without thinking. Brushing past her, his arm grazed against hers as he moved to secure the saddlebags. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even tense as she continued to tighten one of Roach’s straps. It was unconscious, instinctive, the way she settled into his presence rather than away from it.

With a final tug to Roach’s reins, he turned to her, nodding toward the saddle. “Come on.”

She smirked. “Bossy.”

He huffed, shaking his head as she climbed up. As he stayed on the ground, she gave him a smirk but didn’t voice her questions. He needed a moment to walk off the tension and she was aware. Like always, she was aware.

And then, just because his mind still wouldn’t let him rest, he moved his hand from the saddle to her thigh, stroking over it once. It was barely more than the hint of a touch, just above her knee.

All of his senses were focused on her, but she neither stirred nor stiffened, no frown on her face. Her heartbeat stayed the same, her scent didn’t shift with the sour taste of fear. No, she was completely calm – at ease.

That quiet, undeniable truth settled in his chest, pushing away the last of his doubts. She didn’t fear him.

And he wasn’t about to give her a reason to.

Geralt exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the quiet comfort of it. Then, without another word, he tucked on the reins, urging Roach forward, ready to get this job done.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 6 –

Of Monsters And Money

They barely made it four steps when Geralt grunted annoyed. Cathleen’s brows furrowed in confusion but she needn’t ask what was bothering him because soon, she could hear footsteps behind them, followed by a semi-familiar voice.

“Ah, need a hand? I got two! One for each of the, uh, devil’s horns.” The bard appeared next to them, a little out of breath from hurrying after them.

“Great mother, spare us,” Cathleen whispered under her breath, fully aware that Geralt could hear her.

“Go away,” Geralt grumbled and she grinned at that, clearly amused.

“I won’t be but silent pack-up,” the bard announced and she rolled her eyes.

“Not good at the silent part, hm,” she assumed silently, only for Geralt’s ears. True enough, the bard made it all but two steps for speaking up again.

“I heard you note, and yes, you’re right. Maybe real adventures would make better stories.” As the bard talked, Geralt turned his head toward her, glancing at her over his shoulder. She grinned at him, clearly amused by his annoyance.

“And you sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that, is that onion?” Cathleen snickered at that, leaning forward slightly to prevent a full on laugh. It wasn’t onion but rather roasted bunny. Either way – the bard was funny.

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

“It’s onion.” At Geralt’s dry comment, she couldn’t keep her laugh in and she didn’t care that the bard looked back and forth between her and the witcher, mortified. Her eyes started to water.

“Right, yeah,” the bard stammered before he caught another idea, “ohh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the butcher of Blaviken.”

Her smile was wiped off her face as soon as the words left his mouth. When Geralt stopped Roach, she knew what was coming.

Turning around to the bard, he gestured to him to come closer. Perhaps she would have intervened – hadn’t the bard been such an idiot. He deserved what was coming.

The punch Geralt aimed at the bard's stomach sent the young man staggering back, gasping in pain, before he lost his balance and fell to his knees.

“You’re lucky,” Cathleen commented as Geralt turned around again and continued leading Roach and her forward, “he could’ve broken your ribs if he wanted to.” The bard played his pain down by forcing a laugh, which had her roll her eyes. Still, the man was trotting along, keeping a few steps behind them, now finally silent.

Geralt’s tenseness was what worried her, though. It radiated off him, her magic pulsing beneath her skin as it wanted to reach out. Only two days with him, and it was already urging her to comfort him.

Exhaling softly, she leaned forward, leaning her body against Roach’s neck so that she could place a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, close enough to his neck that her thumb could grace the skin of his throat. There would have been no way that he’d feel her light touch through the armor covering his shoulder.

Without falting his step, he turned his head to look at her, his hair sliding over the back of her hand with the motion. She gave him a soft, understanding smile. He wouldn’t want her pity, wouldn’t want her to feel bad about him. And she didn’t. But she did understand. Probably more than he knew.

“Join me?” she whispered softly, tilting her head to the side. “I feel so lonely up here.” Blatant lie and they both knew it. But as much as Geralt was the brooding type of man, he was also the type of man not used to sharing his emotions – which he probably perceived as a weakness.

She held his gaze for as long as he needed her too before he grunted softly and swung himself up. As soon as his body settled behind her, she pressed her back against his chest and when his arms came around her hips, resting on her thighs, she let her hands right next to where his lay. With every step Roach took, they brushed against each other.

“You know,” she mumbled so silently that only he could hear her, leaning her head against his shoulder. “They say witchers don’t feel emotions.” She could feel his head turn, his eyes flashing over her face. There was a soft smile on her face as she faced his way without actually looking up at him. “I don’t think that’s true, though.”

It was silent for a few moments, the only sound Roach’s hooves hitting the ground. Then Geralt grunted and she felt him lean in, his nose brushing against her hair. Naturally, she was aware that witchers had a heightened sense of smell, so Cathleen wondered why he felt the need to be this close to breathe her in – which he did. She didn’t mind, of course. No, she didn’t mind at all.

The dusty road stretched ahead, shimmering under the summer sun, but Geralt’s focus wasn’t on the landscape. His shoulders were still tight with the lingering frustration from the tavern, from the damn bard who now trailed behind them like a stray pup.

He had expected the fool to take the hint—to take the punch, even—but no. He was still there, a few paces behind, finally silent but still present. The sheer persistence of him was almost impressive, though Geralt wasn’t in the mood to be amused.

Cathleen, on the other hand,

was

amused. He had seen the way her lips had curved when Jaskier spoke, the way she had barely held in her laughter when Geralt grumbled responses. And then, when the idiot had dared to call him

the Butcher of Blaviken

, he had seen how quickly her amusement had disappeared.

That had settled something deep in his chest. She knew what those words meant. And she didn’t mock him for them.

The rhythmic sound of Roach’s hooves against the road should have been enough to quiet his thoughts, but they churned regardless.

Two days. He had known Cathleen for barely two days, and yet already, she had a way of weaving herself into his space. It wasn’t intrusive. It wasn’t demanding. It was just...

there.

A quiet, steady presence, settling in like she belonged.

And she cared. That much was obvious, even now.

He felt her shift slightly, leaning forward, her body folding against Roach’s neck. Then, her hand touched his shoulder, light but deliberate, the warmth of her palm seeping through the armor. Her thumb brushed against the exposed skin of his neck—barely a touch at all, but enough that he felt it all the same.

His steps didn’t falter, but he turned his head slightly, looking at her. There was no pity in her expression. No sadness. Just quiet understanding. He didn’t look away.

“Join me?” she whispered, tilting her head. “I feel so lonely up here.” A lie. A transparent one, but it wasn’t meant to be believed. It was meant for him.

He studied her face for a long moment, and whatever he was searching for, he must have found, because he exhaled softly before swinging himself up onto Roach behind her.

She settled against him without hesitation, pressing back against his chest as if she had always done so. As if she belonged there.

His arms rested loosely over her hips, wrists on her thighs while his hands held the reins loosely, and he felt her fingers ghosting near his own with each step Roach took.

It was intriguing him, how easily she fit into his space.

And then she spoke again, her voice barely above a murmur, meant only for him.

“You know,” she mused, tilting her head to rest against his shoulder, “they say witchers don’t feel emotions.” Geralt’s eyes flicked down to her, waiting.

She smiled, soft and knowing, but didn’t lift her gaze. “I don’t think that’s true, though.”

The words settled deep, more potent than she likely realized.

He said nothing, just let the silence stretch, listening to the steady sound of Roach’s hooves against the road, almost in tandem as the soft beat of her heart, unhurried and calm. He came to like the sound. Then, without really thinking, he leaned in, brushing his nose against her hair, red and soft and inviting.

She smelled of oranges and woodsmoke, as well as the sweat typical for the summer warmth around them.

He didn’t need to be this close to take in her scent. But he wanted to be. The initial urge had been to bury his face in her hair until his nose would touch the skin of her neck, breathing her in so deeply until her scent was engraved into his brain. Instead, he settled on brushing his nose against her scalp, the softness of her hair tickling his nose. And she didn’t mind, her heartbeat not faltering a little, her breathing even and relaxed.

She never minded anything he did.

As they continued riding on, Geralt kept his head close to hers while Cathleen at some point closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun. It stirred the magic in her, had it pressing against her skin. Without the bard present, she might have released it a little.

Speaking of the bard… The longer they rode in silence, the more courage he appeared to gather because when she lazily opened her eyes at some point, she found him walking next to Roach. They had left the bumpy road surrounding the village behind and were now surrounded by high grown grass, following a narrow trail. She nearly rolled her eyes when the bard started speaking again.

“Reading between the lines and the gut punches, chum I’d say you have got a bit of a… an image problem.” Geralt’s annoyed growl rumbled through his chest and vibrated right through her. She pressed herself harder against him in response.

“Were I to join you on this…

feat

to defeat the devil of Posada, I could relieve you of that title.” Both her and the witcher exhaled slowly.

“All the North would be too busy singing the tales of… Geralt of Rivia, the-the White Wolf, or, uh, or something.” She felt him move his head to stare at the bard.

“Butcher is right.” Her eyebrows drew together at his statement, grabbing one of his hands in her own. Absent-mindedly, she started drawing incoherent patterns over his skin.

The bard was silent for a second, his gaze swapping over them and the lack of space between her and the witcher, before his eyes trailed to the back of Roach.

“Mind if I hop up with you? I’m not wearing the right footwear.”

“No,” she hissed at the same time Geralt growled “Don’t touch Roach.”

“Yeah, right, yeah,” the bard muttered at the denial. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since Geralt stopped the horse next to a small tree. Nudging her hip gently, she hummed softly before lifting one leg over Roach’s head, sliding from the saddle. A moment later, Geralt had dismounted as well, reins in hand.

While the witcher took care of his horse, Cathleen eyed the bard, who looked at her as if she were the lesser danger of the two. Fool.

“I didn’t know witchers take wives,” the bard gave her a smile she knew was supposed to be pleasing. “The White Wolf and the Red Lady. Sounds poetic, doesn’t it?” She tilted her head as she gave him a look-over.

“My name’s Cathleen,” she said, tired of calling him ‘The Bard’ in her mind. “And yours?”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he said, bowing slightly from the waist, “Visco–”

“You look like a Jaskier,” she interrupted him, grinning at him like a cat would at a mouse.

Dumbfounded, he said “That’s no–”

“And just so you know, Jaskier,” she interrupted him again, already halfway turned away. “I am no lady. I am a witch.” Cathleen snickered as she watched him pale. Then she joined Geralt, who looked at her, his golden eyes scanning over her body once, assessing her. His eyes asked her a silent question, totally taking her focus off Jaskier’s ramble.

Are you ready?

She grinned at him, poking her finger into his stomach. Of course, it was stopped by his armor, ultimately ruining her tiny tickle attack.

I was born ready, witcher

.

A grunt was his acknowledgement before they both took off.

“Cathleen? Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice carried uncertainty and then there he was again, walking on her other side.

“Where are you going? Hello? What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence,” Geralt answered as he leaned forward, his body hidden by a tall, orangish rock. One of his palms was pressed to her stomach, either for keeping her back or for him to know she was still

there

.

It must be hard

, she thought,

having so many heightened senses and still feeling like it’s not enough

. Breathing deeply, she summoned her magic, letting it rest in her veins, in her bones, ready to charge, ready to protect. She sent a small wave of it over to Geralt, wanting to remind him that he needn’t worry about her.

“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that.” Cathleen rolled her eyes as Jaskier spoke again. “Have you ever hunted a devil before?”

“Devil’s don’t exist.” Geralt was focused as the three of them slowly continued their walk forward, Cathleen focusing on one side of the high-grown grass field while the witcher focused on the other. And Jaskier… well, he was just

there

.

“Right,” the bard whispered, nodding softly. “Obviously. So, uh, then… then what are we doing?”

“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money,” Geralt explained, his hand still a warm presence on her stomach. “Rarely both. That’s the life.” He barely finished speaking when her magic warned her of

something

. Not even a heartbeat later did Geralt duck with a “Shit!”, his hand grabbing her tunic to pull her down with him. He was too late though, he wasn’t able to dodge whatever came flying for his forehead. Good thing it ricocheted right from the shield of hardened air she had pulled up earlier around him. His head whipped around to her in surprise, but she only shrugged, grinning.

“What? Did you think I’d let you play the white knight, or what?” His lips switched into a half-smile.

“Act Two begins!” Jaskier shouted, spreading his arms wide. “What was that?”

Geralt bent down, picking up the small bullet. “Looks like a tiny cannonball from a… Oh, my gosh.” Cathleen looked toward Jaskier as his voice turned scared. Then she followed where he was looking…

“Geralt… it is a devil,” Jaskier whispered and Cathleen silently agreed. It

did

look like a devil. Bending her knees slightly, she controlled her breathing.

“Oohh,” Jaskier sounded like he was in total awe, “I have to see this magical, this mythic–” Too fast for her human eyes, another bullet was thrown their way, hitting Jaskier in the head, efficiently shutting him up and knocking him unconscious.

“Perfect,” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Stay where you are,” Geralt ordered, making her frown. But she did listen to him, keeping an eye on him as he slowly moved forward.

“Leave me be!” That was another voice, a creature surging forward, hitting Geralt in the chest. She wanted to surge forward, wanted to catch him with her magic, when two hands grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth and nose. She didn’t even have time to scream before she lost consciousness.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 7 –

A Choice of Blood

Pain. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed at the base of his skull, radiating through his body as consciousness dragged him back. His senses flared to life, sluggish at first, then all at once. The damp scent of stone and earth. The cool, stale air of an underground space. The rough texture of the rope binding his wrists.

And then oranges and woodsmoke—her scent.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open.

The dim glow of torchlight cast flickering shadows across the walls of what looked to be a cave. His head was pounding, his limbs stiff, but none of that mattered. Not now. Not when he couldn’t see

her.

He flexed his fingers, testing the bindings. Tight. Strong. He twisted his wrists slightly, ignoring the sharp bite of the rope against his skin, which made him groan.

Movement behind him, the scent of perfume and dandelions.

Jaskier.

The bard shifted,their backs pressed together where they were tied. “This is the part where we escape.”

“This is the part where they kill us!” He couldn’t keep the slight panic out of his voice. It wasn’t his own life that he worried, fuck no, he couldn’t care less if he died today. His jaw tightened as he scanned the cave, searching. His stomach coiled with something too close to panic.

Where was she? She had been there. She had been right there.

A scuffle. A struggle. Hands grabbing her. Covering her mouth.

He remembered now—the moment before everything went dark. His own failure clawed at him like a dull knife to the gut.

Then he heard it.

A sharp breath. A small, barely-there sound, coming from the other side of the cave. His head turned instantly, golden eyes locking onto her.

Cathleen.

She was slumped against the wall, wrists bound, ankles tied. Dirt smudged her cheek, strands of hair clinging to her face. She was moving slowly as she rose from unconsciousness, her head clearly dizzy as she had trouble lifting it. He could see the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her breathing was steady, even if a bit ragged.

Alive.

Relief crashed into him so fiercely that he almost exhaled. Almost. But the worry remained, coiling in his gut like a tightening noose.

She stirred again, her head lifting slightly, eyes fluttering open. And then—she met his gaze. For a moment, nothing else existed. Just her and her beating heart.

Her lips barely parted, as if she wanted to speak, to reassure him, but she said nothing. Instead, she gave him the smallest nod.

I’m fine.

Geralt turned his head forward again, grinding his teeth. His muscles were tense, poised, every fiber of him itching to break free, to reach her. To

fix

this.

The cave was too quiet now, but he knew they weren’t alone. The scent of elves lingered in the air—iron, leather, sweat.

Jaskier stirred against his back, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Before Geralt could respond, rapid footsteps approached from his left. An elven woman surged forward, delivering a brutal kick to his face. Pain flared through his skull, though it barely registered—he’d endured far worse. But then he heard it.

His name.

Cathleen’s voice, thick with worry, made his stomach clench harder than the blow had. He barely had time to steady himself before the elf struck again, her knee slamming into his nose with enough force to make his vision blur. This one, he felt.

“Wait, that’s my lute! Give that back!” Jaskier protested somewhere behind him.

What the fuck was wrong with the bard?

Geralt let out a low groan, pain pulsing through his face. But it wasn’t himself he was concerned about. He turned sharply, golden eyes darting across the cave.

Cathleen.

She was bound, struggling against her restraints, her body tense with frustration as she tried to reach him. His chest tightened at the sight of her. Was she hurt? Had they—?

“Quick, Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice pulled him back. “Do your—your witcher-thing.”

“Shut up,” he growled, only to be rewarded with another kick, this time to his thigh. He barely reacted, his focus locked onto Cathleen. The fear in her eyes, the helpless rage on her face—it made something cold settle in his gut.

Jaskier, oblivious to the weight of the moment, continued to taunt their captor with some nonsense.

The elf wasn’t taking it so well. “Do you wanna die right now?”

“As opposed to later?” Geralt snapped, finally shifting his attention to the elven woman. She answered with another savage blow, this time aimed at Jaskier’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“Leave off!” Geralt barked, his voice laced with warning. “He’s just a bard.” The only response was a sharp punch to his face.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” the elf spat, striking him again. “Everything you touch, you destroy.” Another punch. His head snapped to the side. Blood dripped from his nose, the metallic taste pooling on his tongue.

“Stop it!” Cathleen’s voice rang through the cave, raw with fury. “Take your hands off him, you

cunt!

”

A dry chuckle left Geralt despite himself. Even bound, even outnumbered, she was still fire.

The elven woman turned to her with a sneer. “You want to take his beating instead, mage?”

Geralt’s expression darkened, his muscles straining against the ropes. His voice came low, lethal. “Touch her, and you will die screaming.”

The elf laughed and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up. “I’d like to see you try.” Then she drove her knee into his face again.

His vision sparked white-hot, the scent of iron thick in the air. He barely registered Jaskier’s frantic yells behind him, barely felt the pain beyond the simmering rage curling in his chest.

Cathleen was still thrashing against her restraints, her eyes burning with desperation.

The elf stepped between them, blocking his view. Her fingers tilted his chin up with mocking gentleness. He barely heard her next words. He didn’t care.

Instead, he surged forward, slamming his forehead against hers with enough force to feel the bone give way. The elf stumbled backward with a strangled groan, hands clutching her now-broken nose.

Behind him, Jaskier whooped. “Yes! Take that, pointy!”

But the elf didn’t recover. She remained on the ground, coughing, wheezing.

Geralt frowned. His gaze flickered to Cathleen, who was watching their captor closely, suspicion in her narrowed eyes.

“What…” Jaskier hesitated. “What’s—what’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick,” a new voice announced as they entered the cave.. The Sylvan Geralt had fought earlier, followed closely by another elf. This one was different—his bearing sharper, his expression carved from stone.

“Oh, and who’s this?” Jaskier asked as the two newcomers crouched to tend to the injured woman.

“He’s Filavandrel,” the Sylvan answered. “King of the Elves.”

“Not a king,” Filavandrel corrected, his voice measured. “Not by choice.”

Geralt exhaled slowly. “You were stealing for them,” he said, looking at the Sylvan.

“I

felt

for them,” the creature countered.

Filavandrel’s sharp gaze shifted to the woman still on the ground. “No one was supposed to get hurt.” His voice was firm, reprimanding.

“What’s three humans in the ground when countless elves have died?” she bit back, her voice thick with hatred.

A chill crawled down Geralt’s spine.

“Two humans,” he corrected, his voice rough. “You can let them go.”

The elven king stepped closer, his features unreadable. “If we let them go, Posada will learn we’ve been stealing,” he said quietly. “The humans will attack. This is necessary.” With deliberate slowness, he pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak.

“No!” Cathleen growled, struggling harder against her bonds.

Geralt met Filavandrel’s gaze without flinching.

“I understand,” he said simply. “As long as you understand that it won’t be long until you follow me in death.”

Filavandrel’s jaw tightened.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Because they pushed us from viable soil. Even chaos polluted.” He gestured at Cathleen, his voice hardening. “Synthetically enhanced so that humans can make magic.”

Geralt’s shoulders tensed. “Chaos is the same as it’s always been. Humans just adapted better.”

“You say

adapt,

” Filavandrel murmured. “I say

destroy.

” Geralt knew then—nothing he had said would change the elf’s mind. The bitterness in his voice, the depth of his pain, it was too great.

He inhaled once, steadying himself.

“If you must kill me,” he said finally, ignoring the frantic snarl from Cathleen, “know that I am ready.” He barely heard her struggling, barely processed Jaskier’s nervous shifting. His voice was unwavering. “But neither the bard nor the witch are at fault here. If you must spill blood today, spill mine.”

Filavandrel took a step closer, dagger poised.

Geralt lifted his chin, exposing his throat. Even as he heard Cathleen scream his name. Even as he scented her tears.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t stomach the thought of her tears being the last thing he saw before he died. So he focused on the ceiling of the cave – and welcomed his fate.

Cathleen was pissed. Fucking

pissed

. So pissed, actually, that she opted to walk instead of joining Geralt on Roach. He had looked at her with something resembling pain but she didn’t care. Just as she didn’t care that the elven king had cut the rope instead of Geralt's throat, just as she didn’t care that the bard had written an actually catchy song called

Toss a Coin to your Witcher

, despite it being full of lies. Nothing of this all mattered because he, Geralt, had been ready to die, had been ready to leave her here without him so easily. Rationally speaking, she was aware that there was no reason to be mad – it had been a delicate situation in which none of them could have done anything differently. He had done what he could to get her and Jaskier’s ass out of the as unharmed as possible. But Cathleen didn’t want to be rational, no. She wanted to be angry because if she wouldn’t be, her magic would instead take it out – not only on her but also on everyone around her, including Geralt.

So she was mad, exaggeratingly so, as she walked next to Roach after parting ways with Jaskier. Geralt, who had refused to ride if she wouldn’t, was walking on the other side of Roach, reins in hand.

Since they spent almost the whole day captured by the elves, they didn’t come far on the Path before the night set in.

“We should make camp soon,” Geralt said after a few minutes of entering a forest. His voice was strained, probably from being beaten so much. The sound of it made her flinch.

“Sure,” she answered curtly. “I’ll get some wood for a fire.” She strode away, picking up sticks and dry leaves that would make good use for a fire. Theoretically, the wood wasn’t even necessary, but she didn’t trust her magic right now. To be specific, she couldn’t even access it right now. Whatever the elves had used to knock her unconscious had also numbed her magic, had pushed it down so deeply that she couldn’t reach for it. Only now, hours later, did it slowly start to resurface, the soft hum of its energy only an echo of what her magic usually was. It was frustrating her deeply, as if she were walking around naked.

After a few minutes, she returned to where she had taken off from, knowing full well that Geralt hadn’t gone far. And true enough, Roach’s neighing was close enough for her to hear.

Following the sound, she found Geralt out of his armor, leaving him in his simple tunic, pants and boots – all in black, naturally. The silver medallion was hanging around his neck, like always, his tunic slightly unbuttoned to reveal the hint of his chest.

Dropping her gatherings on the ground, she built a pile suitable for igniting a fire while Geralt spread out a single sleeping matt.

“I know witchers don’t need as much sleep as humans do,” Cathleen stated, still refusing to look at him, but at least her voice was getting softer – just like her anger. “But shouldn’t you sleep after getting your ass kicked?”

Geralt was silent for a moment until she heard him move. Despite being finished with piling the wood, her gaze stayed focused on the pile she created.

“It’s almost healed up.” He had been closer than she anticipated, making her flinch again, her head whipping toward him. Cathleen caught the way his eyes darkened slightly before taking a step back.

His mumbled voice was barely audible for her to hear. “Sorry.”

Her close-uped face softened immediately and she stood up quickly.

“You startled me,” she said and quickly stepped closer to him. It didn’t matter that she was still mad at him, because she

never

wanted to see that look on his face again. Disgust at himself for scaring her.

“My magic…” Searching for the right words, she sighed deeply. “It’s not… there, you know? The elves did something and my magic, which normally keeps me aware of, you know, everything around me, including you. Well, that’s not working and you were suddenly so close because
you move really silently, did you know that? Like, I have human ears, I don’t hear you when you sneak like that and… I am totally rambling.” She wanted to sew her mouth shut. It had been a long time since she had rambled like that, a habit left from her childhood.

Forcing air into her lungs, she stared into his eyes, trying to send every bit of truth behind her words.

“I am

not

scared of you, Geralt. It’s just like… someone’s thrown a blanket over my head and now I’m supposed to

see

, okay?”

Geralt’s golden eyes searched hers for a long moment, unreadable yet intense. Then, with a slight nod, he stepped back again, giving her space. The tension between them lingered, heavy and unspoken.

Cathleen let out a slow breath and turned back to the firewood. She focused on arranging the sticks, but the anger inside her was still simmering. Not as white-hot as before, but enough to make her fingers tremble as she reached for her flint.

Behind her, Geralt moved to Roach, likely checking their supplies, giving her time to cool down. Smart. He had always known when to let her breathe.

The fire caught after a few careful strikes, the warm glow spreading over their small camp. Cathleen sat back on her heels, watching the flames flicker and dance, the crackling filling the silence between them.

A rustling of fabric told her Geralt was sitting down next to her, more space between them than last night. She swallowed hard. It was a weird feeling – wanting him far away and close at the same time.

Geralt shifted, drawing her attention. His tunic hung loose, his usual stiff posture slightly relaxed now that the immediate danger had passed. But there was something in the way he watched her—something cautious, something waiting.

Her eyes dropped to his arms, resting against his knees. His wrists were bruised, the faintest smudge of dried blood still clinging to his skin.

He must have seen her staring because he exhaled through his nose, then, finally, he spoke.

“I saw no other way.” Cathleen blinked, her lips parting slightly.

Geralt leaned forward, gaze fixed on the fire. “I wasn’t

ready

to die, Cathleen.” His voice was low, steady. “But I couldn’t let them kill you. Or Jaskier. If there was a choice between my life and yours, I’d make the same decision again.”

A sharp breath hitched in her throat.

“

Why would you do that?

”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she hated the way her stomach flipped under the weight of his stare.

“I am a witcher,” he said slowly, as if she had forgotten, as if that was the obvious explanation.

“So what?” she scoffed and pulled her knees to her chest, her fingers toying with the laces of her boots. “That doesn’t mean your life is worth less than mine.”

“Cathleen…”

“No!” She interrupted him, hot anger flaring right up again as she glared at him, grinding her teeth. “You listen to me right now, Geralt of Rivia. Your. Life. Matters. I don’t fucking care if you’re witcher or not, I don’t fucking care if you believe that makes you a monster and I don’t fucking care if you feel like your life is worthless compared to mine because I. Don’t. Think. So!” She was breathing hard after her outburst, his eyes wide as they stared at each other.

The fire crackled between them, throwing shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the scars on his skin.

Cathleen clenched her fists.

“You don’t get to do that,” she muttered, only calming down slowly.

His brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Decide for me,” she snapped at him. “You

decided

that your life was worth less than mine. You

decided

that I would be fine without you.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “You don’t get to do that, Geralt. No matter that we only met yesterday. Your life matters as much as mine.”

His jaw tightened.

She let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Do you have any idea what it feels like? Watching you tied up there, ready to let him put a blade through your throat?” His expression darkened, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“I had to do

something,

” he said after a pause.

Cathleen exhaled harshly, running a hand through her hair. “I know. Rationally, I

know

that. But I don’t care. I wanted you to fight, Geralt. I wanted you to

try

to live for yourself.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Then, Geralt reached out, his fingers curling gently around her wrist.

She tensed, not because of the touch itself, but because of how careful it was—how deliberate. His thumb brushed against her skin, and she realized he wasn’t just reaching for her. He was looking at the marks.

Her breath hitched as his fingers ghosted over the raw, red burns circling her wrists, left behind by the ropes. The skin was tender, stinging at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

His grip remained feather-light, almost as if he was afraid he might hurt her if he touched her more firmly.

“They tied you too tight,” he murmured.

“No shit,” she muttered, but there was no real bite to it. His lips twitched—barely, but she saw it.

“Let me see,” he said softly, pulling on her wrist gently.

Cathleen sighed, but she let him. She wasn’t used to this—

him

, or anyone, really, being concerned about some injuries, especially not something so insignificant.

His fingers traced over the marks with the lightest pressure, as if memorizing the way they marred her skin.

She swallowed hard. “It’s fine. It’ll heal.”

Geralt’s eyes flickered up to meet hers. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“It barely does.” He only hummed in answer.

Her chest tightened. He let go of her wrist only to shift his focus to her ankles.

“Geralt—”

“Let me look.” There was no command in his voice, only quiet insistence.

She sighed, wanting to undo the laces of her boots but his hands gently pushed hers away, undoing her boots himself. With a gentleness she didn’t know he possessed, he pulled them off her feet and then pulled on her legs until her feet rested on his thighs. Pushing up the fabric of her pants, his calloused hands were warm against her skin as he inspected the damage, his touch careful.

Cathleen watched him, the way his brow creased slightly, the way his fingers traced over the marks with the same unbearable gentleness. The marks there were barely visible and didn’t even hurt that much, the thickness of her boots had been a good protector for her skin.

Still, Geralt traced the abused skin so gently as if the marks would leave a deep, permanent scar.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“I do.” His hands lingered for a moment before he finally let go but continued staring at the marks. “You were hurt because of me.”

Her throat tightened. “Geralt.”

He looked up.

“This is not your fault and you know that,” she said softly, the rest of her anger fading away like the smoke of the fire rose into the night sky. “I decided to travel with you and I will get hurt again while doing jobs with you.” His gaze hardened, clearly not liking the thought. She gave him a half-smile.

“I was killing monsters before I met you. And if you were to abandon me now, I’d continue to do so.” Tilting her head, she gently dug her feet into his thigh, feeling the muscle beneath her skin shift with the pressure. “Don’t you think I am safer with you around than on my own?”

He stared at her for a second before looking away with a huff. But she did notice the slight humor in his eyes, making her smile widen.

“You should sleep.” His gruff voice was such a comfort at this point that as soon as he said the word ‘sleep’, her eyes became heavy.

“You too,” she answered as she pulled her feet from his lap to curl up next to him, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“I’ll be fine,” he answered and she rolled her eyes but pushed her hand toward him until it brushed against his leg.

“Why settle with fine when you could be great?” she mumbled and closed her eyes, the contact between them making her feel better.

“Maybe you should just, you know, give it a try.”

A low chuckle from him made her smile. “Good night, Cathleen.”

“Good night, Geralt.”

Geralt sat still, watching the slow rise and fall of Cathleen’s breathing as she drifted off to sleep. The firelight flickered over her face, softening the hard edges of exhaustion, smoothing out the frustration that had burned in her eyes only moments before.

She had been furious with him. And not because of the danger they had faced, not because of the fight or the injuries—those she could handle. It was because he had been ready to die. Because he had decided for her. Her anger had struck deeper than any sword.

He was used to people fearing for their own lives, for their own safety. But for someone to be

angry

that he had put himself in danger—

his

life, a witcher’s life—it was still an unfamiliar weight in his chest.

And then there had been that moment in which she had flinched. For a second he had feared he might have lost her – only a day after meeting her. Her explanation had been reasonable, totally understandable, but… It had taken him until she allowed him to observe her abused skin for it to finally sink in. She hadn't pulled away.

She had let him touch her, had let him

care

, had even pushed her feet against his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, when sleep had crept up on her, she had reached for him. Just barely, just the lightest brush of her hand against his leg, but it was there.

An invitation. A reassurance. It made his throat tight in a way he wasn’t used to.

Geralt exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, not yet. He rarely did on nights like these, when the echoes of the fight still clung to him, when his mind wouldn’t quiet.

But as Cathleen curled closer, her fingers barely resting against his leg, the weight in his chest eased just a little.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he could

try.

He should try, at the very least, to avoid her wrath.

For now, he stayed where he was, watching over her, letting her warmth seep into him like the fire at their feet.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 8 –

The Heat On My Skin

For the next four months, Geralt and Cathleen traveled the Path together. He had spent years traveling alone. He was used to silence, to solitude, to the predictability of being the only one he could rely on. It was simpler that way. Easier.

He still didn’t understand why, from the very moment they met, he had felt the pull toward her. At first, he had told himself it was just because she was powerful—magic had a way of making his medallion hum, of keeping his senses attuned, and maybe that was all it was. Just the energy rolling off of her, affecting him in ways he didn’t like. But after two months traveling at her side, he no longer cared about the

why.

She was here. That was all that mattered.

And she wasn’t here because she needed him. That had been the strangest realization of all. He had fought it at first, had still fallen into old habits—moving to shield her when a fight got out of hand, standing between her and a threat even when he knew she could handle it. But she had made it clear, again and again, that she didn’t

need

him. She could handle herself.

She didn’t need his strength. His sword. His protection.

And yet, she stayed. The thought settled in his chest like a slow-burning fire.

She

chose

to stay. She stuck around because she

wanted

to.

It was refreshing. No—more than that. It was fucking intoxicating.

It wasn’t just her power or her skill. It was her fearlessness.

He had seen it in battle, of course. In the way she faced down monsters, in the way she wielded her magic like an extension of herself, like something elemental, something untouchable. But it was more than that.

It was the way she

never

flinched.

Not when he ripped apart creatures with his bare hands. Not when his potions turned his eyes black and his veins darkened with the poison running through him. Not even when his rage took hold, when his instincts sharpened into something vicious, something brutal.

She never looked at him with fear. Not even once.

Others had. They always did, sooner or later. They could call him friend, companion, even lover—but the moment they saw the full extent of what he was, of what he could do, their gazes would shift. Just a fraction. Just for a second. But it was always there. But Cathleen?

Nothing. No hesitation. No wariness. No disgust. Just… acceptance.

It made something deep inside him tighten.

And lately, it had become

hard

to ignore the way his body reacted to her, too.

It had started subtly—his gaze lingering too long when she stretched after a fight, when her tunic rode up just enough to reveal a glimpse of skin. The way his stomach tensed when she touched him, casual and careless, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way his mind had started to wander when she smiled at him, all sharp wit and bright eyes, heat curling in his gut.

Whatever pull he felt toward her, whatever instinct had first told him to protect her, to keep her close—he

knew

it wasn’t the same for her.

She wanted his company. Maybe even his friendship.

But she didn’t want

that.

She didn’t want

him

like that.

So he didn’t act on it. Wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t let himself think about what her skin would feel like under his hands. Wouldn’t let himself wonder if she would sound as fierce and unafraid in pleasure as she did in battle.

No. He would keep it locked away, just as he had done with so many other things. The last thing he wanted was to be perceived by her like those men that followed her around wherever she went. No matter the village, no matter the kingdom, the men were all the same – lust driven, disgusting and cruel. Geralt didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know what they wanted from her. Fuck, the first night he realized he had looked at her the same way those men did, he had hurled up his dinner after Cathleen had fallen asleep. Because she trusted him. Everyday, without a failure, she shared a saddle with him, her body pressed to his. She let him touch her hips, thighs, arms, waist. Whatever part of her he reached for, she let him without wariness or hesitation. Hell, she slept soundly curled up next to him each night, completely vulnerable because she

trusted

him.

The only thing that had kept him from hating himself for having those thoughts was the fact that he’d never touch her without her explicit permission – something he couldn’t say about those men lusting after her. More than once had he overheard them plotting to pull her into an alley as soon as ‘the witcher’ was occupied with something else. Geralt wasn’t embarrassed to admit that he had killed most of the men who uttered such intentions.

“I feel like I’m going to melt,” Cathleen complained for the third time today. It was the middle of a summer day, the sun high in the sky blasting them mercilessly with its heat. And to make matters worse, there was only open field as far as the eye could see – no shady forests or mountains in sight.

Geralt hummed in agreement, though his voice came out rougher than intended. The heat

was

unbearable. Sweat slicked his skin, beads of it trailing down his chest, soaking into the waistband of his trousers. His tunic had been discarded hours ago, rolled up and stuffed into one of Roach’s saddlebags. Even that barely helped. The air was stifling, heavy, pressing against his skin like a second layer.

But it wasn’t just the heat making him uncomfortable.

It was

her.

Cathleen sat between his legs, her back resting against his chest, her body fitted against his like it belonged there. She had tied up her tunic, exposing the smooth skin of her stomach, and the sight had nearly made him groan. His arms were draped around her loosely, hands resting on her thighs, his fingers occasionally brushing over her skin with the horse’s movement.

At first, he had avoided touching her too directly, strictly keeping only his forearms on the apex of her thighs, trying not to be too aware of how warm and firm she felt beneath him. But one night, she had turned to him with that sharp, no-nonsense look and said simply,

“Geralt, you can touch me, you know. I don’t mind.”

And that had been that.

Now, his hands rested on her thighs as if they belonged there. And that was dangerous.

He tried to focus on the ride, on the rhythmic sway of Roach’s gait, on the distant horizon. But his attention kept slipping, drawn back to the way her muscles flexed beneath his fingers, to the way her scent—sun-warmed skin and faint traces of oranges—wrapped around him, making his head swim.

She shifted slightly, adjusting her position, and her back rubbed against his bare chest. His jaw tightened.

Fuck.

He needed a distraction.

“You could take the tunic off,” he found himself saying before he could think better of it. Cathleen glanced over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching with amusement. “Oh?”

Geralt cleared his throat. “You’re complaining about the heat,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. “You’d be cooler without it.” For a moment, she was silent. Then, she laughed—a low, throaty sound that sent something hot curling in his gut.

“I suppose you have a point,” she said. “But I’m not sure how the people in the next village would feel about me riding in half my clothes.”

Geralt exhaled through his nose, trying to ignore the images her words conjured.

Idiot.

Of course, she wouldn’t ride through a village like that. He was just thinking about how fucking warm she was, how tempting the thought of more skin was—

He needed to get off this damn horse.

As if sensing his tension, a cool breeze suddenly swept over them, cutting through the suffocating heat like a sharp blade. Geralt exhaled, feeling the sweat on his skin cool instantly, the relief almost dizzying.

Cathleen’s magic.

It rolled over his skin, invisible fingers ghosting along his arms, his chest, the nape of his neck. And despite the fact that it was just air, just a cooling touch meant to bring them relief, his body reacted to it in ways it shouldn’t.

His skin prickled—not from the cold, but from the thought that it could be

her

fingers instead, trailing over him, pressing into his muscles, slipping lower—

Geralt forced himself to focus on the road ahead.

He was losing his fucking mind.

“Better?” she asked, voice light, oblivious to his struggle.

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

They rode in silence for a while, the occasional breeze passing over them, keeping them from roasting alive under the sun. Geralt was grateful for it—grateful for her.

Even if, right now, he was certain she was going to be the death of him.

As they rode, the tension in Geralt’s body refused to ease. Every shift of Cathleen’s weight against him, every roll of her hips with Roach’s gait, every casual brush of her fingers against his as she adjusted the reins—it all dug under his skin like a slow, torturous burn. He needed a fight. A hunt. Something to force this restless energy out of his body before it killed him.

Then Cathleen shifted again, leaning forward slightly.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, stretching her arm out toward one of the saddlebags.

Geralt glanced down, catching sight of the half-empty bag tied just behind Roach’s shoulder. She was reaching for an apple—one of the last of their supplies before they reached the next village. But with the way the saddle was angled, her fingers just barely brushed against it.

She cursed again and leaned further forward.

Geralt felt her center of gravity shift and his body reacted before his mind did.

His hand moved instinctively, catching her at the waist, fingers pressing against bare skin.

His brain short-circuited.

Her skin was warm beneath his palm, impossibly soft, smooth except for a faint scar near her ribs that his fingertips barely ghosted over. He could feel the way her muscles tensed slightly at the contact—not in discomfort, not in hesitation, just simple reflex.

His entire world narrowed to the point of contact.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He should pull away. Should

say

something. Should apologize. But the moment stretched between them, and

she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tense. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as hesitate.

She just—kept reaching, fingers finally curling around the apple.

Geralt forced himself to breathe, his grip firm but light, steadying her as Roach kept moving. When she leaned back, returning to her previous position against his chest, he hesitated before slowly dragging his hand away, resisting the urge to linger.

His mind was a fucking mess.

He hadn’t

asked.

Hadn’t thought. He had just

touched her.

And yet—again,

again

—she had been completely fine with it.

It sent his thoughts spiraling, twisting in knots he wasn’t sure he could untangle.

How many times had he second-guessed himself, hesitated, overthought every little thing? How many times had he reminded himself that she wasn’t like the others, that he had no right to

want

what he wanted? And yet every time,

every fucking time,

she proved to him that she wasn’t bothered by his touch, wasn’t afraid of his hands, wasn’t wary of

him.

Geralt exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into a tight line, trying to will away the lingering burn in his palm, the memory of her skin against his.

They had been riding for hours now and slowly but surely, she was growing tired. Not of the riding, not of the pleasant, comfortable silence between her and Geralt. But the constant use of her magic to keep herself, but mostly Geralt, cool was starting to drain her. Not even the apple could help. Of course she had shared it with him – even though Geralt only took two bites and demanded she ate the rest. Still, her eyelids felt heavy and soon her body slumped against Geralt’s, having trouble keeping herself upright.

“Are you okay?” Geralt’s voice rumbled through her and she closed her eyes, enjoying the way he talked probably more than she should.

“Hmm,” she made and leaned her head back against his shoulder. “Tired.” One of his arms snuck around her waist, more firmly than earlier, to press her closer to him. She snorted softly as she realized he was worried she might slip off Roach by accident.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“My magic…” She didn’t have to explain further, he understood her well enough.

“Then stop,” he demanded, the vibration of his chest going straight to her back. But Cathleen shook her head.

“You’ll be too warm.”

“I don’t care,” he growled softly, his arm pressing down harder around her waist. “Stop it.” As if her magic suddenly listened to him instead of her, it pulled back beneath her skin. The sudden heat of the air around them slapped her in the face, making her groan. Instantly her head started to pound.

“I hate summer,” she complained softly, earning a humm from Geralt. Despite the sudden heat around them, he didn’t stop pressing her body to his. To be honest, she didn’t care that her tunic was starting to get drenched in a mixture of his and her own sweat because she enjoyed being so close to him. Every chance of touch she could get from him, she took without hesitation.

Geralt shifted slightly behind her, adjusting his grip on the reins with one hand while the other remained firmly wrapped around her waist. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against her stomach, just once, before going still again.

“We’ll pass a lake soon,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Cathleen’s eyes snapped open. She tilted her head slightly, catching a glimpse of his jawline, sharp and dusted with sweat. “A lake?”

He nodded, the movement barely noticeable. “Should be about an hour from here. We can stop.”

A grin spread across her face before she could stop it. “I could kiss you right now.”

Geralt stiffened. Cathleen chuckled, feeling the way his arm tensed around her, the way his entire body seemed to lock up.

“Relax, witcher. I won’t actually do it.”

She felt him huff against her hair, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could imagine the way he might be rolling his eyes. Still, he didn’t let go of her, and she allowed herself to settle against him again, the thought of the lake giving her something to look forward to.

As Roach carried them forward, her mind wandered.

A lake. Cool water. A break from the heat. She’d take it, savor it. But more than that, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill at the idea of seeing

him

there, too.

It was stupid. She knew that. But she had long stopped pretending that the way she felt about Geralt was anything

but

stupid.

She had known for a while now—longer than she liked to admit—that her feelings for him had shifted. That the fondness she felt had grown into something deeper, something more dangerous.

The first few weeks of their journey together had been simple. Easy. She liked his company, enjoyed his dry humor, his quiet nature, his unwavering loyalty. But then came the moments in between—the way she started noticing every little thing about him. The way his eyes softened when he looked at her. The way his hand always found her waist, her wrist, her thigh—never hesitant, never unwelcome. The way he touched her without realizing it, but always pulled away too soon, as if he was afraid to linger.

She wanted more. But she also knew

he

wasn’t ready for that.

Geralt wasn’t blind. He wasn’t stupid. He had to know, at least on some level, that there was something between them. But he didn’t act on it, didn’t

acknowledge

it, because deep down, he didn’t think he

could.

Didn’t think he

deserved

to.

She had seen it in the way he avoided certain topics, the way he dismissed compliments, the way he still carried himself like someone who had been told all his life that he was nothing but a killer.

She knew what others said about witchers. That they had no feelings. That they were only good for slaying monsters, for taking coin, for being lust driven men who fucked every woman willing before moving on to the next job.

And she knew that, despite everything, a small part of Geralt still

believed

that.

Her fingers curled around the fabric of her tunic, her nails digging in slightly as frustration welled up inside her.

She didn’t care what the world said. She had seen him at his most ruthless, his most violent—and none of it had ever scared her. Because she had also seen him at his most human. In the way he cared, in the way he

worried

for her, even when he tried not to show it. In the way he had killed men without hesitation just to keep her safe.

She wanted to tell him. Wanted to

show

him that he was more than what the world had made him believe.

But he wasn’t ready. So she would wait.

Because Geralt of Rivia had spent a lifetime convincing himself he was unworthy.

And she wasn’t going to be just another person who let him believe it.

The lake shimmered in the afternoon light, a wide stretch of cool, clear water surrounded by tall grass and scattered trees. The moment they arrived, Cathleen sighed in relief and all but slid off Roach, stretching her arms above her head with a satisfied groan.

The ride had been long, the heat unbearable, but this—this was perfect.Geralt dismounted behind her, silent as ever, though she felt his gaze linger on her for a beat longer than usual. She ignored it, already pulling at the knot in her tunic as she stepped toward the water.

She didn’t hesitate. Why would she?

Geralt had proven himself again and again. She

trusted

him.

There was something amusing about the way most people whispered about witchers—their supposed lack of emotion, their supposed insatiable

needs.

She knew better. She knew that yes, the mutations heightened their physical desires, but they also heightened their

control.

And if there was one thing Geralt of Rivia had in excess, it was

control.

Even if she stood before him bare, even if she pressed herself against him and whispered

yes

—he would still hesitate.

Because she was not a brothel girl, nor a nameless woman to warm his bed for a single night.

Because she meant something to him.

And though she

wouldn’t

say no—not to him, not ever—she knew

he

would never push, never take, never so much as look at her the wrong way unless she made it

undeniably

clear that she

wanted

him to.

So she stripped without care, without hesitation. First, she pulled her tunic over her head, tossing it onto the grass. Then her boots, her trousers, until she was left in nothing but the bindings wrapped tightly around her chest and the thin undergarments covering her lower half. Then she brushed those off as well, standing there completely naked.

Geralt had gone still behind her. She could

feel

it. Not moving. Not speaking.

She didn’t turn to look.

Instead, she walked forward, stepping into the water with a pleased hum. It was

cold

—a stark contrast to the heat that had been suffocating her all day—but gods, it felt incredible. Goosebumps covered her skin at the stark contrast of the cold water and the hot air and she felt her nipples harden in response.

She waded deeper, until the water lapped at her waist, then finally turned around.

Geralt was still on the shore, looking at her. She didn’t care that he could see her breasts. They weren’t much to look at anyway.

She raised a brow. “You coming in, or are you just going to stand there?”

His eyes flickered over her—just once, just a second too long—before he finally exhaled through his nose and reached for the hem of his trousers.

She turned her back before he could undress, giving him the privacy she wasn’t sure he even

needed,

but still wanted to offer.

A moment later, she heard the splash of water, the soft ripples moving through the lake as he stepped in. She dunked under once, letting the cool water hug her whole body before resurfacing, her hair now clinging to her back.

Cathleen closed her eyes, tilting her head back, letting the water cool her burning skin.

She was

happy.

Relaxed. But she still noticed it—

him.

Geralt, who was always close. Always reaching for her. Always pressing his hand to the small of her back, her waist, her wrist. Always brushing against her absentmindedly, as if drawn to her without realizing it.

And yet, now… now, he kept more distance between them than usual. It didn’t bother her, not really. But she noticed.

And as much as she wanted to simply enjoy the moment, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder—

Was he trying to

respect

her? Or was he just trying to resist her?

Geralt sank into the water slowly, letting the cold seep into his skin, into his bones, hoping it would do something—

anything

—to cool the heat that had settled in his gut. It didn't. Not even as he followed Cathleen suit, dunking his body completely in before straightening to his full height again. The water barely covered his hip bones.

He barely moved, keeping his breathing steady, keeping his eyes fixed on the rippling surface of the lake instead of the woman standing just a few feet away from him, utterly bare.

She hadn’t flinched. Not when she undressed in front of him, not when she stepped into the lake knowing full well he would see

everything.

She hadn’t hesitated.

Hadn’t shown an ounce of shyness, hadn’t rushed to cover herself, hadn’t given a single damn that his golden eyes had swept over her naked form before she turned her back.

Why?

Why was she so unbothered by him, when every other person in this world had always hesitated at least once?

But Cathleen—she had given him

everything.

Her trust. Her ease. Her closeness. And now, her body.

Not

to

him, no—he’d never assume something so foolish, so dangerous—but

in front

of him. Without shame, without fear. He should be grateful for that trust. And he

was.

But it also

terrified

him.

Because if she wasn’t afraid of him, if she truly saw him as just

Geralt

—not a mutant, not a killer, not some monster with a sword—then what the fuck was he supposed to do with the way he felt about her? It was one thing to trust him with keeping her safe while on the Path, one thing to trust him as a friend. But this – this brought a whole new level of intimacy between, a different kind of trust.

How was he supposed to ignore the tightening in his chest, the slow, torturous realization that she was the only person he had ever felt

completely

at ease with?

And worse—how was he supposed to ignore the growing

ache

in his gut, the kind that had nothing to do with battle wounds or exhaustion?

She was beautiful. He had known that from the start. But it was more than her body—more than the curve of her waist, the slope of her shoulders, the smooth stretch of skin where his hands

ached

to touch.

It was the way she stretched with a satisfied sigh after a long ride, the way her magic wrapped around him so

gently

when she thought he was too warm, the way she met his every glance, every touch, with the same unwavering certainty that he would never hurt her.

It made him feel

seen.

And it made him feel like a fucking fraud.

She didn’t

know

—not really.

She didn’t know how much of his restraint was built from fear, how much of his self-control came not from honor, but from the sheer, agonizing certainty that if he ever gave in, if he ever

took

what he wanted, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

And she—

she

—deserved better than that. Deserved better than him.

So he kept his distance, kept his gaze fixed on the water, even as every instinct screamed at him to go to her. Even as his mind replayed the memory of a moment ago, him still at the shore while she turned around to look at him. He hadn’t meant to look down, had wanted to keep his eyes fixed on her face but in the end, he had lost that fight and his eyes had trailed down her body. And now he couldn’t keep the image of her hardened nipples out of his mind.

And when she sighed contentedly, eyes closed, oblivious to the war raging inside of him, he swallowed hard and forced himself to speak.

“Didn’t think you’d be so comfortable stripping in front of a man like me,” he murmured.

She cracked one eye open, a smirk tugging at her lips. “A

man like you?

”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You know what I mean.”

Cathleen turned then, facing him fully, the water lapping just above her navel. Her expression was relaxed, unconcerned, as if she hadn’t just spent the last minute standing

naked

before him without a care in the world. His eyes flickered down again, fuck he hated himself for it, and he found her nipples still hard, her breasts now wet, small droplets of water clinging to her skin.

“I trust you,” she said simply.

His eyes flickered to her face again and he swallowed. Hard.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he muttered, voice lower than he meant it to be.

But Cathleen only tilted her head, brows furrowing slightly, as if she didn’t understand.

And

fuck

, maybe she

didn’t.

Maybe she truly, genuinely

couldn’t

fathom how hard it was for him to stand here, to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his thoughts

tame.

Maybe she had no idea that right now, with the setting sun casting golden light over the water, with her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders, with the scent of her skin so fucking

close

—

Maybe she had no idea that she had already

won

.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 9 –

Ripples In The Water

Cathleen moved through the water with a kind of ease that left Geralt utterly undone, stepping deeper into the lake, swimming a little before returning to their previous spot in which the water barely managed to graze her navel. She was relaxed, comfortable—more comfortable than she had ever been around a campfire or an inn, more than she was even in the safety of Roach’s saddle, even though her breasts were on full display almost all the time. And that ease was because of

him.

It shouldn’t affect him the way it did, shouldn’t burrow under his skin and make his chest feel tight, but it did.

He had known her for some time now, long enough to recognize the tension in her shoulders when she was wary, the subtle twitch of her fingers when she was holding her tongue, the flick of her gaze when she scanned a room for threats. But here, now, there was none of that.

Just her. Just Cathleen, breathing, moving, letting the water lap against her bare skin without a care in the world.

And

fuck

, he wanted to be closer to her. Every instinct urged him forward, a pull he couldn’t explain, one he

shouldn’t

give into. Just a step. Just close enough that he could see the water rolling down her arms, the way the droplets clung to her collarbone. Just close enough that he could reach out, brush his knuckles over her shoulder and pretend it was nothing, pretend he wasn’t fucking

starving

for her in a way that scared him.

But he didn’t. Didn’t take that step. Didn’t let himself reach.

Because he knew—he

knew

—that the moment he did, there’d be no more pretending.

So he stayed where he was, hands clenched under the water, trying to find some semblance of control over himself.

The rustling came first. Hoofbeats next. Then the unmistakable sound of male voices, loud and unbothered.

Geralt heard them before Cathleen did.

And the moment her body language changed, he understood something in a way he never had before.

One second, she was open, unworried, utterly at ease in the water with him. The next, she had stiffened—not dramatically, not in fear, but in awareness. Her arms drew in just slightly, her posture shifted, her hands hovering closer to her chest than they had been before.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. But to Geralt, the difference was

stark.

He turned then, gaze flickering toward the shore where the men had stopped their horses. There were three of them, rough-looking, clearly travelers, maybe mercenaries. Their conversation had stalled the second they spotted the lake—no, not the lake.

Her.

Their gazes weren’t kind. Not threatening, not yet. But full of something that made Geralt’s skin crawl.

One of them smirked. “Well, ain’t this a sight.”

Cathleen exhaled through her nose, her arms twitching slightly as if she wanted to cover her chest from their hungry gazes. Apparently, she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of doing so but Geralt didn’t miss the way she shifted just a little deeper into the water.

And that was enough for him. He moved.

Before he could even think about it, he was stepping forward, closing the distance between them in two strides. His chest pressed to her back, one of his arms draping over her chest to shield her from their view. He made sure that his hand only ever grazed the skin of her arm, so that her breasts were pressed against his lower arm.

It was instinct. Immediate, protective, undeniable.

And when his hands found her waist, having her in hold completely now, he expected her to tense. To shift away. To do

something

to indicate he’d overstepped.

She didn’t. She

relaxed.

Like it was

normal.

Like it was

right.

And

fuck

—it felt like it was.

He ignored the way her skin burned beneath his hands, ignored the feel of her nipples against his skin, the way the water did nothing to temper the heat crawling through him, and turned his full attention to the men on the shore.

“Leave.” His voice was low, even. Dangerous.

The one in front, the smirking one, had the audacity to chuckle. “Relax, witcher. Just admiring the view.”

Geralt tilted his head. “Want to keep your tongue?”

The smirk faltered.

Cathleen shifted slightly, pressing closer to him, and that was the only encouragement Geralt needed. He took a step around her, efficiently turning her away from them without really letting her go. He made a show of it, made it clear that if they didn’t leave now, they

wouldn’t

be leaving in one piece.

The men hesitated only a second longer before turning their horses and continuing down the path.

Geralt didn’t move. Not until their voices faded into the distance.

And even then…

Even then, he should have stepped back, should have let go of her waist, should have created the space between them that he had so carefully maintained before.

But he didn’t.

He let the arm draped over her chest drop until his hand rested on her waist as well, his hands on her, skin against skin, and

she didn’t care.

She wasn’t tense. She wasn’t pulling away.

And

that

—more than her nakedness, more than the way she had stripped in front of him without a second thought—that

trust

was what made his throat go dry.

He should let go. He

should.

But his fingers flexed at her waist instead, as if having a mind of their own, thumbs pressing into the curve of her hip.

And she let him.

His hands were still on her. Large, warm, steady.

Fingers pressing into her waist, thumbs grazing the curve of her hip like he didn’t want to let go, like he

couldn’t

let go.

And

fuck

, she didn’t want him to.

She could still hear the faint echo of hoofbeats in the distance, the voices of those men fading into nothing, but all of it felt

irrelevant

now—like the only thing that existed was

this

. Geralt’s chest, solid and warm, still flush against her back. His breath, steady but

deep

, just barely brushing against the side of her neck.

She didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t do

anything

to remind him that maybe, maybe he should take a step back.

Because she

liked

this. Liked the way he held her, protective and sure. Liked the way his fingers had twitched against her skin just a moment ago, as if fighting some silent battle with himself. Liked the way it felt so

natural

.

She swallowed hard, pulse thrumming in her ears. She should say something—should crack a joke, make a comment, do

something

to cut the tension wrapping itself around them like a net.

But before she could, his voice rumbled low against her spine.

"

Tell me to stop

."

Her breath hitched.

"

Tell me to take my hands off you

."

Cathleen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, fighting the ridiculous, shivering heat pooling deep in her belly.

She

could

tell him to. She

should

. If she said the words, he would do it—immediately, without hesitation.

Because he was

Geralt

. Because he would never keep his hands on her if she didn’t

want

them there.

And great mother,

that

was the part that undid her the most—the

certainty

of it. The knowledge that his restraint wasn’t coming from

fear

of rejection, or some misguided sense of obligation.

It was

because he respected her

. Because he was waiting for her to tell him what she

wanted

.

And what she wanted was

this.

She turned her head just slightly, just enough that she could see the sharp line of his jaw from the corner of her eye.

“I don’t want you to.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt

loud

somehow—like she had just changed something between them permanently, like she had just cracked open the space that had always existed between them and dared to

step into it

.

Geralt inhaled slowly. His fingers

flexed

again, the only sign that her words had affected him at all.

She hesitated, just for a second, because this

wasn’t

the plan. This wasn’t how she had imagined ever telling him—if she even ever told him at all.

But standing here, bare and vulnerable in his arms, feeling the way

he

was the only one who made her feel

safe

in moments like this—

Fuck it.

She exhaled, steadying herself, and then finally, finally said the words she had been holding back for weeks.

“You’re not just a friend for me anymore, Geralt.”

She felt the sharp inhale he took, felt the way his grip on her waist stiffened for the briefest second before going carefully still.

She pushed forward before she could lose her nerve.

“I know you might not be ready for anything more,” she murmured. “And I’m not asking you for anything right now. I just… I needed you to know. That I—” She swallowed. “That I

want

you. Not just for a night. Not just in passing. I’ve felt this… this pull toward you since the moment I met you. I’m tired of fighting it.”

She felt his heartbeat against her back, steady but

heavy

.

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” she added quietly. “I don’t expect

anything

from you. But I wanted you to know that I

can

wait. If you need time, I’ll wait.”

She turned her head a little more, angling herself so she could

see

him properly, and her heart clenched at the look in his eyes.

A war. A silent, painful war, right there in the depths of his golden irises.

She didn’t know what he would say.

Didn’t know if he would pull away, or tighten his hold, or tell her she was foolish for wanting something he didn’t believe he could

give

.

But she had said it.

And while biting her lower lip softly, she moved her feet on the uneven ground of the lake. His grip slackened barely enough for her to face him before his fingers clamped down on her again, keeping him right there with him. Her nose was on the same height with his broad shoulders.

Cathleen lowered her gaze to his broad chest, her blue eyes flickering over the countless scars and marks scattered across it. Raising her hands slowly from the water, loose droplets running over her skin, she placed her hand on his upper arms, the touch so gentle, so shy of any force. She let her fingertips wander, caressing his skin, so much rougher and marred than her own. She didn’t mind and continued to trace, her eyes still fixed on his chest. Realising a shuddering breath, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his chest, right where his heart beat. The soft hair of his chest tickled her face gently as she moved her lips over it, covering everything she could reach with featherlike kisses.

She could feel his breaths on her damp hair but he didn’t stop her, didn’t tear his hands off her.

“You are more than just a witcher,” she whispered against his skin between kisses. “You are Geralt. A man. A person.” The unspoken words between them made him suck in a breath.

Not a butcher, not a killer, not a monster

.

“You are Geralt,” she repeated softly and let her lips ghost over his collarbone.

“

My

Geralt. Even as a friend. You’ll always be

my

Geralt.”

My Geralt.

The words wrapped around him like a spell, sinking into the marrow of his bones, settling in places no blade had ever reached.

No one had ever said something like that to him. Not like this.

He had been called many things—a killer, a freak, a butcher, a thing that should not be. But never

this

. Never someone’s. Never

hers

.

His throat felt tight, unbearably so. His heart—fuck, his heart—was thudding against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with battle, nothing to do with danger.

Because

this

—her hands on him, her lips against his chest, her voice whispering against his skin—

this

was far more terrifying than any monster he had ever faced.

Because she

meant

it.

He could hear it in the way she said his name, feel it in the way her fingers traced over every scar,

every

mark on his body, as if she wasn’t disgusted by them. As if she didn’t see him as something broken, something ruined.

As if she saw

Geralt

.

Not

the Witcher.

Not

the White Wolf.

Not

the Butcher of Blaviken.

Just

him

.

How? How could she look at

him

—at

what

he was, at the things he had done, at the parts of himself he had spent a lifetime trying to lock away—and still

want

him?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But

fuck

, he wanted to believe it.

Her lips moved over his collarbone, soft, reverent, like she was worshipping

him

, and he

should

have stopped this, should have pulled away, should have reminded her that he wasn’t a man worth waiting for.

But his body refused to listen.

His hands had a mind of their own, flexing at her waist, pressing her closer, as if they

needed

to feel her, needed to make sure she was real. He knew that now that he pressed her closer, she was able to feel him hardened, his cock pressing against her hip.

But she didn’t move, didn’t flinch from him.

And that undid something inside him, something buried deep, something that made his resolve snap like a bowstring pulled too tight.

His hands moved—slow, hesitant, but undeniable. One sliding up the curve of her back, fingers pressing into wet skin, mapping every delicate ridge of her spine. The other staying firm at her hip, gripping her like she might disappear if he let go.

And then—fuck—he dipped his head.

His lips brushed against her hair first, damp and clinging to her skin. Then her temple. Then lower, until his breath was fanning against her cheek.

Cathleen

shivered

. Not from cold. Not from fear.

From

him

.

He turned his head, angling just enough that their lips nearly touched, his breath mingling with hers, his chest pressed so close against her that he could feel her heartbeat racing against his own.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, voice raw, wrecked.

She didn’t. Instead, her fingers curled against his shoulders, her breath coming faster, and she whispered, “I won’t.”

His restraint shattered.

Geralt closed the last sliver of space between them, his lips finally—

finally

—claiming hers.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate.

A kiss that felt like it had been waiting

too long

to happen, like it had been burning beneath the surface of every touch, every glance, every

moment

they had shared.

She gasped into it, and he swallowed the sound greedily, his fingers tightening at her hip, pulling her flush against him as his other hand cupped the back of her head, tangling into her wet hair.

And

fuck

, she

melted

into him.

No hesitation, no fear, just—

her

. Giving herself to him as completely as she had given her trust, her

words

, her

everything

.

He groaned low in his throat, deepening the kiss, drinking her in, letting himself

feel

this, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

Because

fuck waiting

. Because for once in his life, he

wanted

something.

And for once in his life, that something—

someone

—wanted

him

just as much.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 10 –

Silver Thread

The first thing floating through her was relief. Fuck, she hadn’t imagine it, hadn’t imagine his lingering touches and gazes and…

His teeth grazed her lower lip and she moaned, making room for the second thing floating through her. Desire. For him.

Her hands found their way into his hair, fucking the already tangled mess further up. His broad hand pressed her head against him, fingers in her hair and she just

loved

this, loved that with him, she could be the weaker person. It didn’t mean that she was weak, that she was making herself vulnerable to him. It meant he would look after her in the moment she needed him too, just like she would look after him.

Pushing her tongue into his mouth, she not only enjoyed the taste of him, no. She also enjoyed the growl it drew from him and his reaction that followed. The hand on her hip dipped down, sliding over her ass before grabbing it, making her gasp in his mouth. With a swift motion, he pulled her up against him and she wrapped her legs around his waist. The thought that he didn’t need her to support her own weight, that he could carry her around without ever breaking a sweat made her insides coil in a delicious tingle.

While Geralt started walking deeper into the lake, the water submerging them further until her breasts were barely above the surface, she had to tear her mouth from his. At first, he didn’t want to let her go, the hand on her head keeping her mouth right on his own until he finally allowed them to part.

Breathlessly, she stared at him, fingers tucking softly at the strands of his white hair.

“Air,” she gasped, sliding her hands from his hair to cup his face, the stubble of his beards poking into her palms softly. “Humans need air.”

He glared at her as if he hated that statement and then growled, “Fuck.” That made her giggle softly, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones gently. Her giggle turned into a moan as Geralt dipped his head down, latching onto her neck.

“You,” his voice rumbled between kisses, his breath tickling her sensitive skin as she leaned her head back, eyes falling closed. “Taste. Fucking. Devine.”

His name slipped past her lips, which only seemed to entice him.

Geralt groaned against her skin, the vibration of it sending a fresh wave of heat through her. He was devouring her, his lips and teeth and tongue trailing down her throat, over the curve of her shoulder, as if he wanted to mark every inch of her as his.

And

fuck

, she wanted him to.

Her fingers flexed against his face, tracing over the sharp lines of his jaw, the stubble prickling against her palms. She tilted his head back just enough to meet his gaze, her own breathless, her lips swollen from his kiss.

He looked

wrecked

.

Like a man barely holding onto control, like someone caught between instinct and restraint.

And fuck, she loved it. Loved the way he

looked

at her, like he wanted to consume her whole. Loved the way his hands gripped her, firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to worship her or ruin her.

She ran her fingers down his face, over the sharp planes of his cheekbones, brushing against the scar that cut across the bridge of his nose. He flinched slightly at the touch, as if surprised by the gentleness of it.

That made her chest ache.

When was the last time someone had

touched

him like this? Not in violence, not in necessity, but in something softer? Someone who hadn’t been paid to do so?

Had

anyone

?

The thought sent a rush of something deep and fierce through her, something protective and possessive all at once.

She

wanted

to be the one to give him this.
That he was

wanted

. That he was

worthy

.

“Geralt,” she whispered, leaning in again, pressing her lips softly to his, taking her time with it now. No urgency. Just feeling him. Just

him

.

His body tensed beneath her hands, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with something so gentle. But then—slowly, hesitantly—he kissed her back just as softly.

And that? That was what undid her. Not the hunger, not the need. But

this

.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, “I meant what I said.”

His brows furrowed. “About what?”

She exhaled a soft laugh, resting her forehead against his. “About you being more than just a witcher. About you being

mine

.”

His grip on her tightened, his breath hitching.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he muttered. But his voice was

hoarse

. Almost

pleading

. She cupped his face again, making him

look

at her, making sure he saw the certainty in her eyes.

“Yes, I do,” she said simply.

His jaw clenched. “Cathleen—”

“I see

you

,” she interrupted gently. “And I

choose

you.”

For a moment, he just

stared

at her, as if trying to find a crack in her words, some sign that she didn’t mean them. He wouldn’t find one.

His lips crashed against hers again once more, fierce and deep and full of everything he hadn’t said. And this time, there was no stopping. She didn’t want him to stop anyway.

One of his hands held her up by the thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh with just the right amount of force that had her dizzy. His other hand cupped her face but didn’t stay there long, trailing down over her throat. His calloused palm ran over her collarbones, to her breasts all the while his lips moved against hers. Her own hands couldn’t keep still, pulling on his hair, stroking over his cheeks, neck, shoulders.

When Geralt pinched her nipple hard enough to send a delicious flicker of pain through her, she dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders, making him groan into her mouth. She used this to connect their tongues again, trailing his lips with hers.

A shudder ran down her spine, making her arch her back as his hand left her breast and trailed down even further. Geralt had no trouble finding her pleasure point, his fingers pressing onto her clit immediately, which made her moan.

With just a few precise movements, she was a moaning mess, having to tear her mouth away from him again to get some damn air into her lungs.

Geralt didn’t seem to mind much, because he just yanked her higher so that he had it easier to latch onto her breasts instead. In the way he held her, Cathleen had no other option but to just cling to him, trailing her fingers through his hair and enjoy what he was doing to her.

While his mouth worked her breasts, his fingers continued to circle her clit, clearly not planning to do anything else any time soon.

His name was like a prayer on her lips as he worked her closer to the edge. She buried her face in his hair, breathing in the scent of him as her breath turned ragged.

“Geralt–” Her own moan interrupted her as Geralt moved his fingers down, pushing two into her without any resistance.

“Fuck.” His growl had her right there, right on the edge. Just a little–

His thumb moved against her clit right as those two fingers inside of her pressed against that spot that had her see stars and she tipped over, her orgasm rolling over her as she clung to Geralt, moaning into his hair.

A whimper left her as he retreated his fingers and he let her slide down a little until she sat on his hips again.

“Cathleen…” His voice was a low rumble and she looked up, meeting his gaze. It was still an unusual thing for her – seeing him this open with her, because now he was showing her his uncertainty.

Trying to ease his worries, she gave him a crooked grin, still trying to catch her breath as she trailed one of her hands down his chest. Her fingertips ran over his skin, his scars, not shying away from any of it because why the fuck should she?

“When I say I want you, Geralt,” she murmured while holding his gaze, continuing to trail her hand down. She had arrived by his stomach now, the muscles beneath her fingertips tensed and relaxed. Still, she wasn’t stopping. “I mean I want

all

of you.” Pushing her hand beneath the water, she wrapped her hand around his cock without hesitation. And the gentleness was gone, too, because the kind of hunger that ignited in his golden eyes told her everything she needed to know.

Squeezing his cock, Geralt growled at her, both of his hands coming down to her ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he pressed her against him. The second his shaft brushed against her clit, still sensitive from her orgasm, both of them went rigid.

Cathleen barely had time to pump Geralt twice before he hummed, the vibration of his voice getting her impossibly wet, before lifting her slightly. As she lined him up, they locked eyes again. Keeping their eyes on each other, Geralt let her slide down, pushing into her excruciatingly slow.

The stretch was delicious, Geralt being thicker than her past lovers and she couldn’t help but wonder if that was something the mutation had enhanced as well. But then again, in the end, it didn’t matter at all.

The moment he was seated fully inside her, Cathleen could watch every thought vanish from his head. She would have smiled at the way that made her feel if he hadn’t started thrusting, efficiently wiping every thought from her as well.

Their lips crashed together once again, his thrusts brushing that point inside her again and again, making her whimper. At the way he couldn’t find a rhythm, struggled to hold himself back, she knew he wouldn’t last long. And that was okay, fuck, it was more than okay because this wasn’t so much about her pleasure as it was about the connection between them. Besides, Geralt had already made sure that she wouldn’t be left unsatisfied.

Her hands cupped his face as their mouths broke apart again, her forehead pressed against his. Their breaths mingled, her soft moans a stark contrast to his deep grunts.

It didn’t seem like Geralt agreed with her opinion, because one of his arms snuck around her waist, keeping her close to him, while his other hand found its way between them again.

“Geralt–” He shushed her with a growl as his fingers found her clit, circling it more lightly than before to avoid her being overstimulated. But because she was already so sensitive, it didn’t take long for her to go over the edge again. All of this was suddenly so overwhelming that she couldn’t help herself but bite into his shoulder as she came. She hadn’t meant to do it this harshly, actually startled as she tasted his blood on her lips. But Geralt appeared to like it because with another grunt, he stiffened, pulling her on him hard as he spilled inside of her.

His ragged breathing fanned over her shoulder as they both came down from that high.

Pulling back slowly, she could still feel his blood on her lips and as their gazes met, she gave him an apologetic smile, still breathing unevenly.

“Sorry…”

Geralt’s gaze dropped to her lips, a grin forming on his face before he met her eyes again.

“Don’t ever be sorry for this.” That made her snort, grinning at him as she licked his blood off her lips, the metallic taste not bothering her at all.

The sight made him growl, his hands coming down to rest on her waist again. She enjoyed this so much, it was almost painful.

With a soft smile, she leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft kiss. Yes, she enjoyed this very much.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 11 –

Inhaling

The fire crackled softly, sending flickers of golden light across the clearing. Shadows danced along the trees, stretching and shifting with the gentle breeze. The night was quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance, the rustling of leaves as small creatures scurried through the underbrush. The world had settled.

And so had she.

Cathleen lay curled in his lap, her head resting against his thigh, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The firelight kissed her face, making her look even softer, even

more

beautiful—if that was possible. Her breathing was slow, steady, completely at ease.

Geralt exhaled slowly, leaning back against the tree behind him, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the curve of her shoulder. His body still hummed from what had happened earlier, from

her

, from the way she had touched him, had

taken

him. He could still feel her on his skin, still taste her on his tongue. He should have felt satisfied, sated.

He didn’t. If anything, he only wanted

more

. Not just her body—though,

fuck

, he wouldn’t deny how much he craved that. But

her

.

The way she

looked

at him, unafraid,

unbothered

by what he was. The way she

touched

him, as if he wasn’t just some monster, some mutated killer. As if he was

hers

.

The words she had whispered against his skin echoed in his mind.

You are more than just a witcher. You are Geralt.

My

Geralt.

Something inside him clenched at the memory.

He let his head tilt back, staring at the stars above them, his fingers still lazily running along the ridge of her shoulder blade. The embers of the fire glowed, and he thought about the way she had

burned

him in the lake—set fire to every part of him he thought had been long since extinguished.

How easily she had slipped beneath the walls he had so carefully built.

He had tried—

fuck

, he had

tried

—to keep his distance. Had convinced himself that what he felt for her was nothing more than fleeting attraction, nothing more than the instincts of a man who had spent too much time alone.

But it wasn’t. It

never

had been. It had been

her

.

From the moment she had sent him on a wild goose chase months ago, fearless and full of wit, from the moment she had spoken to him like he was a

man

, not just a witcher. From the moment she had caught him with her magic, had protected him ever since, from the first time she had reached out and touched him without hesitation. Every moment since then had led them here.

And he was

fucking terrified

. Because if she stayed—if she

truly

stayed—what then?

Could he be what she deserved? Could he

give

her more than just stolen moments between battles, between hunts?

Would she grow tired of him? Would she regret this? Would she

leave

?

Because there were things he could never give her. He would always be a witcher and witchers didn’t live on to die of old age. No, they died on the Path. The thought of settling down, living a normal life, had never occurred to him. It wasn’t even possible because wherever he went, the people would never accept him as a neighbor. He would also never be able to give her children – if that was something she might want. Fuck, he didn’t know nearly enough about her, Geralt realized. During those months of travel, he had never asked about her and now he came to regret it. He wanted to know

everything

about her.

His grip on her tightened instinctively, his thumb brushing over her arm, as if reassuring himself that she was still here. That she wasn’t just some dream conjured by his own loneliness.

She stirred slightly at his touch, letting out a small, contented sigh before settling again.

Geralt closed his eyes. He wanted to keep her. Fuck, he wanted to keep her. Even if it was selfish. Even if it was

dangerous

.

His hand slid from her shoulder to her back, fingers splaying against the curve of her spine. She was warm,

soft

—so different from the world he knew, from the blood and steel and death that had shaped him.

He hadn’t realized how much he

needed

this, needed

her

.

His throat tightened.

He wasn’t sure what this meant for them. Wasn’t sure where it would lead. But he knew one thing.

She had called him

hers

. And now, she was

his

.

The morning came slowly, golden light creeping through the gaps in the trees, stretching long fingers across the ground. The fire had burned down to embers, still glowing faintly, and the forest stirred with the quiet sounds of waking life.

Geralt hadn’t slept much.

He rarely did, but last night had been different. Not because of nightmares, nor the ever-present awareness of potential danger. No, this time, it was because of the woman curled against him, her warmth seeping into him, her steady breathing lulling him into something dangerously close to peace.

Cathleen. His.

He still wasn’t sure what that meant, not in full, but the realization had settled in his chest like a stone, immovable and absolute. She had carved herself into him, just as surely as his own scars, and he wasn’t sure there was a way back from that.

And he wasn’t sure he

wanted

one.

Even now, as she stirred in his arms, blinking sleepily up at him, the sight of her tangled hair and drowsy blue eyes sent a surge of something unfamiliar through him—something warm, something possessive.

He leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead. The way she sighed at the contact, nuzzling slightly closer before murmuring a sleepy,

"

Mhm, morning, Geralt,

"

made something deep in his chest tighten.

Fuck. He was in trouble.

But trouble always had a tendency to find her, didn’t it?

By midday, they were back on the Path, Roach carrying them at an easy pace along the winding dirt road. The sky was clear, the air crisp, and the rhythmic sway of the horse beneath them should have been the only thing on Geralt’s mind.

But it wasn’t. Because Cathleen was

everywhere

.

She sat in front of him, nestled snugly between his arms, her back pressed against his chest. His thighs bracketed hers, his body surrounding her completely, and he was very aware of every shift, every breath she took.

And, fuck, he wasn’t keeping his hands to himself.

One arm was wrapped loosely around her waist, his palm spread over her stomach, fingers occasionally flexing as if just to remind himself she was really there. The other? It wandered. Skimming along her thigh, tracing idle patterns against the fabric of her clothes, occasionally trailing up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

And she let him. More than that—she leaned into it, tilting her head slightly when he brushed his knuckles along her jaw, exhaling softly when he ran his fingers over the curve of her hip. She hadn’t protested. Hadn’t teased him about it—yet.

But when she finally did, it was with quiet amusement.

"You’re being awfully touchy today," she remarked, her tone light, but he could hear the smirk in her voice.

He hummed, pretending to focus on the road ahead. "Problem?"

"Not at all," she replied, placing her hands over his on her stomach, keeping them there. "Just didn’t expect you to be so… clingy. You’re usually not."

He didn’t argue. He knew she was right.

But he

liked

touching her. And more than that, he liked that she

wanted

him to.

His fingers ghosted over hers.

"I want to know more about you," he admitted, voice lower than he intended. "Should’ve asked sooner."

She was quiet for a beat, then she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Alright," she murmured. "What do you want to know?"

Everything. But he started with, "Your magic

.

"

She chuckled. "You’ll have to be more specific than that, Witcher."

He huffed, lips twitching despite himself. "I’ve seen you cast. It’s different from most mages. No incantations, barely any hand gestures."

"Observant." She traced a small circle on the back of his hand, sending a shiver up his spine. "It’s… instinctive. Like breathing. I don’t need words or signs, just intent. I

will

something to happen, and it does. Most of the time."

"And when it doesn’t?"

She laughed softly. "Let’s just say I’ve had

accidents

before. Ever seen a tree burst into flames for no reason?"

His brow lifted. "

You

?"

"Me," she admitted, amused. "Took me years to control it properly."

He considered that. Magic was dangerous enough when controlled through discipline and training—he couldn’t imagine the strength it would take to

will

it into submission.

“Tell me more,” he demanded softly. Geralt nearly sighed as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.

“It’s… like a pressure,” she mumbled and suddenly the air shifted around them. He could feel it pressing down his skin gently – her magic. “Right beneath my skin. It’s always with me, running through my veins, wrapped around my bones.”

Turning her head, she glanced at him with a soft smile.

“I prefer elemental magic. Air is the easiest because it’s literally

everywhere

. I can manipulate it however I want it. Earth is hard for me, because you need to have a certain amount of physical strength.” Lifting her thin arms with a chuckle, showing off the lack of muscles there.

“I can do more than that but I rarely do because it drains me too quickly. If I went to Aretuza, maybe I would have learned how to control that kind of chaos.” With a shrug, she dismissed it, as if it didn’t matter to her at all.

He wanted to ask more, but another thought pressed forward instead.

"

Where

did you learn?"

She snorted softly and turned her head forward again. "It sounds weird but… nature did."

Something in her tone made him tighten his grip around her waist slightly. "Nature?"

Her expression turned thoughtful. "The wind, nature, whatever, it… speaks to me, kind of?" In the way she talked, he knew she wasn’t sure how that worked either.

“Not in words, you know? It’s more like… a nudge in a direction. It also helps me around.”

Cathleen turned her head to grin softly at him. “It warned me when you arrived in that tavern months ago. And it pushed me toward you ever since.”

Geralt hummed in reply, leaning his head toward her face to press a soft kiss on her forehead.

The conversation lulled for a while, the steady rhythm of Roach’s hooves filling the silence.

But Geralt wasn’t done.

"

Your past,

"

he said eventually.

She stilled for half a heartbeat before chuckling. "Again, you’ll have to be more specific."

He huffed. "Your childhood."

She was quiet for a long time, and he almost regretted asking. But then—

"I don’t know, actually."

He listened intently at her whispered voice.

"My first memories are from when I was around five or six, I think. I was in Brokilon Forest and I was just … walking around. Aimlessly. Until my magic or nature or whatever it is guided me around. It lead me to save foods and rivers, warned me of dangers. I think I left the forest when I was around … ten or something."

Geralt frowned slightly. "You don’t know anything from before?”

There was no bitterness in her voice as she told him ‘No’, just quiet acceptance.

He didn’t respond, just tightened his grip on her waist, his thumb stroking slow circles over her stomach. She didn’t pull away.

Now he had even more questions but Geralt decided that they could wait for now.

They rode in comfortable silence for a while, her presence a warm weight against him.

Then—

"Why the sudden curiosity?" she asked, amusement in her tone.

He exhaled, considering his words. "Should’ve asked before."

"You never seemed interested before," she pointed out.

His fingers traced slow patterns against her hip. "I

was

."

She hummed, clearly pleased with that answer.

Another beat of silence.

"You never did tell me

your

story, you know," she said, voice softer.

His jaw tightened instinctively. "Not much to tell." His grip on her waist tightened slightly.

She knew that there

was

a story to tell. The process of becoming a witcher was something only described in rumors across the different people.

She didn’t push him, though.. Just tilted her head, pressing a kiss to his jaw to show him that he understood. That it was fine.

By late afternoon, they reached the outskirts of a village.

Geralt slowed Roach, taking in the small, clustered houses, the thin tendrils of smoke curling from chimneys. It was quiet, but the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Something was

wrong

here.

Cathleen must have sensed it too because she straightened in his arms, body suddenly alert.

"It feels like there might be a job for us here," she murmured.

He nodded. "Let’s find out what we’re dealing with."

As Roach carried them forward, he felt her place her hands over his again, her fingers lacing with his.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 12 –

Crossing The Line

The moment they rode into the village, she felt it.

A shift in the air.

Not the kind she controlled, not the soft, familiar nudge of magic wrapping around her bones. No, this was something else entirely. Heavier.

Harsher.

Disdain. Fear. Disgust.

It clung to the villagers like a second skin, their expressions twisting the moment their eyes landed on Geralt. Women pulled their children closer, muttering under their breath. Men narrowed their gazes, spitting into the dirt as they passed.

And Geralt? He didn’t react. Like always. No matter where they travelled through, it was always the same. The people were being hateful and he?

Didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl, didn’t tense beneath her hands. Just carried on, as if he hadn’t noticed. But he

had.

She knew he had.

She sat up straighter in the saddle, pressing herself even closer to him, making sure the whole damn village saw exactly who she was leaning against.

Geralt didn’t comment when she slid one hand up his arm, fingers curling around the thick muscle there. Nor did he stop her when she tilted her head against his shoulder, letting her lips brush against the skin of his neck in a way that was utterly deliberate.

Let them

see.

Let them

whisper.

She felt his arm tighten slightly around her waist, his fingers flexing against her stomach, as if he understood exactly what she was doing.

Good. She wasn’t finished.

When a particularly sour-faced old man glared at them, muttering something under his breath, she met his gaze

head-on

and raised a single brow in challenge.

The old man blanched, eyes darting away.

Coward.

She smirked, victorious, before shifting in Geralt’s hold, turning her face up toward him. He glanced down at her, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable.

She arched a brow.

Play along, Witcher.

His lips twitched slightly. Then, without hesitation, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, his hand splaying

firmly

over her stomach.

Cathleen nearly

purred.

There. Let them

choke

on their hatred. She

dared

them to say something now.

But of course, they didn’t. Because it was always easier to hate in whispers, wasn’t it?

Pathetic.

The inside of the tavern wasn’t much better. Dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of stale ale and unwashed bodies, the place was exactly what she expected from a village like this. And the moment they stepped inside, all conversation stopped.

Every pair of eyes turned to them.

To

him.

A thick, heavy silence settled over the room.

Geralt ignored it, as he always did, moving toward the counter with the same measured ease he carried everywhere. But Cathleen?

Cathleen

felt

it. The judgment. The unease. The barely restrained hostility. And somehow, after the lake, after their new-found, strengthened connection, it felt different now.

Her jaw clenched. But she stayed silent, like she usually did.

They reached the bar, and the innkeeper—a squat, round-bellied man with a face like a kicked dog—glanced at them warily.

"Witcher," he grunted.

Geralt inclined his head. "Heard there was work here."

The man hesitated. His beady little eyes flickered to Cathleen, lingering a second too long before returning to Geralt.

"Maybe," he muttered. "Depends."

Geralt exhaled slowly. Patient. Always so damn patient. "On what?"

The man shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "On whether the village wants yer kind helpin’."

Cathleen

froze.

Oh.

Oh, really?

Before she could open her mouth, someone else did it for her.

"Why don’t you crawl back to whatever cursed hole you came from, freak?"

The voice came from a group of men sitting at a nearby table. Drunk, by the looks of them. Mean. Ugly. The worst kind of men—those who thought their numbers made them bold.

Cathleen slowly turned her head.

Three of them. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, thick-fingered. The kind that smelled of cheap ale and piss.

Geralt? Didn’t react. Didn’t even look at them.

Because of course he didn’t. He was used to this. Used to being treated like he was nothing more than a monster in human skin. Used to being spat at, hated, feared.

And

that

—that made her blood fucking

boil.

She moved before she even realized it, stepping away from Geralt and straight toward the table.

The men blinked, clearly not expecting

her

to react.

"Sorry," she said, voice sweet as honey as she propped herself on the wooden surface, "I didn’t quite hear you. Say that again?"

One of them—the one who had spoken, she assumed—grinned, baring yellowed teeth. "I said, why don’t the freak crawl back to where he—"

He didn’t finish.

Because the moment the words left his mouth, the air

shifted.

At this time, it was her.

A sudden, sharp gust blew through the tavern, rattling the walls, sending a shiver through the wooden beams above.

The candles flickered. The flames trembled.

And

then

—

His chair

tipped.

It happened so fast. One second, he was grinning up at her like he had all the power in the world, and the next, he was

falling.

Backwards. Hard.

His head

cracked

against the floor, his tankard spilling ale all over his shirt. The tavern

gasped.

Cathleen smiled, slow and wicked.

"Oops," she murmured, as if she hadn’t just done all those things for show. She could have knocked him over without all this.

The other two men scrambled to their feet, eyes wide, expressions twisting between fear and rage.

"You fucking—!"

She shifted her eyes to them, and

every candle in the tavern flared.

The flames burned

higher, brighter,

casting long, flickering shadows against the walls.

The air

hummed.

Power crackled over her skin, invisible and

unstoppable.

The men

froze.

She tilted her head, letting her fingers

twitch

—and just like that, the flames

wavered.

"You were saying?" she asked, voice still deceptively sweet.

Silence. Dead, choking silence.

The man on the floor scrambled upright, his face pale as death.

Cathleen stepped closer, leaning in just enough to make them

sweat.

"Now, listen carefully," she whispered. "You don’t speak to

him

like that. Ever. Again. Or next time? I won’t be so gentle."

She let the words

linger.

Let the

threat

settle into their bones.

Then she turned, smiling brightly at the innkeeper.

"Now," she said, as if nothing had happened. "About that job?"

The innkeeper swallowed hard.

"R-right," he stammered. "There’s a—uh—a beast. Killin’ livestock. We, uh… we need help."

Geralt stepped forward then, placing a hand on the small of her back. She glanced up at him.

His face was unreadable. But his eyes?

Warm. Pleased.

She smirked and leaned into him. Just a little.

"Well," she murmured, watching as the men at the table desperately avoided looking at her. "Isn’t that

convenient

?"

The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense, the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves thick in the air. The trees stretched high, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky, barely allowing the evening light to seep through.

Cathleen adjusted the strap of her satchel, casting a glance at Geralt as they trudged along the narrow, uneven path. She had come into the habit of carrying around additional potions of his in case the small vials he had strapped to his thigh would be shattered in combat – something that tended to happen to him more often than not.

The hunt was straightforward—something had been attacking livestock, leaving behind shredded carcasses, deep claw marks, and strange, guttural sounds in the dead of night.

Geralt, of course, knew exactly what it was the moment the innkeeper had stammered out the details.

"An alghoul," he had said, voice as steady as ever.

Cathleen had frowned at that, and now, as they made their way toward the beast's last known location, she finally asked, "What the fuck is an alghoul?"

Geralt gave her a look, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You really don’t know?"

She huffed. "If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,

would I?

"

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but he obliged her.

"Alghouls are a nastier, more dangerous version of regular ghouls," he explained, stepping over a gnarled root. "Stronger, faster, more aggressive. And their spikes…" He gestured vaguely toward his own arm. "When they get angry, they can raise them—sharp as knives. Try cutting one down when it’s bristling like a damn porcupine. You won’t get far."

Cathleen wrinkled her nose. "Sounds charming."

"Oh, it is," he said dryly.

"So, how do we kill it?"

She felt, rather than saw, the way he glanced at her then. Assessing. Calculating. Like he was trying to figure out how to keep her out of it.

It made her glare at him

.

"If you start being overprotective now because I slept with you, I

will

smack you across the face,” she threatened. “You know I can handle myself.”

"I know," he said, voice calm, completely ignoring her threat. "But alghouls are different from the monsters we’ve fought before. You can’t just set them on fire and hope they die."

She made a face. "

Rude.

"

He smirked again but continued, "They’re resistant to steel. Silver works, but you have to get in close, and with the spikes…" He trailed off. "Aard works well to knock them off balance. Necrophage oil weakens them. If you see its eyes glow red,

move.

That means it’s about to rage—and if it does, getting close is suicide."

She absorbed the information, nodding. "And if it goes into a rage?"

Geralt’s expression turned thoughtful. "Then we play it smart. I’ll bait it. You cover me from a distance—use your magic. Wind works well. Knocking it over will give me an opening."

She hummed, nodding. "I can do that."

"I know." His voice was softer this time, like he had no doubts about it. It made something warm settle in her chest.

They walked in silence for a while, the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath their boots filling the quiet.

She wasn’t oblivious to the change in his demeanor. Geralt was staying

close. Really

close.

He’d always been protective. But

this?

This was different.

He was barely a step away, close enough that his shoulder brushed against hers every time they moved. Close enough that whenever she shifted, she felt the warmth of him radiating through his armor.

It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t just the path being narrow. Something was wrong.

She gave him a look, one brow raised in silent question.

He met her gaze, unbothered, and simply said, "Alghouls hunt in packs."

She blinked. "You didn’t say that before."

"You didn’t ask."

She glared

.

"That seems like a very

important

detail, Geralt."

He made a noise that might have been amusement, then exhaled. "This one’s alone," he assured her. "But I’d rather not take any chances."

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. "That why you’re hovering?"

His gaze flickered to hers, steady and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he said simply, "Yes."

She rolled her eyes, huffing. "Fine. Hover,

if you must.

But if you get in my way, I’m tripping you."

His lips twitched, seeing right through her feigned annoyance. "Noted."

The corners of her own mouth lifted slightly.

The forest stretched around them, dark and damp, the scent of decay thick in the air. The further they walked, the quieter it became—no birds, no rustling of small creatures in the underbrush. Only the steady crunch of their boots against the damp earth and the occasional creak of leather as Geralt shifted his grip on the hilt of his silver sword.

They were close. Geralt could feel it.

Alghouls carried the stench of death with them, a thick, rancid rot that clung to the air. It mingled with the smell of old blood, of iron and something distinctly unnatural.

He exhaled slowly, scanning the clearing ahead.

A shallow depression in the ground marked where the villagers had said the creature had last been seen. Torn remnants of animal carcasses were scattered about—bones stripped clean, bits of fur still clinging to patches of bloodied earth.

No sign of movement. But it was here.

Somewhere.

Geralt’s grip on his sword tightened as he reached into his satchel, pulling out a vial of Black Blood.

The potion sloshed thickly inside, its inky consistency catching the dim light filtering through the trees. He uncorked it with his teeth and downed it in one go, grimacing as the acrid taste coated his tongue. Almost immediately, he felt the effects—his blood thickening, turning toxic to anything that dared to bite into his flesh.

Cathleen watched him, brow raised. "That one’s new."

Geralt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Alghouls bite. If they try, they won’t like what they get."

She hummed, shifting her stance slightly. He could feel her magic stirring, the air around her charged with a quiet, restrained power.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he doubted her.

No, he’d

seen

what she could do—felt it, even. Her magic was precise, instinctual. She wasn’t like most mages who relied on words and rituals; she

commanded

magic as if it were an extension of herself.

And yet…

His mind kept circling back to her.

Ever since the lake, something had changed. His worry for her had always been there, lingering beneath the surface, but now—it was worse.

So much worse.

He had no reason to be like this. No reason to hover. No reason to keep glancing at her, to keep positioning himself between her and whatever fucking danger lurked ahead.

She was more than capable of handling herself. She had

proven

that, over and over again.

And yet, here he was, jaw tight, muscles wound taut beneath his armor, every instinct in him screaming to

protect

her, to

keep her safe

.

It was stupid. Irrational. And he knew it.

Still, it didn’t stop him from stepping closer, from ensuring she was always within arm’s reach.

Cathleen, to her credit, didn’t call him out on it. She simply glanced at him with a knowing look, her eyes holding something amused and

fond

before turning her attention back to their surroundings.

Something rustled in the brush ahead. They both stilled.

Geralt exhaled, his witcher senses sharpening. The sounds were

off

—too slow, too measured to be the usual scurrying of wildlife.

He stepped forward, careful, controlled.

And then—

A low, guttural

growl.

Geralt barely had time to react before the alghoul lunged from the shadows.

It was

fast.

A blur of rotting flesh and sharp, yellowed claws, its eyes gleaming red as it launched itself at him.

Geralt sidestepped, blade flashing. He slashed, aiming for the neck, but the creature twisted mid-air, its thick hide deflecting the worst of the blow. It landed on all fours, snarling, its lips peeling back to reveal jagged, bloodstained teeth.

Then—

the spikes.

With a sickening

shrrk

, rows of bony protrusions erupted along its back and arms, glistening in the dim light.

"Shit

,

" Cathleen muttered from behind him. Geralt’s mind worked fast. If it was already

this

aggressive, it wouldn’t take long for it to go into a frenzy.

"Cathleen!" His voice was sharp, commanding. "Knock it down—

now

."

She was already moving.

The air around them shifted, a pulse of invisible energy radiating outward. Geralt felt it, thick and heavy, curling around his skin like static before it

snapped

forward.

The alghoul

howled.

A powerful gust of wind

slammed

into it, sending the creature hurtling backward. It hit the ground hard, its spikes scraping against the earth as it tumbled.

Geralt didn’t hesitate. He

moved.

.

Silver blade flashing, he closed the distance before it could recover, bringing his sword down in a precise, brutal arc. The alghoul shrieked as the silver cut through flesh, blackened blood spurting from the wound.

But it wasn’t dead

.

Not yet.

With a furious snarl, it twisted, swiping at him with a clawed hand. Geralt barely managed to dodge, the claws grazing his armor, leaving deep gouges in the reinforced leather.

"

Fuck.

" He landed in a crouch, rolling to the side just as the alghoul lunged again.

Then—

nothing.

As if the creature ran into an invisible wall, it recoiled, snarling. It shrieked, rearing back.

Geralt’s head snapped toward Cathleen. Her hands were raised, palms facing him as her gaze was fixed on the alghoul.

The creature charged again only to recoil again from the invisible shield she had created around him. The second its body hit it, Cathleen grunted as if she could feel the force in her body.

For a moment, he just…

watched

her. Which had been a mistake.

With a force too strong for her to handle the alghoul hit the hardened air, breaking through it with a shriek. Cathleen recoiled as if the creature had pushed her.

Then—

"

Geralt!

"

He snapped back to the present just as the alghoul made another desperate lunge. Its teeth sank into his arm.

Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but he barely registered it.

Because the moment the creature

bit

him— The Black Blood took effect.

The alghoul screamed

.

Its mouth wrenched open, blackened veins spreading across its face, its flesh

boiling

from the inside. It staggered back, convulsing violently.

Geralt didn’t give it a chance to recover.

With a swift, brutal strike, he drove his sword straight through its skull. The alghoul twitched once—then went still. Silence.

Cathleen was beside him an instant later, eyes darting to his injured arm.

"You’re hurt."

Geralt exhaled heavily, pulling his sword free from the creature’s skull. "I’m fine."

She gave him a

look

. "

Geralt.

"

He sighed, glancing at the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it

ached

, the lingering burn of necrotic energy making his skin prickle.

Cathleen didn’t wait for him to argue. Her fingers pushed the soft, warm leather to the side, revealing the bleeding wound.

Pressing her hands on it, Geralt watched with furrowed brows what she was doing.

The pain eased almost instantly and his gaze flickered to her face as soon as he realized what she was doing.

She was focused, her brows furrowed in concentration, her magic seeping into his skin like a gentle current.

But since his eyes were fixed on her face, he noticed it immediately when her skin paled.

"

Cathleen

." His voice was sharper this time, edged with concern.

She ignored him. But he didn’t miss the way her breath hitched—how her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly when she realized what was happening.

Then the scent of blood

hit

him. Not his. Hers.

His stomach twisted, a cold, instinctive dread coiling in his chest as his eyes locked onto the thin rivulet of crimson trailing from her nose, dripping onto her lip, staining the corner of her mouth.

Fuck.

Geralt reached for her immediately, fingers curling around her wrist, stopping whatever magic she was still forcing into his wound. The warmth of it flickered, then cut out entirely as he tore her hand away from his arm. His eyes found hers.

Her pupils were slightly blown, her expression dazed. Too much magic, too fast. He had seen it happen before—mages overextending themselves, pushing past their limits until their bodies started to fail.

But her? He had never seen her like this. She

never

faltered.

She was always controlled, always sure of herself. She wielded magic as easily as breathing—so for it to

cost

her like this?

That meant she had given too much. For

him.

He clenched his jaw, frustration and something dangerously close to

fear

knotting in his chest.

"You need to stop doing that," he said, voice rougher than intended.

She blinked, a sluggish sort of defiance flickering behind her tired eyes. "You were hurt."

"It wasn’t serious." His grip on her wrist tightened just slightly. "

This

is serious."

She exhaled through her nose, lips pressing together in a thin line. Stubborn. As always.

Geralt huffed out a breath, exasperated, before reaching up with his free hand and swiping a calloused thumb under her nose, wiping away the blood.

She stilled at the touch. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The forest was silent around them, the dead alghoul forgotten at their feet. It was just her—her warmth, her pulse thrumming beneath his fingers, her scent laced with blood and magic and

her

.

His thumb lingered against her skin for a second longer than it should have.

Then, with a sigh, he let go.

"Come on," he muttered, turning away before he could do something

stupid

. "Let's get out of here."

And this time, when he fell into step beside her—he didn’t just stay close. He

stuck

to her like a damn shadow.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 13 –

Unseen Paths

Cathleen was too quiet. Geralt had expected her to snap at him by now, expected her to chide him for being so

damn

tense, for gripping her like she might slip from his grasp at any moment. Normally, she would have elbowed him lightly, thrown him a sly remark, teased him for worrying too much.

But she was limp against him, her body slack with exhaustion, her head resting against his shoulder as Roach carried them forward at an easy gait. And he hated it.

His arms were wrapped around her, securing her against him, but it didn’t feel like enough. He could still

feel

the way she had sagged after they left the village, her exhaustion settling deep into her bones. He could still hear the weak slur in her voice when she had told him she was fine. She wasn’t.

Her magic had drained her more than she wanted to admit, more than he had ever seen before. And fuck, he

shouldn’t

have let it happen.

His gaze flickered down to her, his jaw clenching as he noticed the faint trace of dried blood still at the edge of her nostril. He had wiped it away before, but it had returned just before they mounted Roach—another thin, sluggish trickle that had only stopped after she had swayed against him.

She had

never

reached her limit like that before. And for what? For

him

?

Geralt exhaled sharply, trying to temper the frustration curling in his chest. His grip on the reins tightened briefly before he forced himself to relax, shifting his hold around her instead. His fingers ghosted over the curve of her stomach, settling there, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath.

It was a dangerous thing—this feeling curling in his ribs, the way he felt about her.

She had no business exhausting herself for him. No reason to push her limits just because he had taken a scratch. He was a witcher. He could handle pain, injuries, wounds—he had survived worse a thousand times over.

Her magic was powerful, but it wasn’t limitless. It cost her. It

weakened

her. And he’d be damned if he let her keep throwing herself into harm’s way for his sake.

She stirred slightly in his arms, shifting her weight against him, her fingers twitching where they rested over his forearm.

"You’re tense," she mumbled, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Geralt grunted. "You’re limp."

"Mm. ’M comfortable." Comfortable.

Geralt exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly so that his chin nearly rested against her temple. She was comfortable.

Too

comfortable. Relaxed in a way that made something sharp twist in his chest.

She should be arguing with him right now. She should be picking a fight, making some snide remark, pressing him until he admitted he was worried. Instead, she was just

here

. Drained. Weak.

And it was his fault.

His grip tightened slightly around her waist before he caught himself. His hands had barely left her since they had mounted Roach, his fingers tracing over her ribs, her stomach, keeping her close—not just because she was exhausted, but because he

needed

to feel her warmth, to reassure himself she was still here, still breathing steadily against him.

Still

his

. He hated this.

Hated the way his stomach clenched every time he thought about that thin trickle of blood, about the way she had swayed when she tried to stand on her own.

Cathleen had been fighting by his side for months now, had faced monsters and men alike without hesitation. He knew she was capable, knew she could handle herself, knew she wasn’t some helpless thing in need of protection.

And yet, since that damned lake, since she had let him

have

her, since she had whispered those words against his skin—

my Geralt

—something inside him had changed.

The worry had always been there, buried deep beneath his training, his logic, his understanding that people like him weren’t

allowed

to hold onto things. But now, that worry had cracked open into something raw, something ugly. Something dangerously close to fear.

His arms tightened around her slightly, his fingers pressing against her stomach as if he could anchor her there. She didn’t push him away. Didn’t even acknowledge it. Just let herself rest against him, breathing slow and steady.

Geralt swallowed, forcing himself to look forward again, his gaze fixed on the winding path ahead. He had no idea where they were going yet—had only urged Roach away from the village, needing to

move

, needing to put distance between them and that damned hunt.

Eventually, they would have to find a place to rest, let her recover. Eventually, she would get her strength back.

And then she would be back to herself. Back to arguing. Back to teasing. Back to pressing against him with that wicked grin, telling him he was being ridiculous.

And he would let her.

Because

that

was the Cathleen he knew. Not this silent, exhausted woman melting against him like she could barely hold herself up.

Geralt exhaled slowly, adjusting his hold on her once more. His thumb brushed absently over her ribs, tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin through the fabric of her tunic. He let himself

feel

her, steady and real in his arms.

And then, quieter, softer than before, he murmured, "

Don’t do that again.

"

Cathleen hummed sleepily, barely processing his words.

"Don’t—" He swallowed, his throat tight. "Don’t push yourself like that. Not for me."

She made a soft noise, her hands shifting slightly to place over his own on her stomach. "Yes, for you,” she whispered. “Always for you.”

Geralt huffed, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Stubborn, foolish woman.

He would fight her on this later.

For now, he just held her tighter.

The fire crackled softly in the still night air, the warm glow casting flickering shadows against the trees. The world around them had settled, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only the deep woods could offer—no murmurs of civilization, no clamor of village life. Just the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional hoot of an owl.

Cathleen was warm against him, resting between his legs, her back pressed to his chest. She wasn’t entirely asleep, but she was close, her breathing slow and even, the weight of her settling deeper against him with every exhale.

He held her. Not loosely. Not cautiously. Firmly.

As if keeping her close might stop the thoughts that had been clawing at the edges of his mind since they had left the village.

She had scared him.

It wasn’t the fight—she had held her own, as she always did. It wasn’t the creature, either—he had faced worse. It wasn’t even the injury he had sustained, because injuries were expected, part of the job, nothing new to him.

No, it was

her

. The way she had burned herself out for him. The way her nose had bled and her body had slumped. The way she had leaned into him on Roach, too exhausted to argue, too drained to even try.

She wasn’t supposed to push herself like that. Not for him.

Geralt exhaled slowly, staring at the fire, his chin nearly resting against her temple. The problem wasn’t just that she had done it. It was that she would do it again.

He could feel it, the sheer stubbornness of her, the way she refused to let him suffer if she could do something about it. She didn’t see what he was—

what he had always been

. A witcher, a killer, a man meant to endure pain, not escape it.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because she cared. More than she should. More than he deserved.

And that put her in danger.

Geralt closed his eyes briefly, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly.

Maybe he was a fool for letting this happen in the first place. Maybe he should have pushed her away long ago, kept his distance, made sure she never looked at him the way she did now.

Because this—

this

—was dangerous. Not just for her. For him.

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows over the forest floor, and a sick, twisted thought curled in the back of his mind.

Maybe I should stay away from her.

If he left, if he walked away, she wouldn’t get hurt. She wouldn’t bleed for him. Wouldn’t push herself past her limits. Wouldn’t collapse from exhaustion trying to heal him.

Maybe he should leave before she realized—before she

truly

realized—what a mistake it had been to care about him. Because it

was

a mistake.

A witcher wasn’t meant to have something like this.

He had never deserved comfort, or warmth, or love. He had spent years knowing that his life was not his own, that the Path was all there was, that he was meant for nothing more than steel and blood and solitude.

Yet he had let himself have her. He had let himself

want

her. Had let himself believe, even if only for a moment, that maybe he could keep her.

Fool. He was a

fool

.

The fire crackled, and he exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, trying to push the thoughts away.

"You

better

not be thinking about leaving me," Cathleen murmured suddenly, her voice low but sharp.

Geralt froze.

She shifted slightly in his arms, her weight still heavy against him, but now

alert

. She wasn’t quite looking at him yet, but he knew—he fucking

knew

—that she was aware.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

She turned her head just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye, and though she was still exhausted, still recovering, there was a fire in her gaze that made something in his chest

clench

.

"If you even

think

about abandoning me just because you’re not used to someone giving a damn about you," she continued, her voice quiet but steady, "I

will

find you."

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"And when I do," she murmured, tilting her head back against his chest, "I’ll make your life

hell

."

Geralt let out a slow, measured breath.

"You should rest," he muttered, because he had nothing else to say.

Cathleen huffed, turning her face forward again, but she didn’t let it go.

"You’re not scaring me off, Witcher," she said, her voice softer now. "

Ever.

"

Geralt swallowed. He should argue. Should tell her she didn’t understand what she was saying, what she was risking. But he didn’t.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to leave her. He

needed

her.

And maybe that was selfish. Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe it was fucking

stupid

. But it was

true

.

He exhaled through his nose, pressing a kiss lightly to the top of her head, his fingers tightening around her waist.

"You don’t have to worry," he said at last, his voice rough, but sure.

She was silent for a moment.

"Good," she murmured, nestling further into him.

Geralt closed his eyes, letting himself hold her just a little tighter.

For once, just for

now

, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he could

have

this. Have

her

.

Cathleen drifted in and out of sleep, needing to recharge. Geralt was worrying too much and as soon as her head stopped swimming, she would explain to him how this worked, how her magic worked. What she had done to heal him – that hadn’t been elemental magic. It had been energy,

her

energy, to be specific. She had pushed some part of her into him to make his wound heal. Tomorrow, she’d be fine again, all she needed was a few hours of sleep.

Surrounded by his scent, sleep came easier to her. She barely even stirred when he moved them around, from resting against the tree to laying down next to the fire. A whine had escaped her when had started to pull away, probably to keep watch like he did most nights. She was glad when he returned to her side, laying down next to her and pulling her body flush against his. Breathing in his scent, she was soon fast asleep.

The next morning, she already felt better. But her mood was still sour even before she opened her eyes. She already knew, something was not how it should be. Her magic stirred in her veins, urging her to open her eyes, to

look

.

She didn’t need to look to know. Still, she did.

As her eyes opened, an emptiness settled over her.

Despite her anger and hurt, she wasn’t surprised to see Geralt gone.

Geralt had left her.

No note. No tracks that she could follow. Just a space where he had once been, a hollow in the dirt where his body had rested beside hers. It was as if he had just vanished from the face of the earth.

The first few weeks, she had searched.

After the first few months, she had grown worried. Was he dead? Was that why she couldn’t find him?

But no. She continued to hear songs about him, his adventures. Some even from Jaskier himself. How he got those was a mystery to her, since the bard claimed to have not seen him personally since their encounter with the elves.

After the first year passed, she had given up.

After the third year, she had tried to forget.

Tried and failed.

She had thrown herself into work, taken whatever jobs she could, let the grind of life wear away the sharp edges of her grief. She had fought monsters, hunted things that preyed on the weak, moved from town to town, never settling in one place too long.

But no matter how many battles she fought, how much distance she put between them, the ghost of him never left her.

Not truly. Not when even her magic yearned for him, for the place he used to inhabit, right behind her on his horse.

She had learned to ignore the feeling of emptiness.

Now, nine years later, a contract had brought her to Cintra, though the details of it had been less than thrilling—some noble family desperate to rid themselves of an alleged haunting. It had been nothing more than a clever illusion, a trick played by a mage with a grudge, and once it was dealt with, she had little reason to stay.

She should have left. Should have moved on like she always did.

But something had kept her here. A whisper of something unseen, a lingering weight in her chest that she couldn’t quite place.

And then, by some

miracle

or

curse

, she had found Jaskier.

Or rather—

Jaskier had found her

.

The bard had nearly tripped over himself in his haste to reach her, after spotting her walking through the city, face lighting up in utter shock before twisting into something even more theatrical than usual.

"

Cathleen!

" he had all but shouted, startling the patrons around them. "

I thought you were dead!

"

She had arched a brow. "Clearly not."

"Well, I mean, metaphorically!" Jaskier waved a dramatic hand. "You disappeared! Poof! Gone! Not even a farewell ballad for your favorite bard!"

She had sighed. "What do you want, Jaskier?"

And that was how she had learned about the banquet.

How Jaskier had begged her—

actually begged

—to accompany him.

"People want to

kill

me, Cathleen," he had said, grasping her hands like a desperate man. "Do you have any idea how stressful that is?"

"You probably deserve it."

"For bringing some nights filled with pleasure to women whose husbands can’t keep them satisfied?"

At first, she had refused. But the bard was persistent.

He had given her every reason under the sun, every excuse, every plea, until finally, she had relented. It had been foolish, really.

She should have walked away. Should have ignored him, should have never let herself be dragged into whatever mess Jaskier had landed himself in.

But then he had said

his name

.

"Come on, I even managed to get Geralt on board

.

"

And just like that, the ground had shifted beneath her feet. She had nearly said

no

then. Should have.

But instead, she had stared at Jaskier, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs like something suffocating.

And against all reason, she had said

yes

.

Finding clothing that suited the occasion had turned out to be tricky. She had to borrow something from a seamstress – not being able to afford the actual purchase. Not that it mattered. In her line of work, beautiful dresses like the one she was wearing had a tendency to be ruined completely.

Still, the dress was worth every last coin she spent on it the moment Geralt had turned around, his eyes catching sight of her.

Jaskier had told her to arrive a few minutes earlier at the gates of the royal castle so that the three of them might enter together. And she made sure to arrive a little later than the men would.

Perhaps she was being petty, maybe even childish but to be honest? She didn’t give two fucks. Because he left her, right after promising he wouldn’t. That stung more than anything – his lie.

As soon as she was in range of his enhanced senses, Cathleen made sure to conceal everything about her. Her heartbeat, her scent, her steps. Just like when they had met all those years ago.

As she rounded the corner and her gaze fell upon them, she had to bite back a snort. Even though Geralt had his back turned toward her, he looked nothing like the man she knew. His hair was brushed and straight – a little longer than she last saw it – and he wore some fancy courtiers clothing, so different to the armor and tunics she was used to seeing him in. She’d bet her life on it that this was Jaskier’s doing.

The bard spotted her after she closed in a little, his face lighting up immediately.

“Cathy!” Her face twisted into a mixture of a laugh and a frown at the nickname.

“Thank you! For saving me of this misery.” She took two more steps before she dropped the shield of hardened air around her, noticing the immediate stiffening of Geralt’s back. Yet, he didn’t turn.

Her eyes darted back to Jaskier. “I wouldn’t let my favorite bard die so soon into his career now, would I?”

The sound of her voice actually made Geralt flinch and then, finally, he turned. Ever so slowly, as if he were facing the greatest horror the Continent had to offer. Perhaps he was.

Cathleen met his gaze unflinchingly, his wide eyes, the shock laying there. And then, because she was petty like that, she tilted her head and gave him a cruel smirk.

“Shall we?” she asked and held her hand out to take. Not to Geralt but to Jaskier.

The bard didn’t miss a beat and took her hand, just like Cathleen didn’t miss the slight anger coating Geralt’s eyes. But she didn’t care.

Facing Jaskier, she smiled at him and slid her hand to his arm, posing as his escort for the evening. Without looking back to see if Geralt followed, she urged the bard inside.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 14 –

The Space Between

The banquet hall was filled with the stifling scent of wealth—spiced meats, honeyed wine, and the perfume of noblemen who had never lifted a sword in their lives. The air buzzed with laughter, the clinking of goblets, the occasional swell of music from the minstrels in the corner.

Cathleen had never particularly liked gatherings like these. Too many people. Too many eyes.

But for once, she was grateful for the noise. It gave her a moment to steady herself. To pretend as if this didn’t take a toll on her. Because Geralt was here. And as much as she enjoyed hurting him for what he did to her, it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t hurt herself the same with her behavior.

Jaskier had gone ahead to the stage, playing song after song. Great mother, she was thankful that his lyrics had improved. She chose to linger near the entrance, hidden from view by a carved wooden pillar, her body leaned against it.

And then—

Someone handed her a mug, the scent of beer hitting her nose, followed by steel and blood and–

She took the beer from Geralt without looking at him. Silent as ever, he leaned against the other side of the pillar.

The beer was cold, the rim of the mug cool against her lips. She took a slow sip, swallowing down both the drink and the knot in her throat.

Geralt said nothing, but she could

feel

his presence, solid and unmoving beside her. She had spent nine years trying to forget what it felt like to have him near, yet her body still recognized him. Still reacted, still remembered. Her magic pressed against her skin, wanting her to reach out, to touch, to lean into him as she used to.

It made her stomach churn.

They stood in silence for a moment, both half-heartedly scanning the banquet hall, eyes following the movements of drunken nobles and masked danger. Somewhere on the stage, Jaskier had launched into another song, his voice effortlessly charming as he weaved tales of romance and heroism.

Cathleen let out a slow exhale.

He was waiting.

Waiting for her to speak first. Typical.

“You look ridiculous,” she muttered finally, gaze flicking over him from the corner of her eye.

His arms were crossed over his chest, posture stiff. A flicker of irritation passed through his golden eyes. “Jaskier,” he grumbled, like that one word was explanation enough. Cathleen almost smiled. Almost.

Instead, she let her gaze drift away from him again, absently scanning the hall for any sign of brewing conflict. “You should’ve kept the armor,” she added, just to see if he would rise to it. “At least that way, you wouldn’t look like a lost noble’s guard dog.”

Geralt huffed, taking a slow sip from his own mug. “Didn’t think you were coming,” he said finally.

A muscle in her jaw twitched.

There it is.

She let the words sit between them for a moment, rolling her mug between her hands, the cool condensation slick against her fingers.

“Well,” she said, voice carefully light, “I didn’t think you’d

leave me

in the middle of the night like a fucking coward. But here we are.” He flinched.

Good.

She kept her eyes forward, unwilling to let him see whatever emotions she was failing to push down.

“You lied,” she continued, voice quieter now. “You told me you wouldn’t leave. And then you did.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment. Then, in a low voice, he said, “It was for your own good.”

Cathleen laughed. A bitter, disbelieving sound. “Oh,

fuck you

.”

His fingers curled tightly around his mug, knuckles white. “You nearly killed yourself saving me.”

“

Bullshit

!” She turned then, finally facing him. “I was

fine

. But even if I hadn’t been, you still don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Geralt. You

never did

.”

His golden eyes flickered with something—anger, regret, guilt. It didn’t matter. None of it changed what he had done.

She clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around her drink.

“You left,” she said, softer now. “You left, and you didn’t even give me the chance to tell you that I

knew

what I was doing. That I had done this before and that I–” She trailed off, unable to continue.

Geralt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You should hate me.”

She exhaled sharply. “Some days, I do.”

That made something shift in his expression.

“But,” she continued, voice steady, “I hate you more for thinking so little of me. For assuming I’d be better off without you, when you never once

asked

what I wanted.” A long silence stretched between them.

Somewhere in the hall, a noble let out a loud, boisterous laugh. The music swelled. The world moved on.

And still, Geralt stood there, looking at her like he didn’t know what to do.

She shook her head, turning away from him again, her eyes sweeping across the room.

“We should keep watch,” she muttered. Geralt didn’t argue.

For a while, they just stood there. Side by side. Silent. Watching.

And even though she hated it—hated

him

—she still felt more at ease with him here than she had in years.

And that only pissed her off more.

She was here.

He had spent nine years forcing himself to accept that he would never see her again. That he had lost her the moment he made the choice to walk away.

And yet, here she was. Standing beside him, as if she had never left his side.

Geralt took a slow sip of his beer, trying to steady himself, trying to ignore the way his body reacted to her presence—his muscles wound tight, his senses sharpened, the need to reach out to touch her in his veins like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He could

smell

her. Not just the perfume she had dabbed onto her wrists to blend in with the nobility, but the

real

scent of her, the one that had burned itself into his memory all those years ago. The scent that had haunted him across every mile of road, every bed of cold earth, every sleepless night where he had closed his eyes and sworn he felt the warmth of her beside him.

He had dreamed of this moment. Of seeing her again. But in his dreams, she never looked at him with this much disappointment. This much betrayal.

His jaw clenched as her words replayed in his mind, over and over again, cutting into him like a serrated blade.

You should hate me.

Some days, I do.

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. He had expected it. He

deserved

her hatred.

And yet, knowing that there were days—whole days—where she had cursed him, resented him,

loathed

him… it made something deep in his chest crack wide open.

She had searched for him. He knew she had. He had covered his tracks, left no trace, vanished into the wilds like a ghost—but still, she had searched.

Because that was who she was.

She never let go of the things she cared about.

That’s why he had to leave. Geralt gritted his teeth. It had been the only choice.

He had seen what she was willing to do for him. How she had given up her strength, had drained herself near to the brink, all just to heal a minor injury of his.

And she would have done it again. Over and over, until there was nothing left of her.

She didn’t understand. She thought he had left because he didn’t trust her. Because he didn’t respect her choices. But that wasn’t it. He had left because he knew her.

Knew that she would sacrifice herself for him if it ever came down to his life. Knew that she would throw herself into the fire for his sake without hesitation, without thought, without even

considering

whether or not he was worth it.

And

he

wasn’t. He never had been.

Geralt stared at the wall across the banquet hall, his grip tightening around his mug.

He had spent years trying to convince himself that walking away had been the right decision. That she had moved on, found her own path, a better one, one without

him

in it.

But seeing her now… Hearing the bitterness in her voice, the raw anger buried beneath the surface…

He had hurt her. More than he had ever meant to. And he didn’t know if he could ever make that right.

He stole another glance at her, careful, like looking too long might shatter whatever fragile moment this was.

She was still scanning the room, still focused on their surroundings, just like she always had been. But her shoulders were tense. Her fingers curled just a little too tight around her mug. The sight made him want to throw up.

Gone was the ease she had when he was near. There was no comfort in her posture, no feeling of safety.

And that was enough to make something stir inside of him, something he had tried to bury for nine years, something he had tried to carve out of himself, because he thought it would keep her

safe

.

But she wasn’t safe. She never had been.

There were new scars scattered over her body, the dress she was wearing revealing too much of her precious soft skin. So she had continued hunting, had continued living as a witcher despite not being one.

The thought that he hadn’t been by her side, hadn’t been there to protect her…

He wanted to reach out, wanted to press her body against his chest like he used to, wanted to bury his head in her gorgeous red and mumble apology after apology. He wanted to worship her body, his own pleasure not even a think to be considered, to make up for it all, to say

sorry, sorry, sorry

over and over again until she forgave him.

But he doubted she would. And even if she did, they’d be right back where they had left off, with

him

as her companion. He was the greatest danger she could ever face.

So instead, he kept the silence up, letting it settle between them like a restless thing.

Jaskier’s voice still carried across the hall, the song shifting into something lighter, something made for dancing. Nobles twirled in circles, their laughter rising above the music, their world so far removed from his own that it may as well have been a different universe.

And yet, for the first time in nine years, Geralt felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. Right next to her.

Even if she didn’t want him there.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 15 –

The Law of Surprise

Even though she hadn’t asked him to, Geralt fell right back into his old habits. The second she had stiffened upon spotting a mage, probably the mage assigned to work for Cintra, Geralt had shifted closer. She didn’t know the man, had no quarrel with him but still, being around mages made her nervous, simply because they had a tendency to call her an abomination and start magic fights.

Geralt had followed her gaze and a heartbeat later, he pushed off the pillar and walked toward the mage. Cathleen watched their conversation with curious eyes. They knew one another.

It was a rare sight – Geralt with a friend. Cathleen couldn’t help the small surge of jealousy shooting through her. She used to be his friend. And now they were nothing.

She searched for Jaskier at the banquet and apparently found him at the perfect time. Some lord had his hands on the bard's chest, pushing him around. She started to move, just as Geralt stepped into the picture.

With a slow exhale, she leaned back against the pillar, observing. He didn’t need her help, not for some lord who probably hasn’t killed something bigger than a fox in years.

Cathleen had to hide her laugh behind her mug as Geralt told the lord Jaskier was a eunuch, finding it utterly hilarious.

Her amusement was cut short, though, as the Calanthe, Queen of Cintra, arrived. Right… this banquet was a party for the betrothal of her daughter, Princess Pavetta. Cathleen had totally forgotten

why

they were here in the first place.

She followed the Queen with her eyes as Geralt returned to her side, leaning back against the pillar as if he never left. The thought left her mood sour.

“Good idea,” she said anyway, because she couldn’t bear the silence between them anymore. “Now Jaskier’s safe, not only from angry lords but also from catching some unpleasant diseases.”

Geralt grunted in reply and took a sip from his mug. Her gaze was still fixed on the Queen, who was now having a heated conversation with her daughter.

“What are they talking about?” She heard herself ask, turning her head toward him. His eyes were on her, assessing, calculation… and longing.

She looked away again.

“Politics,” Geralt answered at last. “The Princess doesn’t want to marry. At least none of her … suitors.”

Cathleen huffed out a laugh, her gaze flickering over the

suitors

in question.

“I wonder why,” she muttered. “She could do better.”

He hummed. “That’s what she said.” With a crooked grin, she looked at Geralt again.

“Perhaps you should propose. Your glorious adventures beat every single one of the ones those idiots will parade as glory.”

Geralt snorted and rolled his eyes, making her grin widen.

“I thought you agreed she could do better.” He said it with amusement but she knew him better. Her grin faltered, reminded again of what brought them into this weird situation.

Lowering her gaze, she turned her face away again.

“You are better, Geralt,” she whispered because she’d be damned if there was ever a day when she wouldn’t remind him of it if she could. It didn’t matter to her that he didn’t believe her, that he thought otherwise. Because she hoped – desperate, maybe pathetic hope – that the more often he heard her,

somebody

, say it, maybe he’d start to believe it as well.

Geralt didn’t answer her, which was fine by her, because her mood for conversation was over.

Instead, they just continued to watch the people around them, listening, drinking. Even the music was alright, Jaskier giving his all.

At some point, they moved away from the pillar near the entrance to lean against a narrow wall. Easier access to ale was her reasoning. His reasoning for following her, she didn’t know, although she could guess.

Just as he could probably guess her amusement as this evening got even

worse

for him.

She didn’t even try to hide her smug grin as the Queen called upon him, more or less forcing him to sit with her and the royal family.

“Have fun,” she giggled as he made his way over there, clearly not amused.

Cathleen’s amusement didn’t falter as she watched him sit there, having a clearly uncomfortable conversation with the Queen, all while having to hear lord after lord selling themselves away just to marry a girl. A pretty girl, Cathleen had to admit but in the end, only a girl. Kingdoms fell as quickly as they rose. None of this would matter anymore in a century.

This whole ordeal turned out to be boring as fuck. That was, until

finally

some action happened.

Cathleen had leaned back and watched as the chaos unfolded. The cursed knight, his law of surprise to Pavetta. She didn’t even intervene as it all went to hell, as Geralt protected the knight and everyone came at him. She didn’t have to. Geralt was more than capable of killing humans, even though she couldn’t help herself. As if on its own, a small, protective layer of hardened air formed around him, covering him like a second skin. Even if, for some reason, one of the men around him managed to get past Geralt’s defense, the weapon would recoil, leaving the witcher unharmed.

She wasn’t sure if he noticed it but as far as Cathleen knew him, he did.

All her focus was on Geralt as the fight around her swelled and died down. Even as the Queen seemed to accept this change of fate for her daughter, Cathleen didn’t ease up. Her magic told her not to, urging her to keep him protected. So she did.

And when the Princess

screamed…

Naturally, Cathleen blocked the magical blow with her own magic, crouching down, her eyes still trained on Geralt as he flew against a pillar. She felt his impact, the protective layer around him sending every sensation right back to her and she had to grit her teeth. But it was fine. Geralt was okay and just to be sure, she thickened his protection a little more.

She even helped him forward as he started to move, easing his way against the tornado the Princess conjured. With the help of one of his potions, he finally managed to break the spell.

The destruction around them was grave, not one window, furniture or person had been spared. Still, no one paid it any mind as the Queen finally agreed to wed the Princess and the cursed knight.

During the ceremony, she had slowly walked to Geralt’s side, her shield around him still strong.

“You can stop now,” he mumbled, both their eyes fixed on the ceremony before them.

Cathleen scoffed. “Would it kill you to say ‘thank you’?” He hadn’t thanked her for healing him nine years ago, either.

He was a silent presence next to her. Then–

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Cathleen.” Her name from his lips made her look at him. She had no way of figuring out what that look on his face meant. “Stop it. You’re going to–”

“I’m

fine

,” she interrupted him, gently as she realized that it was fear on his face. For her. “If you would have let me explain, I would have told you that there are different kinds of magic.”

She bit her lip, before reaching for his hand, hesitating. She could have sworn he didn’t as she took a hold of his hand and placed it on her wrist, pushing his fingers onto her pulse point. Of course she knew he had no trouble hearing her heartbeat. But she had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough for him.

“Healing requires energy,” she whispered softly as she faced the ceremony again and pulled her hand back. Still, he held onto her wrist, continuing to feel her pulse. “This is elemental magic. I can do that for hours without getting tired. And you

know

that. Remember?”

He paused for a second, then hummed in agreement. “The heat.”

She nodded softly. “Yes. The heat.” The heat during that unbearable summer. She had cooled both their skins with her magic, had kept them from overheating and brought them some relief.

“You’re fine,” he grunted, more to himself than to her. She answered anyway.

“I’m fine.”

Watching the curse be broken was somehow less spectacular than she had expected. What had been spectacular was what came after. Duny insisting on giving Geralt

something

for his help. And Geralt, as he was and had always been, wanted nothing and so chose the law of surprise. Only to be surprised by a pregnant Princess. Fucking hell.

He had to leave. He had to get out.

The moment the Queen's words left her mouth, the second that cursed knight—no,

Duny

—had thanked him for invoking the Law of Surprise, everything inside Geralt turned to ice.

A child. Not his. Not really.

But bound to him now by fate, by something old and merciless and inescapable.

Geralt pushed through the remnants of the banquet hall, his boots crunching over broken glass, his body moving on instinct. He needed air. Needed to get away from the weight of it. From the looks people were giving him, from the knowledge that no matter how much he ran, this would cling to him like a curse.

His mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over themselves in a chaotic mess he couldn’t sort through. A child. A life owed to him. A

responsibility

. He had spent decades ensuring he had none. He was a witcher. He traveled alone.

He needed to be alone. Because what the fuck was he supposed to do with a child?

His throat tightened as he reached the hall’s entrance. He could still hear the echoes of celebration, of voices marveling over how destiny had played its cruel hand tonight. Jaskier would have a fucking field day with this.

Geralt just felt sick.

He shoved the heavy wooden doors open and stepped into the cool night air, inhaling sharply as he tried to steady himself.

He had to think. Had to—

"Geralt!"

The sound of his name snapped through the night, slicing through his panic like a knife. He clenched his jaw and kept walking.

"Geralt, stop!"

He ignored her. But then—

A sudden, powerful gust of force slammed into his chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop him in his tracks. Magic.

His hands curled into fists, breath sharp as he forced himself to turn.

Cathleen stood a few feet away, her shoulders tense, her eyes ablaze with something he couldn’t quite name. His stomach twisted.

"Let me go," he muttered, his voice rough.

"No," she shot back.

His jaw tightened. "This isn't your concern."

Cathleen scoffed, stepping forward. "You’re running," she accused, voice sharp. "Like a fucking

coward

." Geralt flinched.

"Coward?" he echoed, voice dangerously low.

"Yes," she snapped, no trace of fear on her face. She had never been afraid of him, not even now. "Because you don’t know how to

deal

with this, so you’re doing what you always do—shutting down, running away, avoiding the problem like it’ll just disappear if you pretend hard enough."

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You don’t understand—"

"Oh, don’t I?" She let out a bitter, humorless laugh, stepping even closer. "You think I don’t understand what it’s like to have something bigger than yourself thrown at you? To be forced into something you never wanted?" His throat tightened. She wasn’t wrong. But it didn’t matter.

"I can’t—" He shook his head, frustrated. "This isn’t just something I can

fix

, Cathleen."

"Who the fuck said you have to

fix

anything?" she snapped.

Geralt clenched his jaw. "You don’t get it."

Her nostrils flared, and suddenly, another pulse of magic slammed into him—not hard, not painful, but a warning. A reminder that she was here. That she wasn’t letting him run.

"Then

explain

it to me," she challenged. "

Make

me get it, Geralt. Because right now? All I see is you being a fucking coward,

again

."

His temper frayed. "

I never wanted this

," he snarled, voice raw. "I never asked for it. And now it’s—

fuck

—it’s

mine

."

Something flickered in her eyes—understanding, maybe, but she didn’t back down.

"So what?" she said, voice quieter but no less fierce. "You think that means you just get to run? That you don’t even have to think about it?"

Geralt ground his teeth. "I don’t know how to be this," he admitted, voice rough. "I don’t know how to be—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I was never meant for this. I

can’t

be what this child needs."
"You don’t know that," Cathleen said, stepping closer. "And you won’t fucking know unless you try."
Geralt swallowed. He wanted to believe her. He wanted—

fuck

, he wanted a lot of things. But mostly, he wanted—

He looked at her then, really looked at her.

And realized that this—

she

—was the only thing in his life that had ever felt like

home

.

His stomach twisted painfully. He had ruined this before. He had walked away. Had made the choice for her, for both of them, thinking it was the right thing. Thinking it would keep her safe.

And now she was here, standing in front of him, challenging him, calling him a coward to his face—because she

knew

him. Because she saw right through him. Like she always had.

Geralt swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"You shouldn’t have healed me," he said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Cathleen went still, her eyes narrowing and he realized she understood him wrong. "Excuse me?"

"You didn’t– You didn’t need to do it," he clarified, his voice tight. "Witchers heal faster. I would have been fine." For a second, she just stared at him.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into something dangerous.

"Good to know," she said, voice deceptively calm. "But if somebody would have cut your throat, your fucking witcher healing does you

no good, either!

"

His stomach dropped. "

Cathleen

—"

"No," she cut him off, stepping right up into his space. "You

listen

to me, Geralt of Rivia. You do

not

get to tell me when I can and can’t protect you. You

do not

get to decide that for me. Do you

understand

?" His throat felt tight.

"Do you?" she repeated, voice shaking with fury.

Geralt swallowed hard. "

Yes

."

She exhaled sharply, glaring at him. "Good."

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

And then— He thought back. To the banquet. To her words.

You are better, Geralt

To the way she had stood beside him, strong and steady. To the way her heartbeat had remained even, unwavering, even after using her magic to protect him for so long. She hadn’t needed a break. She had been fine. She had been

fine

.

And he— He hadn’t been.

Not without her.

His breath shuddered.

"

Come with me,

" he said, voice hoarse, the words out before he could let his overthinking ruin this again.

Cathleen stilled.

Geralt swallowed. "

Please

."

Her jaw tightened.

"You can hate me," he continued, voice raw. "

Hate me

, for all you want. You have every right to. Hit me. Scream at me. Make my life

hell

for as long as you need to."

He took a step closer, reaching for her hand, hesitating before gripping it tightly when she didn’t pull away.

"But please—

please

—just

come

with me. Let me make it up to you. Let me…"

He swallowed hard. “Please, let me.”

Her breath was uneven, her fingers trembling in his.

His stomach twisted painfully. What if she said no? What if she walked away? She’d have every right to do so. He could understand. Fuck, it would be the more reasonable choice. If he weren’t the one begging right now, he’d advise her to say no.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat when she pulled her hand out of his. Then the wind was knocked out of his lungs as she stepped around him and started walking out of the castle. Away from the disaster. Away from him…

“You coming?” She called and his head whipped around. She grinned at him, clearly happy with his shocked expression.

“Or am I to drag you out by your fancy clothes?”

And just like that… He could

breathe

again.

The weight in his chest didn’t disappear, not completely. But for the first time in

years

, it

lifted

.

Just enough.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 16 –

Do You Get Déjà Vu?

A week had passed. Seven days of riding, of silence that wasn’t truly silent, of words left unspoken between them. Geralt had been prepared for worse.

He had expected her to leave. Had expected her fury to remain unshaken, her rage to boil over, her voice to bite into him with all the venom it had held that night outside the castle. He had expected that maybe, just maybe, he would find himself alone again, watching her walk away for good this time. But she had stayed.

That should have been a relief. And in some ways, it was. But in others—

She hadn’t hesitated to climb onto Roach in front of him, just like she always had. She had actually patted the horse's throat with affection, muttering a silent “I missed you, girl.”

She still rode with him, still let his arms rest around her waist, his forearms braced on her thighs as they traveled. It was a privilege she had granted him without a second thought, a silent acknowledgment that she would not push him away completely. But it was not the same.

Before—before he had been a fucking idiot and ruined

everything

—she had leaned into him. She had melted against him, her back pressing flush to his chest, trusting and unafraid. Before, she would sigh and shift just to get closer, her warmth bleeding into him, her presence something

solid

, something

constant

.

Now— Now she still leaned into him.

Slightly.

Not enough.

Not enough to feel the comfort of it. Not enough to make him believe, even for a moment, that things were how they used to be.

It was driving him mad. Not knowing what he was allowed to do.

Before, he had been able to touch her however he wanted—

wherever

he wanted—without a second thought. His hands had belonged on her skin, in her hair, his lips pressed to her temple, to the hollow of her throat, to her fingers when he had felt particularly desperate for her. She had

given

him that. Given him her trust, her body, her

everything

.

And now? Now she had said nothing.

Nothing about what he could or

could not

do. Nothing about the boundaries that had or hadn’t shifted between them.

And

fuck

, it was killing him. He wanted to touch her.

Wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingertips, wanted to bury his face into the crook of her neck, breathe her in, remind himself that she was

real

and

still here

. He wanted to press his lips to her hair, to feel the way she used to sigh against him, to remind himself that this—

she

—was not some cruel trick of destiny.

But he didn’t know if he

could

. Didn’t know if she

wanted

him to.

She hadn’t said he couldn’t. But she hadn’t said he could, either. So he did nothing.

Kept his hands to himself when they made camp, sat an inch farther than he wanted to when they rested, kept his fingers from straying when he adjusted his hold around her while they rode.

And that distance—

that godsforsaken distance

—was eating him alive.

She didn’t press herself against him like before, didn’t let herself melt into his hold. She

leaned

, yes, but it was stiff, hesitant. As if she were allowing him

just enough

but no more.

And

fuck

, it was his own damn fault.

Every time she didn’t touch him, every time she didn’t mutter something half-exasperated, half-affectionate about him being a brooding, grumpy bastard—it was another reminder of what he had ruined.

And the worst part? The worst part was that she wasn’t

cruel

about it.

She wasn’t intentionally cold. Wasn’t spitting venom or throwing bitter words at him when she had every damn right to.

No—

that

, he could have handled. He was

used

to hatred. He could endure it.

But this— This quiet restraint. This distance that wasn’t truly distance.

It was fucking unbearable.

Geralt sighed, shifting slightly in the saddle, his fingers flexing against the leather of Roach’s reins as he tried to focus on the road ahead and not about the body in front of him that wasn’t close enough.

He should say something. Should just

ask

her.

But what if he asked, and she

did

tell him no? What if she looked at him, voice calm, unreadable, and told him, "

No, Geralt. You cannot touch me like you did before. You lost that right.

"

He wasn’t sure he could bear hearing it aloud. So he kept his mouth shut.

And the week stretched on, filled with quiet, with unspoken words, with

distance

.

And still— She rode with him. Still, she let him hold on. Still, she

stayed

.

He didn’t get to complain about the way she chose to do so.

The sun was a merciless thing. It hung high in the sky, unrelenting, pressing down on them with the full weight of its heat. The dirt path beneath Roach’s hooves was dry and cracked, the golden wheat fields stretching endlessly on either side, swaying lazily in the occasional, weak breeze.

Sweat clung to Geralt’s skin, soaking into his tunic, making the fabric cling uncomfortably to his back. His hair, damp at the roots, stuck to his neck, the heat creeping beneath his clothes, making every breath feel thick and sluggish.

He wanted to take his tunic off.

It would be a simple thing. He had done it a thousand times before on hot days like this. Would have done it already without thinking.

But now— Now, he hesitated.

Because even though Cathleen hadn’t truly pushed him away, even though she had climbed onto Roach in front of him without hesitation, even though she let him rest his arms around her waist while they rode—

He didn’t know if he was allowed. Not anymore.

He didn’t know if baring more of himself, more of his skin, would cross some unseen boundary she had yet to set in words. He didn’t know if she would see it as him pushing too far, assuming too much. So he endured it. Kept his mouth shut. Let the sweat drip down his back and burn at his temples.

Until—

“You can take your tunic off, you know,” Cathleen said, her voice cutting through the sluggish haze of his thoughts. “You’re baking back there.”

Geralt swallowed, shifting slightly in the saddle. His throat was dry, but he forced himself to speak.

“I’m fine.”

She scoffed. “Geralt, you’re radiating heat. I can

feel

it.”

He hesitated.

Still unsure. Still—

“Take it off,” she insisted, her voice carrying no hint of hesitation, no sign of discomfort. Just practicality. “It’s fine.”

His fingers twitched.

It was fine. She had said it was fine.

Still, he hesitated another beat before finally, carefully, shifting his grip on the reins and reaching for the bottom of his tunic.

Pulling it off while riding wasn’t the easiest task, but he had done it enough times before that he barely had to think about it. Except—

The moment he lifted his arms, his chest brushing against her back, the movement dragged their bodies closer than they had been in the last seven days.

A sharp inhale. Hers. Or his. He didn’t know.

The scent of her skin, the warmth of her body, the way her muscles tensed for just a second at the unexpected contact—

fuck.

Geralt swallowed, forcing himself to finish pulling the tunic over his head before carefully shaking it out and tying it to Roach’s saddle.

The sun hit his bare skin immediately, the heat still oppressive, but at least he could

breathe

again without the damp fabric clinging to him.

He let himself settle back into the ride, but his senses were still heightened, still focused on the woman in front of him.

Still— She didn’t say anything about the brief contact. Didn’t tense any further. Didn’t pull away.

So he exhaled, slow and quiet, letting himself believe that maybe—just

maybe

—it had been fine.

And then— He watched as Cathleen reached for the hem of her own tunic.

He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t mean for his breath to hitch in his throat as she stripped the fabric from her skin, leaving only the bindings around her chest in place.

But

fuck

.

He had seen her like this before. Had seen

more

of her than this. Had pressed his lips to every inch of her, had traced his fingers over her skin, had

memorized

the shape of her body with his hands and his tongue and his teeth.

And yet— The sight of her now, in the golden sunlight, her skin slick with sweat, the muscles of her back shifting beneath the soft curve of her spine. It

wrecked

him.

Because now, he wasn’t allowed to touch. Wasn’t allowed to drag his fingers over her bare shoulders, wasn’t allowed to press his lips to the nape of her neck, wasn’t allowed to pull her against him and lose himself in the familiar heat of her body.

And fuck, he

ached

with the need for it.

Instead, he tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus on something else.

Anything

else.

Which, of course, meant worrying.

“You’ll burn,” he said, voice gruffer than he intended.

Cathleen snorted. “I’ll be fine.”

Geralt frowned. “The sun’s too strong.”

“I am a witch,” she reminded him, a smirk in her voice. “I can heal myself.”

He grunted, unimpressed. “Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll be fine, Geralt.”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to reach forward, pull his tunic from the saddle, and drape it over her shoulders whether she liked it or not.

But she would only roll her eyes, would only push it off with a stubborn shake of her head.

So he clenched his jaw and said nothing. And the heat pressed on.

The wheat fields stretched endlessly, the air thick and suffocating, the sweat dripping down their backs with no relief in sight.

Until— Cathleen exhaled sharply and muttered, “Fuck this.”

And then— A breeze.

Cool, sharp, slicing through the suffocating air, curling around them in a way that was unnatural but

welcome

.

Geralt shuddered at the sudden relief, his muscles loosening despite himself.

Magic.

The kind she had used before, years ago, when they had ridden together through another relentless summer, the heat just as unbearable, the road just as dry and endless.

He had nearly forgotten the feeling of it. Nearly forgotten the way she could offer comfort when she wanted to.

When she

chose

to. And maybe— Maybe this was a choice.

Maybe this was her way of telling him that he

could

still exist in her space. That she

was

still willing to share something with him, even if it wasn’t touch, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

Geralt let his eyes slip closed for just a second, breathing deeply, letting the magic-infused wind cool his skin, soothe the ache in his chest.

Letting himself

hope

.

The wind rushed over her skin, cooling the sweat beading along her shoulders, slipping over the curve of her spine like a whispered memory.

She hadn't realized how much she missed this—missed

him

—until now.

It wasn’t fair.

Not to her, not to him.

She had spent the last week holding herself at a distance, keeping the space between them just wide enough that she wouldn’t get comfortable again. Wouldn’t let herself

lean

into him the way she used to.

Because if she did—if she let herself sink back into the quiet security of his arms—what happened when he changed his mind again?

What happened when he decided she wasn’t worth staying for?

The thought made her stomach twist, and she curled her fingers around the reins a little tighter, focusing on the heat instead of the ache in her chest.

The proximity was

torture

.

Not because she didn’t want it—gods, she

craved

it—but because it was a battle between what she wanted and what she

couldn’t

have.

She could feel him behind her, every shift of muscle, every quiet breath. The heat of his skin bled into hers, his thighs bracketing her own, the solid weight of his presence something she had spent

years

missing.

She

wanted

to let herself fall back against him. Wanted to feel the press of his chest against her shoulder blades, wanted the way his arms used to tighten around her, keeping her steady, keeping her

his

.

But she wasn’t his. Not anymore. And she couldn’t risk letting herself forget that.

So she kept the distance, even though it was barely a breath of space.

Even though it was

agony

.

She

knew

he wanted more. Could feel it in the way he held himself, in the tension that coiled tight in his frame every time she moved just slightly too close. Could

sense

it in the way his breathing changed when her skin brushed against his during the ride.

And still—he did nothing. Didn’t touch. Didn’t reach.

He was holding back. For her. And that—

That was why she let herself remove her tunic.

Because even though she knew the sight of her half-dressed would affect him, she still

trusted

him to keep that restraint.

That had never been the issue.

Geralt had always been careful with her. Had never taken more than she offered, had always given her the space to pull away if she wanted to.

And even now, after

everything

, she still trusted him with that.

So she had stripped the sweat-soaked fabric from her body, letting the air cool the heat clinging to her skin.

She hadn’t missed the way his breathing had shifted, the way his hands had briefly tightened on the reins.

She had felt his gaze—heavy, burning,

yearning

—but he had said nothing. Had done

nothing

.

And some part of her ached at that. At what they had lost. At the way he wanted but did not

take

, not even when he once had every right to.

They continued riding beneath the unrelenting sun, the golden fields stretching out endlessly before them, offering no relief from the heat pressing down on them. And then—

“There’s a lake up ahead,” Geralt said, his voice rough from disuse. Her breath caught. A lake.

The memory hit her all at once, unbidden and unwanted. The last time they had bathed together, stripped bare beneath a different sun, hands exploring, lips searching, bodies tangling in the cool water.

The first and only time she had given herself to him like that.

She swallowed hard, balling her hands into fists..

Fuck, she hadn’t thought about that day in so long. Hadn’t let herself. Because remembering meant

feeling

. And she wasn’t sure she could handle that.

The weight of what they’d had. Of what they’d lost.

She turned her face away slightly, blinking against the sharp sting behind her eyes.

Now wasn’t the time. Now wasn’t—

Her skin

hurt

. A slow, creeping burn spreading across her shoulders, her back and stomach. Shit.

She had expected it to start hurting soon, even though she thought it would come a little later, the slow pull of skin tightening from too much sun.

She wasn’t the only one, either.

Geralt’s forearms were reddening where they were loosely framing her hip, the pale scars across his shoulders stark against the flush of his skin.

Of course, he would ignore it. Would suffer in silence like he always did.

Stubborn idiot.

She bit her lip, debating whether to say something before he spoke first.

“You’re burning.” She stiffened slightly, torn between exasperation and the flicker of warmth in her chest at the familiar concern in his voice.

“I

know

,” she admitted grudgingly.

Geralt huffed, low and disapproving. “We’ll stop at the lake.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy to.

The thought of sinking into the water was too tempting. But the thought of standing beside him—half-naked, wet, vulnerable—

She wasn’t ready. She

wasn’t

. And yet, she didn’t tell him to keep riding.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop herself from hoping—just a little—that maybe, just

maybe

, they could find a way back to each other.

One step at a time. One breath. One moment.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 17 –

Old Wounds

Geralt felt the change in her the moment he mentioned the lake.

It was subtle—anyone else might have missed it—but he knew her too well, had spent too many months reading the shifts in her breathing, the tension in her muscles, the way she

felt

in his arms.

A pause. A sharp inhale. And then the scent hit him.

Not quite tears, not yet, but the salty trace of them gathering just beneath the surface, held back by sheer force of will.

She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

But the memory of the lake had

done

something to her. Had reached inside and twisted at whatever fragile thing she had been trying to keep buried.

And he hated that he had caused it.

He hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t thought before speaking. He should have.

Because now, he had to sit here, forced into silence, pretending not to notice the way her breath had hitched, the way her hands clenched ever so slightly around the reins.

She wouldn't want him to acknowledge it. Wouldn’t want his concern, his voice, his apology.

So he said nothing. Did nothing. And instead, he watched as the sun continued to eat at her skin.

The red was creeping in slowly, deepening with each passing mile, her shoulders already carrying the telltale tightness of skin burned too long beneath the open sky. It was already starting to spread down her arms and back. He was sure her stomach and collarbones looked similar. He didn’t even want to think about her face.

It was getting worse now, her breathing a little more shallow, as if the heat itself was suffocating. She wouldn’t say anything about it. Wouldn’t admit the discomfort. Would push forward, pretend it wasn’t happening.

And Geralt?

Geralt would let her—for now. Because soon, the lake would be in sight. And maybe the water would wash away more than just the burn on her skin.

The trees broke apart just ahead, the endless stretch of golden wheat giving way to the deep green of dense foliage.

Geralt slowed Roach, guiding her carefully through the uneven terrain, his grip on the reins firm but practiced.

And then, just beyond the last of the trees, there it was.

The lake. The water gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, dark and endless, its surface only barely disturbed by the breeze rolling across it.

He felt Cathleen shift in front of him, her posture tense, her fingers flexing slightly around nothing as if bracing herself for something unseen.

She had been lost in her head for the last few miles, her silence heavier than usual, her body rigid beneath the weight of the sunburn tightening her skin.

She needed the water. They both did.

Geralt pulled Roach to a stop just near the shore, waiting for Cathleen to dismount first.

She hesitated. And that— That told him everything.

Her movements were stiff as she tried to swing one leg over Roach’s throat, her body clearly protesting as her sunburn pulled at every muscle.

She gritted her teeth, trying to hide the wince, trying to move like she

wasn’t

in pain.

Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose, patience fraying at the edges.

He swung down from the saddle with practiced ease, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud before turning back to face her.

She was still trying to maneuver herself off Roach, every movement slow, careful, tense. It was ridiculous.

“Cathleen,” he said, voice low, edged with quiet irritation.

She stilled, meeting his gaze with a look on her face that

dared

him to say anything.

He stepped closer, his chest pressing against her leg as his hands reached without thought, halting just short of her.

“Please,” he muttered, not even trying to hide his worry for her. He had long given up on being stoic with her because all he cared about was that she might forgive him, however long it might take. “Let me help you.”

He reached for her slowly to give her time to deny him, to push him away until his fingers were brushing against her waist. The contact made her whimper in pain, her burned skin feeling terribly dry beneath his fingers. Seeing her like this, it was easy to ignore his own pain.

She sucked in a breath, spine going taut beneath his touch.

“Let me,” he repeated, tightening his grip so that she wouldn’t slip out of it. He hated that it hurt her, that he was hurting her.

But she let him. Didn’t argue as he lifted her from Roach and pulled her down next to him.

For the first time in what felt like

forever

, she let him. Her hands rested lightly against his shoulders, barely there, barely touching, but

enough

.

Enough for him to feel the warmth of her fingertips, enough for him to remember what it was like to

hold

her. He didn’t even feel the pain of it.

It lasted only a second. The moment her feet touched the ground, she stepped back.

A fraction of space. A hesitation. But

distance

, nonetheless.

Geralt swallowed down the frustration curling at the edges of his ribs and let her go.

“Can you walk?” he asked, watching the way she held herself, her body still stiff, still tense.

A huff of breath. A reluctant nod.

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

Liar. But he didn’t call her on it. Didn’t push.

Just watched as she turned toward the water, stripping away what little remained of her clothes with mechanical efficiency, as if undressing in front of him

wasn’t

something that once carried an entirely different weight. He supposed he was – that she didn’t mind him seeing her naked.

Without another word, she stepped into the lake.

Geralt let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before following her lead.

Cathleen didn’t hesitate as she pulled the last of her clothes from her aching skin.

She had never been shy in front of Geralt, never hesitated to bare herself to him—back when things had been different, back when he was hers and she was his.

And even now, even with all the space between them, that trust remained.

She knew he wouldn’t take advantage of it. Knew he wouldn’t leer at her or make some offhand remark that would put her on edge. He never had.

So, when she waded into the lake, feeling the cool kiss of water against her scorched skin, she didn’t look back to see if he was watching.

Because she already knew that he was. And she didn’t mind.

The water swallowed her up to the waist as she moved deeper, sending ripples skimming across the glassy surface.

A few feet away, she heard Geralt follow.

She didn’t turn to face him immediately, instead focusing on the way the water soothed the raw heat of her skin. It was a relief, sinking into something that eased the pain instead of adding to it.

The ache had been dragging at her, sinking its claws deep into her muscles, making every movement a battle against her own body.

Here, in the lake, the weight lessened.

She let out a slow breath and finally turned.

Geralt had halted a few feet away, just out of reach, the water lapping at his waist as his eyes remained locked onto her.

There was no mistaking the way he looked at her.

No mistaking the way his gaze swept over her slowly, as if committing the sight of her to memory.

She should have felt self-conscious. Should have turned away, crossed her arms over her chest, sunk deeper into the water.

But she didn’t. Because it was

him.

Because some part of her liked the way he looked at her.

Like she was something to be admired, something to be

wanted.

And yet, despite the hunger darkening his eyes, he didn’t move. Didn’t close the distance.

He was waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure.

For permission? For her to push him away? Or for her to pull him closer

?

She didn’t know. Didn’t have the courage to find out.

Instead, she let herself sink beneath the surface.

The world went silent as the water closed over her head.

The sounds of the shore, of the wind moving through the trees, of Geralt’s steady breathing—everything faded into nothingness.

There was only the water.

Only the quiet hum of magic that pulsed beneath her fingertips, curling and twisting in a way that felt like home.

Letting the magic bleed out from her, letting it sink into the water around her felt as simple as breathing.

A soft glow bloomed beneath the surface, a pale shimmer that radiated outward, illuminating the lake in a way that was both unnatural and beautiful.

The pain faded instantly. The tightness, the sting, the raw ache—it all melted away, replaced by cool relief.

When she broke the surface again, drawing in a slow breath, she felt

whole.

Healed.

And Geralt was staring at her. His eyes were wide, his expression carefully blank but for the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders had gone rigid.

She hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, of his silence

.

Then she noticed the red creeping over his chest, arms, face, the angry flush of his burned skin, and all hesitation melted away.

She took a step forward. Geralt didn’t move. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t stop her as she reached for him, her fingers hovering just above his chest, the warmth of his skin bleeding into the cool air between them.

But then— His hands shot out, grasping her wrists before she could touch him.

“Don’t.” His voice was rough, low. Her gaze snapped up to his.

And there, buried beneath the firm set of his jaw, beneath the tension in his frame— Was fear.

A shadow of something old. Something painful.

Cathleen swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Geralt,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His grip tightened, just for a moment.

She could feel the callouses on his fingers, the strength coiled beneath his skin, the silent plea in the way he

held on.

Her gaze softened as she dropped the stoic distance she had help up before, as she gave him a soft smile.

“It’s different,” she whispered. His eyes searched hers, something flickering behind them—conflict, war, longing.

She didn’t fight the grip on her waist, wasn’t worried one bit but about the pain

he

had to feel

“Let me,” she whispered, a soft plea.

A breath. A hesitation. And then— He let go.

His hands dropped back to his sides, his expression unreadable, his body still coiled with tension.

But he

let her.

Trusted her.

She exhaled slowly and closed the last of the space between them.

Gently, she cupped water in her palms and let it cascade over his shoulders, over his arms, even his face, over every inch of skin burned red by the sun.

His breath hitched as the cool water ran over his skin, washing away the heat, easing the ache.

Then, she reached for the magic. It responded instantly.

A pulse, a flicker, a ripple of light dancing through the water. She knew he could feel it, his stiffening gave him away.

Yet, he just watched

,

eyeing her carefully. She was well aware that at any sign of exhaustion in her eyes, on her face, he’d step out of reach.

Pressing her palms against his wet chest she felt the muscles shift beneath her skin. And then she called upon her magic.

She knew it was silly to heal him over something this small, knew witchers healed faster. But she wanted to. Because she

could

.

When it was done, she stepped back, letting the last of the magic settle. He stared at her, something unreadable in his gaze.

She hesitated before speaking, sensing that he needed to hear it, needed to

understand.

“This is different,” she said softly. “This—” She gestured vaguely to the water, to the way it still shimmered faintly around them. “Elemental magic doesn’t take as much from me, barely anything. I’d have to do this for hours without a break to exhaust myself.”

She let her fingers drift over the surface of the lake, watching as the water responded, moving in time with her touch.

“What I did back then… I call it energy.” She chuckled softly, her gaze flickering over the expanse of the lake. “To heal you, I had to take some energy from myself and give it to you to speed up the healing process.”

Swallowing, she returned her gaze to his face.

“If there had been water back then, I would have used it instead,” she admitted.

Geralt’s jaw tightened. His gaze flickered to the water, then back to her.

Something in him seemed to settle.

Not entirely. Not

fully.

But enough

.

For now.

Cathleen took a slow breath and finally—

finally

—let herself relax.

Geralt exhaled, slow and steady, feeling the last traces of heat and pain dissipate from his skin.

He had been bracing himself, waiting for the exhaustion to settle into her shoulders, waiting for the faint tremor of overexertion that had come last time.

But it never did. Cathleen remained as she was, standing before him, utterly untouched by fatigue.

She was fine. Completely fine. And the realization filled him with more relief than he had words for.

The lake still shimmered faintly around them, remnants of her magic lingering in the water like soft moonlight.

And for the first time since he had found her again, since their paths had crossed after years of silence and distance—she looked

relaxed.

There was no tension in her shoulders, no weight in her gaze, no carefully constructed walls around her.

Just peace.

The sight of it did something to him, twisted something deep in his chest.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her like this. Couldn’t recall the last time she had let herself simply

be

—without armor, without caution, without the ever-present ache of something unspoken hanging between them.

She closed her eyes briefly, tilting her face up toward the sun, letting the water sway around her with the softest movement of her body.

And Geralt

watched.

Because he didn’t know what else to do. Because looking at her felt like something necessary. Like something

vital.

His hands curled into loose fists beneath the water.

He wanted to touch her.

Not in a way that was driven by hunger or need—though

gods,

he

did

desire her. He wouldn’t lie to himself about that. But this wasn’t about that.

This wasn’t about slaking some restless longing or indulging in the part of him that had

never

stopped wanting her.

It was something

deeper.

Something

quieter.

A need to feel her warmth beneath his fingers. To ground himself in the reality of her. To remind himself that she was

here.

That she was

alive.

That he wasn’t standing at the edge of some old memory, watching her slip away all over again.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, weighing the thought.

And that was when she turned her head, catching his gaze.

Her lips curved—not into a smirk, not into something teasing or sharp, but into something knowing

.

She had caught him staring. Of course, she had.

Cathleen had always been sharp. Had always been able to read him in ways few ever could.

Geralt hesitated, unsure if he should voice the thought pressing against his ribs, unsure if he should speak the words lingering on his tongue.

But she had always appreciated honesty above all else. Had always

demanded

it from him, even when it was difficult.

Even when it hurt. So he didn’t lie. Didn’t swallow it down.

Instead, he took a careful step closer, the water shifting around him, and said, quietly—

“May I touch you?”

Cathleen’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes.

He knew she had heard the restraint in his voice, the weight in it.

So he clarified, before she could misinterpret—before she could assume this was about something it wasn’t.

“This isn’t about sex,” he said, voice low, steady. “I won’t pretend I don’t

desire

you, because I do.” He let that truth settle between them before adding, softer, “But this isn’t about that.”

A pause. Then, quieter—

“I just want to feel you.” She studied him for a long moment, gaze searching. Weighing. Measuring.

Then, finally, she nodded.

“Yes,” she said, the word gentle but certain.

Geralt moved carefully. Slowly.

His fingers made contact just beneath her collarbones first, ghosting over her skin ever so carefully.

She shivered—

not

from the cold, he knew, but from something else.

He traced his fingertips along the sharp edges of her bones, following the delicate shape of her frame.

He had always loved this part of her. Not because it was delicate, not because it was soft—but because it

wasn’t.

Because beneath his fingers, he felt

strength.

Felt resilience woven into every line of her body.

His hands traveled lower, skimming lightly down her sides, tracing the spaces between her ribs, mapping out the places he had memorized long ago.

Cathleen inhaled, slow and even, but she didn’t stop him. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t break the quiet between them.

Geralt’s palms ghosted over the plane of her stomach, feeling the subtle shift of her breath, the way her muscles tensed ever so slightly beneath his touch.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t push. Didn’t seek out anything she wasn’t ready to give.

This wasn’t about taking. It was about

knowing.

His hands slid down to her hips, fingers brushing lightly over the sharp bones there, just barely above the surface of the water.

When he let his hands guide up again to settle on her waist, she exhaled slowly, as if grounding herself.

His grip was light, careful. Reverent. A quiet understanding passed between them. Something fragile. Something

precious.

Geralt swallowed, his throat dry despite the water surrounding them.

“This still doesn’t feel real to me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.

Cathleen’s fingers curled lightly around his wrists, not to pull him away, but simply to hold on

.

“It is real,” she whispered.

A beat of silence. Then, softer—

“It always has been.”

And

that

—that was what shattered something inside him.

Because despite all the time that had passed, despite all the hurt, all the mistakes, all the silence—

She still knew

.

Still

felt it.

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, trying to steady the thing in his chest that threatened to unravel.

When he opened them again, she was still there.

Still looking at him like she

saw

him. Like she had always seen him.

He let out something between a growl and a sigh before leaning down, burying his face in the crook her neck.

All his senses were sharpened, all his attention on her so that he could retreat, could apologize if he had overstepped, if she showed only the slightest hint of unease but…

That never came. Yes, her heartbeat quickened. Yes, her breathing stocked. But then it passed and she continued to breathe normally. Her hands were still around his wrists, she could push him away if she wanted to.

Yet, she didn’t. She didn’t hug him either, like she would have done once.

But she let him breathe her in, let him rest there for just a moment.

“I am

so

sorry.” They both knew his rumbled apology had nothing to do with what he was doing now.

“I know,” she whispered back.

It took everything in him not to pull her closer, not to press his lips against her neck.

Instead, he took one last breath, inhaling that scent of oranges and woodsmoke, and stepped back. Just enough.

His hands were still seated on her waist and his gaze found hers, he finally saw what she had tried to hide from him the past week.

She was afraid. She didn’t trust him – didn’t trust him to not leave again. He couldn’t even blame her. Geralt had fucked up. So he would have to fix it.

“I won’t

ever

leave you again, Cathleen,” he vowed under his breath. “Unless you wish me gone, I’ll stay with you.”

Her gaze hardened as she realized what he had seen in her eyes. Geralt also didn’t blame her for that. It would take more than a few words for her to believe him.

So when she stepped out of his grip, he let her go, the skin of his palms burning with the desire to pull her back. Cathleen needed time and Geralt wouldn’t push her. No matter how much he needed it.

And if he was still apologizing in a decade, he would be fine with it. Fuck, he’d be fine with dying without her having forgiven him, as long as she allowed him to stay with her.

Anything she wanted, anything she needed – for as long as he could stay.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 18 –

One Step Forward

Two weeks had passed.

Fourteen days of traveling side by side, of sharing the same fire, the same air, the same silence. Fourteen days of small moments woven together—moments that, despite their simplicity, had begun to mend what had once been broken.

At first, things had been… tentative. Not quite cold, but uncertain. The weight of old wounds and unspoken words stretched between them like a thread pulled too tight. Cathleen had kept her distance, not physically, but emotionally. She had been careful, cautious, unwilling to let down her guard too soon.

And Geralt—he had been patient. Unwaveringly, stubbornly patient.

He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t demanded anything from her. Instead, he had done everything under the sun to make it up to her, in ways that were both small and profound.

He had taken the first watch every night, even when it had been her turn. He had ensured she was always fed before him, that her water flask was full, that she was comfortable on Roach no matter what. He had sought out the herbs she liked in her tea without her even mentioning it.

And when they rode, his touch had been different. At first, her body had resisted leaning into him, old instincts keeping her rigid in the saddle. But slowly—so slowly—her muscles had eased. Her body had begun to remember the way it once fit against him.

The first time she had let herself relax back into his chest, she had felt the exhale against her hair, the subtle shift of his arm tightening just slightly around her waist. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t drawn attention to it.

But she had felt it. She had felt everything.

The fire had burned down to embers, casting little more than a soft glow against the darkened trees surrounding their camp. The night was still, save for the distant rustling of wind through the leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl.

Geralt kneeled across from her, hands splayed on his massive thighs, his posture rigidly upright. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and measured.

Meditating.

Cathleen sat on the opposite side of the fire, her knees drawn up, arms resting loosely around them. She had offered to keep watch tonight—not because she was tired, but because she knew she wouldn’t sleep.

Still, she did her best to stay still. To make no sound.

She wasn’t sure how deeply Geralt’s meditations went, if he lost himself in them fully or if he remained aware of everything around him. She didn’t want to disturb him.

Minutes passed in silence. Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“You don’t have to be still.” His voice was low, rough with the quiet of the night. She blinked, shifting slightly.

“You’re aware of everything anyway, aren’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

A faint curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk, but close.

“Yes.” He cracked one eye open, meeting her gaze across the fire. “You could pace circles around the camp and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Right. Should’ve known.”

His eye drifted shut again, settling back into that unnatural stillness.

Cathleen let her gaze linger on him, studying the lines of his face, the way the firelight painted soft shadows across his features.

How many nights had she spent looking at him like this in the past? How many times had she watched him in the dim glow of a dying fire, his face softer in sleep—or in meditation, like now?

She had thought those nights were lost to her forever. That she would never again sit across from him like this, never again exist within the same quiet space.

And yet… here they were. Something in her chest twisted, aching and unfamiliar.

She had forgiven him.

The realization settled over her like a slow-moving tide, creeping in inch by inch until it was too late to fight it.

She had forgiven him.

Not because he had asked her to, not because he had done everything in his power to make it up to her—but because she simply

had

. Because holding onto the anger, the betrayal, the hurt… it had become too heavy to carry.

She had forgiven him.

But what did that mean? What did it mean for them?

The thought sent a tremor through her. Forgiving him did not mean forgetting. Did not mean she could simply open her arms and let things return to the way they had once been.

Her fingers curled slightly against her knee, nails pressing into the fabric of her trousers.

She wanted

him

. And that terrified her.

Because wanting him meant opening herself up to the possibility of losing him again. It meant stepping onto fragile, uncertain ground, with no guarantee that it wouldn’t crumble beneath her feet.

She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Her eyes remained fixed on him, as if she could find the answers in the slow, steady rhythm of his breath, in the quiet strength of his presence.

Geralt had never been good with words. But he had always spoken in the way he moved, in the way he touched, in the way he lingered just a little too long when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Maybe she could trust that, if nothing else. Maybe—just maybe—she could believe him this time.

Cathleen frowned softly before standing up. The knowledge that he knew exactly what she was doing without even looking at her made her feel tingly. She stepped around the fire only to plop down next to him – closer to him than she had in weeks.

She inhaled deeply, exhaling slow and measured, mirroring the rhythm of his breath without meaning to.

The night stretched on. Geralt remained still.

And even though he was alert, she stayed awake. Kept watch. Kept them safe. Kept

him

safe.

Two weeks had passed.

Fourteen days of her presence at his side. Fourteen days of watching her, learning her all over again. Fourteen days of patience, of measured silence, of giving her space even when every instinct in his body urged him to close the distance.

He had made his choice years ago, and now he was paying the price. She had every right to turn away from him, to tell him to go to hell and mean it.

She hadn’t. She had let him stay. And that alone was more than he had ever hoped for.

So he had been patient.

He hadn’t deserved forgiveness, and he had known better than to ask for it. Instead, he had tried to show her, in the only ways he knew how, that he was still here. That he would not leave again.

Small things, mostly. Thoughtless, perhaps, to anyone else. But he knew Cathleen.

She noticed everything.

Things that spoke without words. Taking first watch every night, even when it had been her turn. Ensuring she had enough food before he touched his own. Hunting for the herbs she liked in her tea, tucking them into her satchel without comment. And when they rode together, he had done his best to keep his touch light, unobtrusive.

At first, she had done nothing to acknowledge it. Had simply carried on as if unaware. But then, slowly, her posture had begun to change. The rigid set of her shoulders had loosened, the wary distance between them shortening inch by inch.

And when they rode, something shifted.

At first, she had been stiff in his arms, her back straight, her body barely touching his. He had expected that. Had prepared himself for it.

But then, one evening—after a long day, after too many hours spent on horseback—she had exhaled softly and let herself relax, her weight settling against his chest for the first time in weeks.

The shift had been subtle. A gradual uncoiling of tension, the slow easing of her form against his. He had felt the moment her body gave up its rigid defiance, the way her spine softened against his chest. As if she had stopped thinking, stopped overanalyzing, and just

let go

.

He had forgotten what it was like, holding her like this. Forgotten the way she fit so perfectly against him, like some part of her had been carved to match his own.

It had taken everything in him not to tighten his hold on her. Not to press his lips against her hair and let himself sink into the warmth of her, into the quiet comfort that had once been second nature. And he had exhaled before he could stop himself, before he could think to keep it hidden.

She had felt it. He knew she had. But she hadn’t pulled away.

That had nearly undone him.

He had wanted to speak—to tell her what that meant to him, to let her know that the feel of her against him was something he would never take for granted again. But he hadn’t. He had known better than to break the moment, to risk shattering the fragile ground they had only just begun to rebuild.

So he had said nothing. Had simply tightened his arm the smallest fraction around her waist, just enough to let her know he had felt it, too.

And that had been enough.

Now, beneath the glow of the fire, Geralt sat across from her, his breathing even, his body still. Meditating.

Or trying to. He had fallen into meditation out of habit rather than need. He wasn’t tired. Not in the way most would be.

His body could go days without proper rest, his mutations ensuring that exhaustion never truly claimed him. But he still sought the quiet. The stillness.

And yet—he was

aware

.

He could feel her. Even through the steady rhythm of his breath, the focused emptiness he sought to pull himself into—he was aware of her.

Her presence was not something he could ignore, not when she had spent the past three weeks slowly threading herself back into his world.

She was watching him. He could feel it.

Not in the way she once had, when she used to study him with warmth and curiosity, with that soft amusement in her gaze whenever he got lost in thought. This was different. Hesitant. Searching.

The fire crackled between them, its embers glowing faintly against the darkness. Cathleen was unnaturally still, as if hesitant to disturb him. Always considerate of him, even now.

“You don’t have to be still,” he murmured without opening his eyes.

There was a pause before she spoke. “You’re aware of everything anyway, aren’t you?”

A corner of his mouth tugged upward, just slightly.

“Yes.” He cracked one eye open, catching the flicker of movement as she shifted slightly. “You could pace circles around the camp and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Right. Should’ve known.”

Geralt let his eye drift shut again, settling back into the controlled stillness of his meditation. But the space between them had shifted, just a little.

She was still watching him.

He felt the moment she stood, the quiet rustle of her movements as she stepped around the fire. His muscles tensed instinctively, not from alarm, but from something else—something more deeply ingrained.

So when she finally moved, when she stood and stepped around the fire to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, something inside him tightened.

He didn’t react. Didn’t turn his head, didn’t shift.

He simply

felt

. Felt the warmth of her body beside him, the proximity that had been denied to him for so long. Felt the way she exhaled, slow and steady, mirroring his own breath without realizing it.

Fuck.

This was torture.

Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt

right

.

Because after weeks of careful distance, of measured steps, of earning back the smallest fragments of trust, she was

here

.

Beside him. Not pulling away. Not flinching from his presence. Not only staying but actively searching him out.

A part of him ached.

The night stretched on. Cathleen remained awake.

And even though he didn’t need protecting, she kept watch anyway. Kept them safe. Kept

him

safe.

And that – even though it scared – was also something he was finally able to admit cherishing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 19 –

The Quiet of the Night

Something had changed.

Not all at once, not in some grand, undeniable moment. It had happened slowly—like thawing ice, like the first hints of spring after a long, bitter winter. Subtle shifts. Small things. But he had felt every single one.

It had started that night by the fire.

When she had come to him. Sat beside him. Leaned into his presence as if she wasn’t afraid of what it might mean.

He had done nothing to acknowledge it—not beyond the quiet way he had breathed her in, committing the warmth of her body to memory. But since then, things had been… different.

She leaned into him again when they rode, the way she used to. Not just at the end of a long day, not just when exhaustion forced her body to relax against his—but instinctively. Easily. Like it was natural.

Like it had always been. And then—then had come the touches.

Small at first. A hand on his forearm when she spoke to him. A brush of fingers against his as she passed him something. The press of her palm against his back when they maneuvered through narrow spaces in the woods.

It had been careful, at first. Measured.

And then, three nights ago, she had told him—clear as day, with no hesitation in her voice—

“You don’t have to ask permission to touch me, Geralt.”

That had nearly undone him.

He had felt the weight of her words settle in his chest like a heavy stone. Had studied her face, searching for any hesitation, any flicker of uncertainty.

There had been none. Still, he had waited. Had held himself back. Had given her space to change her mind, if she wanted to.

She hadn’t.

And now, with her settled in front of him in the saddle, her body tucked so perfectly against his own, he finally allowed himself to

act

on it.

Carefully—so carefully—he let his hands drift from the reins, trailing over her waist, her stomach, the curve of her thighs.

Testing. Waiting. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense, didn’t pull away, didn’t even

pause

.

Instead, she leaned further into him, shifting just slightly, pressing herself against his chest as if to say,

this is fine. This is wanted.

Geralt exhaled slowly, controlling the sharp relief that curled through his veins.

She was warm against him. Soft. The weight of her in his arms was something he had missed so fucking much that it physically ached.

He tightened his hold around her just slightly, letting his fingers settle more firmly against her. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

And she

let him

. Didn’t just let him, but welcomed it.

He closed his eyes briefly, just for a second, letting himself savor it.

He had thought he might never have this again. Never be allowed to hold her like this, to touch her with familiarity instead of restraint. He had resigned himself to the idea that even if she forgave him, even if she let him back into her life, he would still be kept at a distance.

But she had closed that distance herself.

And fuck, if it didn’t make his pulse roar in his ears, if it didn’t make every buried, starved part of him want to pull her in and never let go—

He forced himself to keep his breathing even.

She set the pace. Not him. Never him.

But fuck, how he wanted.

A week later, they arrived at a small village just before dusk.

It was nothing special. Just another stop along the road. A place to rest, to eat something warm, to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in too many days.

They approached the inn in silence, both too tired to talk much. The day’s ride had been long, and the weight of travel clung to their bones.

Geralt handled the arrangements while Cathleen busied herself with Roach. It was routine now. They had settled into the ease of traveling together again, their movements familiar, their habits aligning without effort.

But when the innkeeper returned with an apologetic expression, Geralt felt a prickle of irritation creep up his spine.

“There’s only one room left,” the man said, scratching at his stubbled chin. “One bed.”

Geralt turned to Cathleen, already prepared to insist he would sleep elsewhere—on the floor, or not at all. It wasn’t as if he

needed

rest, not the way she did.

But before he could open his mouth, she shrugged. “That’s fine.”

He blinked. She didn’t even

hesitate

.

And then, as if sensing his silent surprise, she met his gaze and added, voice calm and unwavering, “I don’t mind sharing.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened.

He should argue. Should insist he take the floor anyway. Should do

something

other than stand there, staring at her like some speechless idiot.

But she had said it so easily. Had looked at him as if the thought of sharing a bed with him wasn’t something worth second-guessing.

So he didn’t argue.

He simply nodded, took the key from the innkeeper, and followed her up the stairs.

The room was small but clean. A single window overlooked the quiet village square, the last light of day casting long shadows across the wooden floor.

And there, in the center of the room, was the bed.

Big enough to share, but still—

one

.

Geralt hesitated in the doorway.

It was one thing to hold her on horseback, to let his hands drift over her waist and thighs as they rode. That had been easy. Natural. The same as it had always been.

But

this

—this was different.

It wasn’t even about the intimacy of it, not really. It was the proximity. The idea of lying beside her, of falling asleep knowing she was right there, within reach.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust himself with that. He wasn’t sure if he could close his eyes and

not

reach for her.

He wasn’t sure if he could handle the weight of having her this close, only to wake up and remember there were still so many things left unsaid between them.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Or not at all. It’s fine.”

Cathleen turned from where she had been setting down her things, an amused huff leaving her lips. “Geralt.”

He stilled.

She stepped closer, tilting her head as she looked up at him. There was something exasperated and

fond

in her expression, like she couldn’t believe he was still doing this—still making things harder than they needed to be.

“We’ve already slept in worse places together,” she pointed out. “In the dirt. Under trees. Crushed together under the same blanket when it was too cold to do anything else.”

He exhaled slowly. She wasn’t wrong.

But it wasn’t

the same

, and they both knew it.

Still, he didn’t argue.

Because if she was comfortable with this—if she had made her choice—then he wouldn’t be the one to question it.

“…Alright,” he murmured at last.

She smiled, shaking her head as if she found his stubbornness ridiculous. “You’re impossible.”

And then she turned back to her things, as if the matter was already settled.

Geralt swallowed. He could handle this.

Could handle lying beside her without reaching for her, without sinking into the warmth of her the way he so desperately wanted to.

Right?

Cathleen was

highly

amused.

She had expected some hesitation, of course. Geralt had always been the brooding, overthinking type—even back when things between them had been easy. But this? This

agonizing

over where to sleep?

It was downright

hilarious

.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t slept beside each other before.

Countless

times, actually. In the dirt, under trees, crammed into spaces far smaller than this.

And yet here he was, standing stiffly by the door, looking as though someone had asked him to step onto a battlefield

barehanded

.

What was

wrong

with him?

Suppressing a grin, she turned away to busy herself with her pack, giving him a chance to work through whatever dramatic inner turmoil he was wrestling with.

She could practically

feel

him overthinking.

She had

told

him—told him clearly, without hesitation—that he didn’t have to ask permission to touch her anymore. And yet, it was as if he had taken that to mean

only

while they were riding.

Which was ridiculous. She had meant

always

.

He didn’t have to hesitate. Didn’t have to hold himself back.

Stripping down for the night was nothing new. She had never been overly modest, and it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t seen her in all states of undress before.

But the way he was

deliberately

keeping his eyes off her now? How he was forcing himself to move with slow, measured care, as if afraid one wrong move might unravel something between them?

It was priceless. So, naturally, she decided to make it worse.

Geralt was already facing away, removing his armor piece by piece, when she began undoing the bindings around her chest. She had spent all day in them, and she

hated

sleeping with them on—too tight, too restrictive.

She had just started loosening them when she caught the moment his movements slowed.

Had he noticed? A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

She kept going, dragging the fabric away from her skin with practiced ease, stretching slightly once it was off.

The low, frustrated groan that escaped Geralt’s throat was

instantaneous

.

Cathleen

grinned

.

“What?” she asked innocently, tilting her head toward him.

Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring at the wooden wall as if it had personally offended him.

Cathleen laughed—actually

laughed

—and before he could come up with some gruff, dismissive answer, she grabbed his tunic from where he had draped it over a chair and pulled it over her head.

It was oversized on her, of course, draping past her thighs in a way that was entirely too comfortable. She had done this before, long ago—stolen his shirts, worn them as nightclothes just because she

could

.

It had always driven him insane.

Judging by the sharp inhale from behind her, that hadn’t changed.

Good.

“You—” Geralt started, then stopped, clearly struggling for words.

Cathleen just turned to face him fully, her expression smug. “What? It’s warm.”

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, as if physically

holding himself back

.

It was adorable. And infuriating.

Because as much as she enjoyed teasing him, there was still

distance

between them. Still something holding him back, keeping him from reaching for her the way he

wanted

to.

She could see it in the way his shoulders tensed. In the way his gaze darted away from her, as if looking at her too long might make him forget himself entirely.

It was

infuriating

—but it was also kind of… endearing.

Because it meant he was still giving her the chance to change her mind. Still holding back, just in case she wasn’t

truly

sure.

It was sweet, in its own frustrating way.

But she was

done

with it.

Settling into bed should have been easy. Should have been

comfortable

. But it

wasn’t

.

Because Geralt—

absolute idiot that he was

—was keeping as far away from her as physically possible.

Cathleen lay on her side, facing the wall, the warmth of the blankets already lulling her toward sleep. But she was

aware

of him behind her. Of the way he lay stiffly on his back, not even daring to shift.

He may as well have been on the floor.

Her amusement faded. Fuck. He really was

this

determined to keep his hands to himself? Even

now

?

She sighed quietly. Then, without turning around, she spoke.

“Geralt.” She felt him tense.

“You don’t have to ask to touch me,” she reminded him gently.

She could practically

hear

the way his breathing hitched.

A pause. Then—his voice, low and strained: “I know.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head against the pillow. “Do you?”

Another silence. Then, softer: “…Yes.”

Cathleen hummed, shifting slightly, relaxing further into the mattress.

“Because I meant it,” she continued, voice quieter now, laced with something more sincere. “And it doesn’t just apply when we’re on Roach.”

She let that sink in, let the words settle between them.

Because she

meant

it. Because he needed to hear it.

If she was going to rebuild something with him, if she was going to let him back into her space, her world, her

life

—then he needed to understand that it wasn’t just

conditional

.

It wasn’t just when they were riding, or when exhaustion made it easy to lean into him.

It was

always

. It was a choice she had already made. And he needed to start believing that.

Behind her, Geralt exhaled slowly.

She didn’t push further. Didn’t turn around, didn’t force the moment into something heavier than it needed to be.

She just

let him process

. And then— A shift. Barely noticeable, but

there

.

The mattress dipped slightly behind her, the warmth of his presence shifting closer. Not touching—

not yet

—but closer.Cathleen felt him hesitate.

Even after everything—even after

weeks

of closing the distance between them, after all the careful steps forward, after the way she had

clearly

told him he didn’t need to ask—he

still

hesitated.

She could almost hear the battle waging inside his head. Could picture the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hands were likely curled into fists, fighting the instinct to

hold her

.

It was almost sweet. Almost. If it weren’t so

infuriating

.

She exhaled, soft and steady, making sure her voice stayed gentle.

Patient

. “Geralt.” A pause. A sharp inhale from behind her. “…Yes?”

Cathleen resisted the urge to laugh.

As if he doesn’t know exactly why I’m saying his name.

“You

can

touch me,” she reminded him, letting her fingers absentmindedly brush over the fabric of his tunic, the one she had stolen for the night. “However you want.” Silence. A long, heavy moment.

And then—finally—his fingers brushed over her side.

It was tentative at first. Barely there. A light touch against her waist, slow and uncertain, as if he were giving her time to change her mind.

She didn’t.

Instead, she sighed softly, shifting just enough to press closer to him. To make it

unmistakable

that she

wanted

this. That she

wanted him

.

That was all it took. His hesitation crumbled.

The arm that had been hovering uncertainly at her side suddenly wrapped around her, firm and

solid

, pulling her flush against his chest. His body was

so warm

, heat radiating from him like a furnace, surrounding her completely.

She melted into it. Into

him

.

Geralt pressed his forehead against the back of her head, exhaling sharply.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his voice low, rough around the edges.

Cathleen closed her eyes, her lips curling into a small smile.

“More than okay.”

The tension in him eased. She

felt

it—the way his body finally relaxed, the way his grip on her tightened just slightly, as if

relieved

.

As if this was something

he

had needed just as much as she had. Maybe even more.

She sighed, letting her fingers brush over the arm he had wrapped around her waist, tracing small, absentminded patterns over his skin.

Geralt said nothing. He just held her.

And for the first time in a long,

long

time—everything felt right.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 20 –

Where She Belongs

Sleep had never come that easily to him.

Geralt wasn’t used to sleeping this close to someone. In the past, he had always stayed awake, had kept watch or meditated.

Tonight, his eyes had closed on their own, everything about Cathleen luring him into rest. The way her heart beat in her chest, slow and steady, the way her breathing was deep and unbothered, her chest rising and falling in its rhythm. He even enjoyed the way the skin of her stomach pressed against his palm as she breathed, the muscles beneath flexing and relaxing ever so slightly as she dreamt.

He wasn’t sorry to admit that he had pushed his hand beneath the tunic she stole from him, the need to feel her skin.

Naturally, he had been careful, considerate, never letting his hands stray to the places he longed for. She had given him permission to touch her however he wanted but in his head, that didn’t include those intimate places he only had been allowed to touch once.

It didn’t matter to him, he didn’t

need

her that way. No, Geralt was perfectly content with enjoying everything else she gave him.

Nuzzling his head into her red hair, he didn’t even mind the slight tickle of it as he breathed in the comfort of her scent.

And slowly, sleep came over him. It was easy to blend out the sounds of the tavern, of its guests and the horses outside in the stable as he focused on Cathleen’s heartbeat.

It was easier to let the alertness fade away.

Geralt only dreamt of her.

Geralt woke with a start.

The warmth that had lulled him into sleep was gone.

He reached for her instinctively, still caught in the haze of sleep, expecting to find her there, solid and warm beneath his palm.

But there was

nothing

. The space beside him was empty. Cold.

Geralt sat up so fast the room spun.

His heartbeat roared in his ears, panic clawing at his throat. His first thought—

someone took her.

His body moved before his mind did, feet hitting the floor with barely a sound. The sheets were tangled from where she had slipped out of them, the imprint of her body still faintly there. But no scent of fear. No lingering trace of a struggle.

His senses sharpened, taking in every detail of the room, every scent, every sound.

No overturned furniture. No broken glass. No scent of blood or sweat from an intruder.

No danger.

The realization hit him like a fist to the gut, stealing what little breath he had left.

She hadn’t been taken. She had

left

.

Geralt stood in the center of the room half naked, frozen. His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he tried to fight against the tide of thoughts that threatened to drown him.

He had been a fool to let himself believe.

That this was real. That this was

his

to keep. That she

wouldn’t leave.

Because of course she had. Why the fuck wouldn’t she?

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his whole body rigid as the weight of his own thoughts crushed down on him.

He had ruined this once before. What made him think he wouldn’t ruin it again?

No matter how careful he was, no matter how much he tried—he wasn’t meant for this. Wasn’t meant for

her

.

He was a witcher. He had

nothing

to offer her. No home, no stability, no promises.

Only danger. Only a life of moving from one fight to the next, one hunt to the next, one town to the next.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

His stomach turned.

Maybe last night had been a mistake for her. Maybe she had realized that this—

this closeness

—was too much.

Maybe she had finally come to her senses and seen what he had always known.

That he wasn’t enough. That he would

never

be enough.

A sharp pain shot through his chest, something deep, something raw.

He had thought—fuck, he had thought—

The door swung open.

Geralt’s head snapped up, every muscle in his body coiled, breath locked in his throat.

And there she was.

Striding through the doorway, a tray in her hands, looking entirely

unbothered

.

Cathleen didn’t even look at him as she strode past him.

“You are

so

lucky,” she chuckled. “There were only two bowls of potato soup left and trust me, that meat stu was probably made out of rats, from the smell of it.

Geralt could only stare at her dumbfounded as she kicked off her boots, still not looking at him.

“Also, I managed to bride the innkeeper. We’re gonna have the tub in about thirty minutes all for ourselves for a whole hour! Best to eat quickly, right?” With a grin, she turned toward him, only to startle at his expression.

“…What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked, stepping inside.

Geralt didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

She was here. She was

here

.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

The moment she set the tray down on the bed they had shared, his hands were on her, pulling her close, crushing her against his chest.

She let out a surprised sound, barely managing to catch herself against him before he wrapped his arms around her fully, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in.

His chest ached with the force of it.

Oranges and woodsmith—

her scent

—flooded his senses, grounding him, soothing something raw and frayed inside him.

She was fine. She was

fine

.

And she hadn’t left him.

“Geralt,” she murmured, voice softer now, surprised. Only slowly did she return the hug, her hands sneaking around his waist loosely.

He didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Not when the ghost of his own thoughts still lingered, whispering cruel things in his mind. Not when the fear had been

so real

. Not when he had believed, for one terrible moment, that he had lost her

again

.

He just held her, his grip tightening like she might disappear if he let go.

Cathleen shifted slightly in his hold, tilting her head to look up at him.

“…Okay,” she murmured, voice tinged with confusion, but warm nonetheless. “Not that I mind this, but—what the fuck is going on?”

Geralt exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the top of her head.

He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t admit how fucking

terrified

he had been.

How much it had

hurt

to think she had left.

So instead, he just said—

“Nothing.” A blatant fucking lie.

She huffed. “You’re a shit liar.”

He said nothing. Just held her closer.

She made a soothing noise, one of her hands rubbing over his back gently as if she knew that he was in need of comfort. Because of course knew, she fucking always knew.

Cathleen sat cross-legged on the bed, the warmth of the bowl in her hands spreading up her fingers as she scooped up a spoonful of soup. It smelled decent enough—potatoes, onions, and just the faintest hint of something that

could

have been actual meat. A rare find in taverns like this.

Across from her, Geralt ate in silence. Or at least, he

looked

like he was eating.

But she could

feel

his attention on her. Even when his gaze was fixed on his bowl, even when he kept his expression neutral, something about him was too focused, too sharp.

She frowned slightly, shifting her weight as she took another bite.

It was almost imperceptible, the way his attention clung to her. Not in an obvious way, not in the way others might stare when they thought they were being discreet. No, it was something deeper than that.

Like every part of him was

tuned

to her.

She could feel it in the way his body remained subtly angled toward her, in the way his breath seemed to hitch slightly whenever she moved. She could

sense

it, the way he was listening—not just to her words, but to her breathing, to the shift of her weight against the mattress.

He was trying not to make it obvious. Trying to be casual.

But she knew him too well.

And then, suddenly, she understood. He had woken up, and she hadn’t been there.

Fuck.

Her chest constricted.

She hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t

considered

how that must have looked to him, how that must have

felt

to him.

Waking up to an empty bed. No note. No explanation. No

her

.

Her grip tightened slightly around the bowl, a wave of guilt washing over her.

Because she knew what that must have triggered in him.

Nine years ago, she had woken up to

nothing

. No note. No explanation. No

him

.

And she had

hated

him for it.

Her throat tightened.

She set her spoon down, her appetite waning slightly.

Geralt was still watching her. Still listening. Still

waiting

.

She forced herself to breathe, to swallow down the tightness in her chest.

There was no undoing it. No changing the way he must have felt waking up alone.

But she could do something now. So she did.

Cathleen exhaled quietly, shaking off the lingering heaviness of the thought. She offered him a small, knowing smile before reaching for her spoon again.

“You look like you’re waiting for me to drop dead from poisoning,” she teased, her voice light despite the weight in her chest.

Geralt blinked. He

almost

looked caught.

Then, with a small huff, he turned his attention back to his own food. “You’re the one who called it rat stew.”

Cathleen snorted. “This is

potato

soup. The

rat

stew was the other one.”

“Hm.”

It wasn’t exactly an admission, but it was

something

.

She watched him for another moment, then finally took another bite.

The tension in him never quite left, but he seemed to relax—

just

slightly—when she resumed eating.

She let the conversation shift to easier things after that. Let the moment pass without drawing attention to it.

But the guilt still lingered.

And when they finally stood, preparing to head for the bathing chamber, she didn’t let the opportunity pass her by.

As he moved toward the door, she reached out, catching his hand in hers.

Geralt stopped.

She felt the way he tensed at first—just a flicker, just a hesitation—before he let himself relax into her touch.

She squeezed his hand, grounding both of them.

“Geralt.” Her voice was quiet. Steady. He turned his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting hers.

“If there’s ever something wrong,” she said softly, “I’ll tell you.”

His throat bobbed slightly. She let her thumb trace absently over his skin, reassuring. “I mean that.”

He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nodded. “…Thank you.”

She exhaled, relieved. But she could still

feel

the tension in him, lingering, unwilling to fully let go.

So, naturally—she did what she did best.

With a small grin, she tugged on his hand, stepping ahead of him as she pulled him toward the door. “Now, come on. We’ve got a bath waiting, and I’d rather

not

share a tub with a dozen other people.”

Geralt let out a quiet, amused huff.

And as they stepped into the hall, she could

feel

it—the way some of the weight lifted from him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 21 –

The Weight Of A Touch

The bathing chamber was warm—almost

too

warm. The damp air clung to Geralt’s skin the moment they stepped inside, thick with steam, carrying the scent of herbs from the water already waiting in the tub. The wooden walls, worn smooth by years of use, glistened slightly with condensation, the faint flicker of candlelight reflecting off them in a golden glow.

Geralt exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders beneath the oppressive heat. A bath had seemed like a good idea—Cathleen certainly seemed pleased with her bribery skills—but fuck, he already felt like he was sweating.

His gaze flickered to her as she stepped further into the room, already unfastening her tunic.

“You go first,” he murmured, keeping his voice neutral as he turned toward the tub, as if he wasn’t painfully aware of her fingers working at the laces of her shirt.

Cathleen didn’t answer immediately, the sound of the fabric of her clothes echoing through the chamber.

And then—softly, amusedly—

“We can bathe together.”

Geralt stiffened slightly, his back still turned to her. There was no teasing in her tone. No hesitation. Just quiet certainty.

He swallowed. Then turned.

She was already naked. And fuck—she was

gorgeous

.

The candlelight played against the curves of her body, casting soft shadows across her skin, highlighting every dip, every slope, every place he had once memorized and then spent years trying to forget.

Her hair, red as a dying sun, tumbled over her shoulders, strands already curling slightly from the humidity.

And her eyes— There was no expectation in them. No nervousness. Only quiet patience. Only

her

.

Geralt felt something deep inside him

unravel

.

The hesitation lasted only a moment longer.

Then, he reached for his own tunic, stripping without another word.

He could

feel

her eyes on him as he undressed, could feel the weight of her gaze tracing over him.

Not with judgment. Not with scrutiny.

Just

looking

. Like he was

worth

looking at.

By the time he stepped into the tub, the heat was the least of his concerns.

The water was hot, but not scalding. It rose to his waist as he settled in, the scent of chamomile and rosemary filling the air. The tension in his shoulders immediately began to ease, the heat seeping into his muscles.

And then—Cathleen moved.

Geralt barely had time to reach for her before she stepped forward, gripping his hand as she carefully climbed in after him.

Her fingers were small against his, delicate but certain, like she trusted him to hold her steady. Like it was

natural

to reach for him.

Geralt swallowed hard. He didn’t let go. Not even when she settled between his legs, sinking slowly into the water until it rose to their chests.

He hesitated, breath catching as he debated whether or not to touch her.

And then—he remembered.

You can touch me however you want.

The words echoed in his mind, steady, certain.

Last night, he had been cautious, careful, hesitant. But she had wanted it.

So, slowly—tentatively—Geralt let his arm slip around her waist, pulling her just slightly closer.

Cathleen sighed—a soft, contented sound—before she melted into him entirely, leaning against his chest as if she belonged there.

She fit

perfectly

against him.

And it took everything in him not to tremble with the sheer, overwhelming

right

of it.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured after a moment, tilting her head slightly, voice thick with warmth.

Geralt huffed a quiet laugh, letting his fingers brush idly against her skin, tracing absentminded patterns along her stomach beneath the water. “I don’t think there’s much to say.”

Cathleen hummed. “Not even to tell me how proud you are that I managed to get us a private bath?”

Geralt smirked. “Should I be?”

“Obviously.” She huffed, though there was no real annoyance in it. “You wouldn’t believe how stingy that innkeeper was. Took all of my best bribing skills.”

He chuckled, the sound low and easy. “I’ll be sure to sing songs of your victory.”

Cathleen let out a breath of laughter, her fingers lifting to trace over his arm where it rested against her stomach.

Geralt watched her, utterly

entranced

. Everything about her was unguarded in this moment. Relaxed. Content.

And fuck, he hadn’t realized how

desperately

he had needed to see that.

To see her

comfortable

in his space, in his presence. With

him

.

The insecurities that had clawed at his throat only moments ago—the fear, the doubt, the bone-deep certainty that she would realize she was too good for him—

It wasn’t

gone

. It would never be. But it was quieter now.

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in.

“I missed this,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cathleen was silent for a moment. Then, just as softly—

“Me too.”

His chest ached.

He pressed his forehead against the back of her head, exhaling slowly, willing himself to

memorize

this feeling. The warmth. The intimacy. The sheer

rightness

of it.

Her fingers curled around his where they rested against her stomach, a silent confirmation, a quiet reassurance.

Cathleen shifted slightly, tilting her head back until her temple rested against his collarbone, letting out a quiet, contented hum.

Geralt exhaled slowly, his grip firming slightly as his fingers began to move—not with purpose, not with urgency, but with quiet reverence.

He let his touch wander—up, over the gentle curve of her waist, mapping the dip of her ribs, the subtle rise and fall of her breath beneath his palm.

His fingers skimmed higher, tracing along her collarbones, feeling the delicate structure beneath the softness of her skin.

He had forgotten how

small

she felt in his hands, how fragile she seemed even though he knew she was anything but. No, the muscles beneath her skin were proof enough of that.

His thumb brushed up the column of her throat, ghosting over her jaw, then along the curve of her cheek.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She simply

leaned into it

.

Geralt’s breath hitched.

Cathleen let out a slow sigh, her fingers curling loosely around his arm where it rested across her middle, holding him there.

Like she wanted him there. Like she wanted this.

Something tight in his chest eased.

He let his hand drop again, trailing his fingers lower, over the curve of her hip, then along the outer line of her thigh. Then, gently, he tapped against it.

“Pull them up,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with something he couldn’t quite name.

Cathleen didn’t hesitate. She drew her legs up, pulling them to her chest slightly, shifting in his lap to allow him access.

Geralt swallowed. He ran his hands along the tops of her thighs, slow and deliberate, mapping the lines of muscle there, tracing along her calves before sliding back up.

His touch was light at first, exploratory, reverent. And she just—let him.

More than that—she melted into him, her breath slow and even, utterly at ease beneath his hands.

His heart clenched painfully. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve

her

.

But fuck, if he wasn’t

starving

for it. For the feel of her beneath him, for the quiet intimacy of simply being

allowed

to touch.

Geralt exhaled slowly, willing himself to keep his breathing steady.

After a moment, his hands moved again—this time sliding up to her shoulders, his fingers curling around them gently before moving up to tangle into her hair.

Cathleen hummed softly, tilting her head back in silent invitation as she stretched her legs out again.

Carefully, he scooped up some water in his palm, letting it trickle down the strands of her hair, wetting them slowly before repeating the motion.

His other hand smoothed over her scalp, rubbing gentle circles there, working the water through her hair with slow, careful precision.

Cathleen let out a soft sigh, a quiet, pleased noise, and Geralt couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips.

He had spent years listening to the sounds of battle, of death, of pain.

And yet—

this

was what he wanted to remember. The sound of her

contentment

.

He reached for the soap, lathering it between his hands before running his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp with careful pressure.

She made another pleased noise, her fingers absentmindedly tracing over his forearm beneath the water.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth.

Geralt let out a quiet huff of amusement. “You sound surprised.”

Cathleen hummed. “Not surprised. Just… it’s nice.”

He focused on the task at hand, letting his fingers work through her hair with patient care, washing away the soap before trailing his hands back down her arms, over her back, down her sides.

Cathleen exhaled slowly, turning her head slightly to nuzzle against his chest, her body going completely lax against him.

Geralt worked in silence, his fingers massaging slow, careful circles into her scalp as he rinsed the last of the soap from her hair. His touch remained gentle, deliberate, as though any roughness might shatter the fragile moment between them.

The heat of the water, the weight of her against his chest, the feeling of her so completely at ease in his hold—it was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

A quiet laugh pulled him from his thoughts.

Geralt frowned slightly, tilting his head down to look at her. “What’s so funny?”

Cathleen hummed, still smiling as she ran her fingers along his arm beneath the water. “It’s just… kind of amusing,” she admitted.

“What is?”

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a sideways look, her lips quirking up in amusement. “That most people fear you.”

Geralt let out a quiet huff. “They have good reason.”

She chuckled. “Do they, though?”

He raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m not dangerous?”

“I’m saying it’s funny,” she corrected, shifting slightly in his hold. “The big, bad witcher, terrifying monster slayer, the Butcher of Blaviken…”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the title.

“And yet,” she continued, “here you are, washing my hair. Touching me like I might break if you grab me too hard.”

His lips twitched despite himself. She wasn’t

wrong

.

It was almost ridiculous—him, a man built for war and death, treating her with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for sacred things.

But still.

“I

am

dangerous,” he murmured, his voice low, amused but firm.

Cathleen hummed, reaching up to brush her fingers over his forearm. “I know.”

She didn’t sound afraid. She

never

had sounded afraid.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, comfortable and warm, the sound of water rippling softly around them.

Then—quietly, thoughtfully—

“I’m not going to break,” she murmured. “If you touch me harder.”

Geralt exhaled through his nose, his fingers still idly trailing along her skin. “I know.”

And he

did

know. Cathleen wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t some delicate thing to be coddled or shielded. She had given him hell many times when he tried. But still.

Still, he found himself

wanting

to be gentle with her.

Not because she was weak. But because she

deserved

gentleness.

Deserved to be touched like something precious, something worth holding

onto

.

Cathleen reached for his hand then, lifting it slightly out of the water, her fingers running over the rough callouses of his palm, the old scars that littered his skin.

She traced them slowly, almost absentmindedly, before murmuring, “I don’t know how anyone could ever be afraid of these hands.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he let his fingers flex against hers, his mind drifting back—

To blades and battle. To broken bones and torn flesh. To the way his hands had wrapped around the throats of monsters. And men.

“They’re scary enough,” he muttered. “Once they’re wrapped around someone’s throat.”

Cathleen chuckled.

Then—grinning— “I

really

don’t believe that.”

Geralt smirked, shaking his head. “You should.”

She only hummed in amusement, brushing her thumb over his knuckles before leaning back against him again.

He was silent for a long moment, his mind turning over her words.

He let out a slow breath, his free hand moving before he fully realized what he was doing.

Slowly, carefully, he trailed his fingers up her arm, along the curve of her shoulder, up the column of her throat.

Cathleen didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.

She simply let him. Let him touch, let him explore.

His fingers curled around the delicate structure of her throat, his palm pressing lightly against the warmth of her skin.

He could feel her pulse beneath his fingertips—steady, calm, unwavering.

No sign of fear. Not even

remotely

.

Geralt swallowed.

His hand flexed slightly, his thumb brushing along the underside of her jaw, feeling the soft, steady rhythm of her breath.

Cathleen exhaled slowly, tilting her head just slightly, as if encouraging the touch.

Then—quietly, softly—

“I trust you,” she murmured.

Geralt’s breath caught.

Cathleen reached up, pressing her fingers lightly over his where they rested against her throat, not to push him away, but to

hold him there

.

“With my life,” she continued. Her voice was steady. Certain.

Undeniable

.

Geralt exhaled sharply, his grip tightening—just for a second—before he let it ease again, before he let himself believe her.

Cathleen could feel the strength of his hands.

Even with his grip loose, his palm warm against her throat, she could feel the sheer power coiled beneath his skin. The strength that let him wield steel for hours without rest, that let him snap bones as easily as kindling, that let him carve through monsters twice his size without a second thought.

It should have been terrifying. She knew what these hands had done. Knew what they were capable of.

And yet— She had never felt safer.

The heat of the bath, the solid warmth of him behind her, the steady rise and fall of his chest—everything about this moment

should

have been tense, but there was no tension. Just a quiet certainty.

A calm that settled deep in her bones, as familiar as the sound of his voice, as natural as breathing.

His thumb brushed absently along the underside of her jaw, his fingers firm but not pressing, as if he was still waiting for some kind of reaction, waiting for her to stiffen or pull away. She didn’t.

Instead, she exhaled slowly, tilting her head back just slightly, letting herself sink further against him.

“I can’t believe people are afraid of your hands,” she murmured, her voice light, thoughtful. Of course she could believe it, but he knew what she meant anyways.

Geralt huffed quietly. “That makes one of us.”

Cathleen smiled. “They don’t scare me.”

“They should.”

She hummed, lifting her own hand, tracing her fingers over his where they rested against her throat. “They’re careful.”

“They don’t have to be.” She turned her head slightly, glancing up at him, catching the faint glint of mischief in his eyes.

Her smile widened. “You

like

this, don’t you?”

Geralt didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers flexed slightly against her skin, as if testing the weight of his own hold.

Then, after a long pause— “…A little.”

Cathleen let out a soft laugh. “You

definitely

like it.”

Geralt smirked. “You’re awfully smug for someone who’s got a hand around her throat.”

She grinned. “Am I supposed to be scared?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

She hummed again, pressing her fingers against his hand, as if reaffirming the unspoken truth between them.

“I like it, too,” she admitted. Geralt’s hand stilled for a moment.

Then—softer now, thoughtful— “Yeah?”

She nodded, settling more comfortably against his chest. “Feels… intimate, I guess.”

A low, amused hum rumbled from him, sending warmth curling down her spine.

For all of his earlier nervousness, for all of the weight she knew still pressed against his ribs, there was something

lighter

about him now. Something playful. Something comfortable.

Geralt’s fingers brushed along her pulse again, his palm warm, his grip neither tightening nor loosening, just

there

. Present.

His other hand, the one resting against her waist beneath the water, moved then, trailing slowly along her stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles over her damp skin.

Cathleen sighed, leaning into the touch without thinking, letting the warmth of his hands, the heat of the water, the steady presence of him behind her lull her into something soft and weightless. She had missed this.

The quiet ease of being with him, the way he touched her like he was trying to memorize every inch of her, like she was something worth lingering on.

Her fingers lifted again, brushing over his forearm, tracing the ridges of his tendons, the faint, almost imperceptible tremor of his pulse.

“…Do you ever think about it?” she asked softly. Geralt made a quiet noise in question.

She turned her head just slightly, catching the edge of his gaze. “What your hands have done?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something heavy, but his expression didn’t darken. Instead, he exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers a little more firmly against her throat, as if grounding himself.

“Used to,” he admitted. “Not so much anymore.”

Cathleen tilted her head. “Why not?”

Geralt was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles along the side of her neck, before they tightened again, a low hum vibrating through his chest.

And she understood.

His hands had done terrible things, had broken bones, had wielded swords and daggers, had torn monsters and men alike apart.

But they had also done

this

. Had held her. Had traced over her skin like she was something worth remembering.

She turned fully now, shifting in his hold so she could face him, so she could look at him.

Geralt didn’t pull away. He only let her move, his hands following the curve of her body, settling against her waist as she turned, their legs tangling slightly beneath the water.

Cathleen lifted her own hands then, running them up his arms, over his shoulders, letting her fingers splay across his chest, the countless scars rough beneath her fingertips.

They stayed like that for a long moment, neither of them speaking, just looking, just breathing.

“I like your hands,” she murmured.

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Yeah?”

She nodded, running her fingers along the ridges of his knuckles. “They do a lot of good.”

Geralt exhaled a quiet laugh. “Not sure most people would agree.”

Cathleen only smiled. “Most people are idiots.”

Geralt smirked. “Can’t argue with that.”

She grinned, pressing her fingers lightly over his, still wrapped gently around her throat. He let his hand flex slightly, testing the weight of it again, his thumb trailing absently over the curve of her jaw.

For the first time since they had reunited, there was no doubt in his touch.

No hesitation. Only warmth. Only certainty.

The thought made her so happy, it emptied all remaining worries out of her head.

And she leaned forward until her lips brushed against his.

Cathleen barely had time to register the slight hitch in Geralt’s breath before his lips pressed firmly against hers.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate—there was no urgency, no frantic edge. Just warmth, steady and grounding, a slow pull that made her sigh against his mouth. His fingers at her throat tightened

just slightly

, not enough to constrict, but enough that she felt it, enough that it sent something deep and

simmering

through her blood.

He

liked

holding her like this.

That knowledge curled inside her like heat, like something soft and heavy settling beneath her ribs. She let him guide her deeper into the kiss, let him taste her like he was still memorizing the shape of her, like he had all the time in the world to learn her again.

Then, as if unable to help himself, his grip shifted at her waist, and before she had time to react, she found herself being lifted, pulled up and over, until her knees settled on either side of his hips.

A soft laugh left her lips as she adjusted to the change in position, her hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest, pressing lightly over his scars. “Eager, are we?”

Geralt smirked, his other hand sliding up her spine beneath the water, his palm broad and steady against her back. “Just making myself comfortable.”

Cathleen hummed, fingers brushing absently over the rough skin at his collarbone. “Mhm.

That’s

why I’m in your lap now.”

Geralt’s grin widened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, his fingers flexed against her throat again, as if testing the weight of her beneath his hands, testing the way she

let

him hold her like this.

She met his gaze, searching for any remaining hesitation, any flicker of doubt—but there was none.

He was relaxed beneath her, the tension that so often coiled tight in his shoulders gone, his golden eyes holding something warmer now, something more sure.

He liked this.

He liked this.

That alone sent something soft and warm pooling in her chest, something that made her press a little closer, until their bodies fit together beneath the water.

His hands moved again, one shifting from her throat to tangle in her hair, tilting her head just slightly so he could press another slow, lingering kiss to her lips.

Cathleen sighed into it, fingers curling against his chest. He was steady, solid beneath her, his skin damp and warm where she touched him.

She had missed this. Missed

him.

Geralt’s hands traced slow, deliberate paths along her skin, his grip never rough, never hurried—just steady. Grounding. As if he was committing every inch of her to memory.

His fingers lingered at the base of her skull, tangled in her hair, tilting her head exactly how he wanted. The other remained at her waist, pressing firm against her lower back, keeping her close.

A slow, pleasant ache curled through her, making her shift just slightly in his lap, the motion unintentional, but felt all the same.

Geralt's breath caught. His grip tightened at her waist—just for a second, just enough for her to feel the way his fingers flexed against her skin. His golden eyes flickered over her face, lingering on the flush in her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly when she breathed him in.

That warmth inside her grew, spreading through her limbs, pooling deep in her belly. She pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the warmth of him beneath her fingers.

And then, his hand started moving south. From her neck down her chest, his fingers trailed the path beneath her breasts and down, down, down her stomach until his thumb brushed her clit.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 22 –

The Path We Choose

Geralt’s grip tightened at her waist, not to hold her still, but to

feel

her, to memorize the shape of her beneath his hands. His other hand started moving, softly, slowly, gently, and she swallowed again—her breath hitching just a little, the sound quiet, but unmistakable.

Slowly, he dragged his hand up, fingers trailing along the delicate curve of her jaw, the slope of her cheek. She was flushed, lips slightly parted, pupils dark in the dim light of the bathing chamber.

He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering. Taking his time, tasting the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the way she

sighed

into him.

And then, as if she had been waiting for him to catch up, she shifted again, pressing just a little closer.

Geralt swallowed hard, exhaling slowly through his nose.

His hand skimmed lower, feeling the soft dip of her waist, the way she trembled slightly when his fingers brushed certain places all the while he kept circling her clit, coaxing soft moans and gasps from her.

He wanted to learn her again. So he took his time.

Cathleen sighed, her breath warm against his cheek, her hands curling against his shoulders. He could feel her pulse against his lips as he pressed a kiss to her throat, slow and deliberate, lingering there for just a moment before moving lower, trailing kisses across her collarbone, down the curve of her shoulder.

She shivered and Geralt exhaled, pressing his forehead to her shoulder for a long moment, steadying himself.

He let his hand wander, let his lips follow, drinking in every sound she made, every little sigh and gasp and quiet, breathy laugh when he did something she

really

liked. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her breathing uneven, her body pliant against his.

He could stay like this forever, just touching her, just feeling the way she melted into him, the way her body

sang

for him.

And when he finally tipped her over that edge, when he felt her tense and shake in his arms, when she whispered his name like it was something holy—

That was it. That was

everything

. He didn’t need anything else.

He kissed her temple, smoothing a hand down her back, letting her breathe, letting her come back to herself. And when she finally lifted her head, when she looked at him with those soft, heavy-lidded eyes, he thought—

I love her.

The realization hit him so hard it almost knocked the breath from his lungs.

I love her.

He didn’t just care for her, didn’t just miss her, didn’t just

want

her. He

loved

her.

And fuck, he had probably loved her for years. The thought should have been terrifying. But it wasn’t. It was the easiest thing in the world.

Cathleen smiled at him then, lazy and satisfied, and his heart

stopped

.

“Alright,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, “your turn.”

Geralt huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Cathleen arched a brow, hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest, nails grazing lightly over his scars. “You don’t

look

fine.”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “I’m content.”

She hummed, thoughtful, fingers trailing lower, lower— And Geralt

groaned

, eyes fluttering shut.

Cathleen grinned. “You

were

content.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “You’re trouble.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You like it.”

Geralt huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking open to meet hers. And fuck— She was beautiful.

Damp hair curling around her face, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed from

him

, from his

touch

. And she

wanted

him.

Not just now. Not just in this moment.

Geralt swallowed hard, something tender and aching blooming in his chest.

And when she kissed him again, slow and deep, when she pressed herself closer, when her fingers tangled in his hair and her body fit against his like it

belonged

there—

He grabbed her hips to steady her as she lifted herself just enough, only to lower herself again, joining their bodies as if they had never been apart.

“Fuck,” he growled, one hand gliding up her back to press her against his chest, as closely as physically possible.

Cradling her to himself, he didn’t let her do

any

work, his movements into her slow and soft, resembling the breathy moans she filled his ears with.

He had buried his face in her hair, surrounding himself by her scent, by

her.

And fuck, if he insisted on this…

The hand not pressing her to his chest slipped between their bodies again, continuing the slow movements that had tipped her over the edge moments ago.

He made sure she arrived there again before he even thought about following her.

But fuck, he was content like this, being seated inside her, having her this close.

He would be more than fine staying like this forever.

Geralt sat by the riverbank, watching the water ripple as Cathleen stood knee-deep in the shallows, her movements careful and practiced as she fished. He should’ve been helping. Or at least trying. But they both knew he was

useless

when it came to fishing.

So instead, he watched.

Watched the way the afternoon light caught in her hair, turning it to gold. Watched the way she moved—effortless, confident, like she belonged in the wild just as much as he did.

She was laughing, probably at him, because she had just managed to catch

another

fish, while he had failed spectacularly earlier. She turned her head slightly, just enough to cast him a knowing smirk.

Geralt only huffed, shaking his head.

Show-off.

But fuck, he loved her.

That realization had first struck him in the dim candlelight of a bathing chamber, with her body warm against his and her voice a whisper against his skin. And ever since, it had only grown—slowly at first, like embers catching on dry wood, and then all at once, until it was something undeniable.

He

loved

her. And maybe he always had.

Nine months. That’s how long they had been on the road together again.

Almost nine whole months of riding side by side, of hunting monsters for coin, of drinking in dimly lit taverns and sleeping beneath the stars. Nine months of stolen glances and quiet conversations by the fire, of laughter shared over meals, of stolen kisses when no one was looking.

Nine months of

touching

her again. It had become natural again.

The way he would rest his hands at her waist when they entered a tavern. The way he would wrap an arm around her when she rode in front of him on Roach. The way his fingers would drift idly over her skin when they lay together at night, tracing patterns over her ribs, her hip, the inside of her wrist.

And almost every night, when the fire burned low and the world outside faded into nothing, he made love to her like it was the only thing that mattered.

Because maybe it

was

. Maybe she was the only thing that had

ever

mattered.

Geralt exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he watched her now, still standing in the water, focused on her task.

She looked at peace. And that, more than anything, settled something deep in his chest.

He had spent so many years imagining what she might be doing, where she might be, if she had ever

hated

him for leaving. But she was here.

Cathleen turned then, holding up another fish with a triumphant grin.

“Think this one’s big enough for your ego?” she teased.

Geralt huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Doubt it.”

She waded back toward the shore, water glistening on her skin as she tossed the fish into the small pile she had already gathered.

“Three to zero,” she said, smirking. “Should I stop keeping score?”

Geralt arched a brow, watching as she stepped up onto the bank, droplets of water sliding down her bare legs. “You’d

never

stop keeping score.”

Cathleen grinned. “True.”

He reached for her before he even realized he was doing it. A hand at her waist, tugging her closer, until she was standing between his legs, her fingers braced lightly against his shoulders.

She was warm beneath his hands, damp from the river, her hair curling slightly where it had dried in the sun. She smelled like

her

.

Like oranges and woodsmoke and something else he couldn’t name, something

soft

, something

home

. Geralt exhaled slowly, watching her, just

watching

her.

She arched a brow. “What?”

He shook his head, lips twitching slightly. “Nothing.”

Cathleen hummed, unconvinced. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders, fingers slipping up into his hair. “Liar.” Maybe. But he didn’t know how to tell her the truth.

That he had never been this

happy

before. That he had spent decades thinking he was incapable of love, of warmth, of anything beyond survival—and then she had proven him wrong. That he would spend the rest of his life making up for the nine years they had spent apart.

He didn’t say any of it. Instead, he pulled her closer, until she was practically straddling his lap, until her arms looped loosely around his neck, until her forehead rested against his.

He felt her sigh, felt the way she melted just slightly against him. Her breath was warm against his skin when she finally spoke. “Are you gonna keep staring at me, or are you gonna help me cook those fish?”

Geralt smirked. “I

could

help.”

Cathleen pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “

Could

?”

He hummed. “Or we could stay like this.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips were curling into a smile. “You’re impossible.”

Geralt only huffed a quiet laugh, dragging a hand up her back, fingers threading into her damp hair.

Then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his, slow and steady, the kind of kiss that wasn’t meant to lead anywhere, that wasn’t desperate or urgent or

needing

—

When she pulled back, she let her forehead rest against his again, her fingers still idly playing with the ends of his hair.

Geralt closed his eyes, his grip tightening at her waist. His Cathleen.

Finally his again.

After months of traveling together again, naturally, she noticed the shift in his demeanor. And Cathleen didn’t even need three guesses as to why his content mood was suddenly sour the following morning.

Today marked the day they had reunited exactly nine months ago. She’d bet her magic away that

that

wasn’t the reason.

They were sitting in their makeshift camp in a beautiful forest, the morning light shining through the canopy of leaves. Well,

she

was sitting in the camp, on a fallen tree stump, to be exact, her gaze fixed on Geralt.

Her witcher was too restless to sit. Instead, she watched him repeat the same training motions over and over again, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his steel sword, jaw tense and golden eyes hard.

He hadn’t even slept much but Cathleen hadn’t even protested when she had felt him pull away from her in the middle of the night. He had silently pressed a kiss to her forehead, had mumbled the soft order “Sleep,” and had then grabbed his sword.

When she woke up hours later, Geralt was still at it. She had decided to let him be, since he had never been one of those people who enjoyed talking about their problems.Cathleen watched him, her fingers idly tracing the curve of her knee, brows knitting together in quiet concern.

Geralt had been training for hours now, each movement sharp and precise, his footwork steady, his blade cutting through the air in practiced arcs. But there was no focus behind it—no real purpose.

It wasn’t training. It was distraction.

Something was

gnawing

at him. And she knew exactly what it was.

His movements were precise, but there was an edge of frustration to them, a tension that wasn’t usually there.

His jaw was tight, golden eyes narrowed, sweat glistening on his skin. He wasn’t pushing himself to exhaustion, but there was a relentlessness in his movements that made her worry.

Cathleen let him be for a while longer, hoping he’d slow down on his own. But when he didn’t—when he only

pushed

harder, as if trying to outrun his own thoughts—she finally spoke.

“Geralt.”

A barely audible grunt was his only acknowledgment.

She pressed her lips together, watching him complete another sequence, his sword cutting through the air with sharp precision. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Are you okay?” It was a test—just to see if he’d say it on his own.

Geralt didn’t falter. His movements didn’t slow. He finished his sequence, pivoted, reset.

“Fine.” A predictable answer.

Cathleen nodded slowly, watching him for a moment longer before humming softly.

“Hm. Yeah. And the fact that your

child surprise

will probably be born today has nothing to do with your mood, right?” His body went

stiff

.

The next movement of his sword was slightly off, just by a fraction, but she noticed. And yet, he said nothing.

Cathleen sighed again, shaking her head. “You do realize that the child could’ve been born days ago already without you knowing, right?”

Geralt exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before stepping back into stance. He was trying to shake it off, trying to ignore it, trying to pretend like the words didn’t sink into his skin like barbs.

But they did. She could see it in the way his fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, in the way his breathing had subtly changed, in the way his muscles tensed beneath the morning light.

Still, he said nothing. So Cathleen continued, her voice softer now. “You’ve been quiet about it.” Nothing.

She crossed her arms, getting fed up with his silence. “Not that I expected you to

talk

about it.”

Geralt exhaled slowly, steadying his stance again. But she wasn’t finished.

“I just thought that maybe

today

… I don’t know.” She shrugged, tilting her head slightly. “You might want to say something.”

A long silence. And then—finally—he lowered his sword. Not fully, not in defeat, but just enough. Enough for her to know that she had hit

something

.

That he wasn’t

fine

. That this wasn’t

nothing,

like he pretended it was.

Cathleen stayed quiet, giving him time, giving him space.

And when he finally turned to look at her—when his golden eyes met hers, something unreadable flickering behind them—she only arched a brow.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, voice rough, he finally spoke.

“What am I supposed to say?”

She gave him a gentle smile.

“Maybe you could start with how you feel.” Then she added, because she knew talking about his feelings wasn’t his strong suit, “Or you could talk with me about what you want to do.”

“What I want to do?” He parroted, as if he couldn’t understand her words.

She shrugged and stood from the stump, stepping toward him.

“It is your child, by law,” she stated softly and reached for his sword. Their hands brushed as she took it from him, as he

allowed

her to take it. “Do you want to go to Cintra and take it with you?”

Geralt blew out a breath aggressively, clearly not fond of the idea.

“And steal it from its parents?,” he grumbled and watched her as she raised the sword. “No.”

She gave him a soft, appealing smile and raised the sword a little higher.

Teach me?

, seemed her eyes to say. Of course he was aware of what she was doing but with a sigh, he chose to play along, gripping her wrist and adjusting her stance.

“Besides, what about you?” He asked so quietly, she barely heard it.

“Me? What about me?” Geralt was silent for a second, overseeing the way she moved the sword, heavy in her hand, closely. Then–

“It’s not your child… And we never talked about–”

“Whether I want children,” she finished for him, face turning thoughtful. Then she shrugged.

“Well, more than anything, I want you.” Cathleen felt him startle more than she saw it and the thought made her sad that after all this time, he was still surprised to hear her say it. “So if you want this child,” she continued, pretending she hasn’t noticed, just like she always did. “Then I want it, too.”

She had thought about it rarely, Geralt’s child surprise. But when she allowed herself to, she sometimes imagend a faceless child, sitting between them, babbling nonsense into their ears. The thought never scared her.

“The Path is no place for a child,” he muttered and Cathleen nodded, copying one of his earlier movements. Again, he corrected her stance. Swordsmanship had never been her strong suit – she preferred daggers.

“You’re right with that.” And she also knew he’d never retire. Not yet, at least.

“Do you want to be in it’s life, then?” She asked, her arm starting to ache from the weight of the sword, designed for a witcher and not a human. “Visit it from time to time, be an uncle, kind of?”

Geralt was silent for too long, his hands not correcting her anymore, so she lowered the sword to look at him.

He was staring over her head, clearly lost in thought, grinding his teeth as he contemplated.

“No,” he finally said, his eyes dropping down to look at her. “This child will be better off without me.”

Cathleen wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that

nothing

and

no one

was better off without him, but she knew that was a fight she’d lose.

So she stayed silent for a second, nibbling on her lower lips for a moment.

“What if it needs you?” She muttered softly and Geralt scoffed.

“It is the heir of Cintra, child of a magic wielder like Pavetta and grandchild of the Lioness herself. It’ll be more than fine.”

Cathleen couldn’t argue with that.

“Alright,” she said and gave him a soft smile, “so no child surprise.” She handed him his sword back and he dipped his head into a tiny nod.

“But Geralt,” she said, reaching for his face to cup it with one hand, “if you

ever

decide otherwise.” She held his gaze firmly, “do not hesitate to tell me. I’ll choose you, with or without the child.”
Geralt said nothing. Didn’t move.

And Cathleen—who had long since learned when to let a moment rest—simply offered him one last, small smile before turning on her heel.

“I’ll get Roach ready,” she called over her shoulder, voice light.

For a moment, she heard nothing but the rustling of leaves, the quiet hum of the forest around them. And then—behind her—she heard the familiar, steady rhythm of his training sequence beginning again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 23 –

Of Bards And Brooding Witches

Cathleen sat on the riverbank, boots dug into the damp earth, elbows resting on her knees. The early morning mist curled lazily around the water’s dirty surface, making everything look softer, quieter. Peaceful.

Or at least—it

would

have been peaceful, if not for the man standing on the shore, tossing his net into the water again. And again. And again.

She didn’t need to ask what he was doing.

For weeks now, Geralt hadn’t been sleeping. Restless, distracted—worse than usual. He wasn’t one for needless words, but she had known him long enough to read the signs. The way his jaw clenched tighter than usual, the way his hands flexed at his sides when he thought no one was looking.

And when he had muttered something about finding a djinn, she had barely blinked.

Of course

this was how he was handling it. He wasn’t searching for a djinn—he was

running.

From his thoughts, from the weight of decisions made long ago.

The child surprise, who had to be around six by now.

It had been years since they last spoke of it, since that quiet morning in the woods when she had told him she would stand by him, no matter what he chose.

And he

had

chosen. He had chosen to walk away, to let the child live its life without him.

But choices had a way of creeping back, of whispering in the quiet hours before dawn, when the world was still and there was nothing left to drown them out.

Cathleen watched as Geralt hauled his net from the water, scowled at its emptiness, and tossed it again.

She wasn’t going to help him.

Not because she couldn’t. Not because she didn’t

want

to. But because this wasn’t

about

the djinn.

And he knew it just as well as she did.

So she simply sat there, chin resting on her hand, as the sun rose higher and her witcher continued chasing ghosts in the river. The warmth of the morning bathed the water in a golden shimmer, but the tension rolling off Geralt made it feel colder than it was.

She had long since given up trying to talk him out of this madness, had stopped attempting to distract him or lighten his mood—especially after he’d snapped at her. His voice, sharp and uncharacteristically frantic, had sliced through the air, making her blink in surprise. The guilt had settled into his features almost immediately, his mouth parting to offer a rough, regretful apology before she even had to demand one.

Of course, she had forgiven him.

Didn’t mean she was going to support him in this ridiculous quest to outrun destiny.

With a slow exhale, Cathleen watched as he yanked the net from the water again—empty. Again. His fingers curled tight around the rope, his jaw clenching, and then, with a growl of frustration, he tossed it back in, the movement sharp, desperate.

A faint voice drifted toward them, carried on the breeze, lighthearted and utterly out of place against the tension weighing down the riverbank.

Cathleen recognized it immediately.

She sighed, just as amused as she was resigned.

Of all people.

"Geralt!" came the cheerful call, drenched in feigned surprise. "Hello!"

The sound of rustling bushes preceded the bard’s arrival. Jaskier emerged from the undergrowth, grinning as he stepped toward them, his bright blue doublet comically out of place against the muted colors of the landscape. His gaze landed on her, and his face lit up.

“Cathy!”

She tilted her head in greeting, lips curling slightly. “Hello, Jaskier.”

“What’s it been?” He waved a hand, as if it mattered. “Months? Years? What

is

time, anyway?”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned his attention back to Geralt, stepping closer as if completely oblivious to—or perhaps purposefully ignoring—the thick wall of brooding silence surrounding the witcher.

“I heard you were in town.”

Ah. So that’s how he’d found them.

“Are you guys following me?” Jaskier teased, tone light, oblivious.

Cathleen snorted, watching as Geralt’s expression remained stone-like, unchanged. She had spent years at his side, had learned the subtle shifts in his expressions, his moods, but she had also spent enough time with Jaskier to know the bard never quite

grasped

that skill.

“I mean, I’m flattered and everything,” Jaskier went on, undeterred by Geralt’s silence, “but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days.”

Geralt didn’t even

glance

his way. Just pulled his net taut in his hands, cast it out once more.

Jaskier sighed and took a sip from his flask. Almost immediately, he cringed at the taste.

“Do you want some?” he asked Geralt.

Predictably, the witcher ignored him.

The bard turned to her instead, offering the flask.

Cathleen eyed it for a moment before shrugging. “Why the hell not.” She stood and took the flask from him, tipping it back—only to instantly regret it as the acrid burn of whatever vile alcohol he was carrying today coated her tongue.

“That’s disgusting,” she muttered, handing it back with a grimace.

Jaskier gave her a sympathetic shrug. Then, dramatically, he sighed again.

"‘How are you doing?’ I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt grumbled.

Cathleen nearly

scoffed

at the fact that he had actually spoken.

Oh? So now he’s in the mood to acknowledge people?

Not that Jaskier noticed.

“Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me.

Again.

”

Cathleen snorted, unimpressed.

“Rather coldly and unexpectedly, I might add.”

“Not so much

unexpectedly,

” she muttered.

Jaskier either ignored or didn’t hear her.

“Now I shall die a brokenhearted man.”

"Bards really are dramatic," she commented, taking another sip of the flask despite herself before handing it back. The taste still made her want to vomit, but she found herself craving the numbness it promised.

Jaskier, predictably, carried on as though she hadn’t spoken.

"Or a hungry one, at the very least. Unless somebody fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?"

“Good luck with that,” she murmured, stepping around them to watch as Geralt pulled the net back in.

Sure enough, he let out an annoyed grunt and turned, beginning to walk further along the shore.

Jaskier trailed after him without hesitation.

“Oh, are we not using ‘friend’?” he called, his tone lilting with mock offense. “Yeah, sure. Let’s just give it another

decade

.”

Cathleen smirked, amused despite herself.

“Geralt, you are fantastic at a great many things,” Jaskier continued, weaving around rocks as he struggled to keep up, “but clearly, fishing isn’t one of them. Have you caught anything today?”

“No,” she answered before Geralt could.

Jaskier blinked at her, looking almost

offended

by the fact that she had been the one to reply.

“…Why don’t

you

fish?”

She shrugged, jerking her chin toward Geralt, who had settled on a new spot to cast his net. “He’s searching for something… specific.”

Jaskier tilted his head, intrigued. “What

are

you fishing for, exactly?”

He turned back to Geralt.

“Is it cod?” No answer.

“Carp? Pike? Bream? I’m just—I’m just listing fish that I know. Zander? Is that a fish?”

And then, finally— “I’m not fishing.”

Jaskier turned slowly to her, brows raised. She just lifted a shoulder.

“I can’t sleep,” Geralt muttered, voice quieter now, rough.

Something in her chest

pulled

at the way he said it. The exhaustion in his voice, the soft scrape of something desperate beneath the words.

Jaskier, at least, seemed to notice.

“Right. Good,” he nodded, clearly confused. “Well, that—makes sense.

Insomuch that it sort of … doesn’t.

”

For the first time, his playful expression dimmed slightly, concern creeping in at the edges.

“What’s going on, Geralt? Talk to me.”

And to Cathleen’s surprise, Geralt actually

paused

.

Her eyes widened slightly as she studied him. Was he really—?

He

was

. For a moment, she saw it. The

urge

to say something real. To open up, to let someone else carry the weight for just a moment. He

almost

did.

But then, like a door slamming shut, his face closed off.

"A djin," he said instead, and Cathleen had to bite back a frustrated groan.

Jaskier’s mouth fell open.

“A

what

?”

“A djin,” Geralt repeated, as though this were a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing.

“For a dj—For a

djin

?” Jaskier blinked rapidly. “A dj—Like a

genie

?”

A disbelieving laugh bubbled out of him.

“The

floaty fellas

with the… the

bad tempers

and the

banned magics

, that kind of genie?”

“Yes,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier laughed again. “It’ll grant me wishes. It’s in this lake somewhere. And I

can’t fucking sleep

!”

His voice

snapped

, raw and sharp, the sudden burst of emotion crackling in the air like lightning.

Cathleen flinched, not used to him yelling like this. A part of her wondered if his mind was able to notice her jump or if he was too sleep deprived to focus on anything other than rest.

She didn’t really care, though, because.. fuck—there was something

haunted

in his eyes.

When Geralt turned around to continue his walk along the shore, Jaskier shot Cathleen a pointed look, his brows raised in silent question. She simply shrugged, offering him a half-smile as if to say,

He won’t talk to me.

The bard, apparently, didn’t take that as a cue to leave well enough alone. Instead, he huffed a breath and set off after Geralt once more. With a sigh, Cathleen followed, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

“I don’t mean to play priest’s ear or anything,” Jaskier said, sidling up beside the witcher. Cathleen noticed the way Geralt’s shoulders were stiff as a drawn bowstring, his entire frame practically vibrating with frustration. “But has it occurred to you that maybe we’re merely rubbing salve on a tumor? Not addressing the

root cause

of the problem?”

Cathleen snorted, already seeing where this was going.

The child surprise.

Jaskier wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought he was. But to be fair, it wasn’t exactly a mystery—anyone with half a brain could see what had been gnawing at Geralt.

“I mean, maybe—just maybe—this whole sleeplessness-ness,” Jaskier gestured vaguely, “has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra?” His voice carried an air of forced casualness, but his face was far more careful, controlled. “You know, the law of surprise? Destiny? Being unable to escape the child that belongs to you,

et cetera, et cetera

?”

Geralt’s entire body went rigid.

“No!” he barked.

Cathleen flinched at the sharpness of it, a deep frown pulling at her lips. She wasn’t used to

flinching

around Geralt, but something about his tone—raw, almost desperate—made her muscles tense on instinct.

“It’s not that!”

Without another word, he wrenched the net back and flung it into the water again, as if physically rejecting the conversation would make the truth disappear.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jaskier said, clearly

not

believing it for a second. He inhaled, more measured this time, before adding in a quieter voice, “But what if you’re not?”

For a fraction of a second, Cathleen thought—hoped—Geralt might actually

consider

the words. That maybe, just maybe, Jaskier would get through to him where she hadn’t.

And then, inevitably, it all devolved into another fight.

With a weary sigh, she crossed her arms and leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, watching as Geralt needled at Jaskier about his singing abilities. The bard, predictably, took the bait, and suddenly, the two of them were bickering like an old married couple.

Cathleen only half-listened, her gaze trailing over the river instead, tracking the movement of Geralt’s net as he pulled it back in.

She

felt

it before she

saw

it.

A sharp, gut-wrenching

wrongness

slammed into her like a physical force.

Her breath caught, her stomach lurching violently as every fiber of her magic recoiled at once. A shudder ran down her spine, and a heartbeat later, Geralt hauled the net out of the water—an ancient-looking bottle tangled in its webbing.

Cathleen’s mouth went dry. Her magic

hated

it.

So much so that her skin

crawled

, her body screaming at her to

get away, get away, get away

. Her stomach twisted sharply, and before she could stop herself, she slapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing down the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Geralt didn’t seem to notice. His hands worked swiftly, untangling the bottle from the net.

Jaskier, however, did notice the object now gleaming in the sunlight.

“What is that?”

“A wizard’s seal,” Cathleen choked out, forcing the words past her lips as she clenched her fists, shoving her magic

down, down, down

until the nausea became something manageable.

“The djinn,” Geralt muttered.

In the same breath, Jaskier reached for the bottle.

“Do you mind if I—?”

The moment his fingers brushed it, the fight started anew.

They tugged at the bottle like children fighting over a toy, and Cathleen—still battling her body’s desperate urge to flee—could barely focus on their squabble.

Then, with a sickening

pop

, the seal broke.

A violent

pulse

of magic exploded outward, slamming into her like a hammer to the chest.

She barely had time to turn her head before she was doubling over, vomiting onto the damp earth, her entire body trembling from the sheer force of the reaction.

The wind howled around them, unnatural and wild.

But it wasn’t

her

wind. It wasn’t

her

magic.

She braced herself against the tree, sucking in a shaky breath, her vision blurring at the edges. When she finally managed to lift her gaze, she met Geralt’s eyes, and the look they shared was one of pure, unfiltered

dread

.

Somewhere to the side, Jaskier—blissfully unaware of what exactly he had just done—began

blabbering

his wishes.

Geralt’s expression darkened.

Cathleen’s stomach twisted again, but this time, it wasn’t just from the magic—it was from the

certainty

that this was about to go very,

very

wrong.

The bottle shattered.

She barely registered the sound, barely saw the shards scattering across the ground, only that suddenly, Geralt was scrambling, as if he could somehow

undo

what had just been set in motion.

Jaskier

collapsed

.

He tumbled backward against a tree, choking, clawing at his throat, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

Geralt snarled a curse, casting the sign

Aard

to force the djinn away, but the damage was already done.

Cathleen stumbled forward, still shaking, forcing herself to focus on the

mess

unraveling before them.

Her magic

screamed

at her to

run

. To

get away

. To

leave

before the thing in the air could latch onto her, too.

Cathleen vomited again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 24 –

The Sorceress

The djinn was gone. Just like that.

All that effort, the endless trawling of the river, the desperate clawing for a solution—

a way out

—and it had all been for

nothing

. The bottle shattered, the seal broken, and the ancient creature had slipped through his fingers before he could even form the words of his wish.

His fucking

wish

.

The only thing he had wanted from the djinn, the only reason he had even

entertained

this foolish idea, was the chance to finally get some godsdamned sleep. A moment's rest. A single breath of relief from the exhaustion that had dug its claws into him for weeks.

Months.

And now? Now he had nothing.

Geralt’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the sharp sting of his own nails biting into his palms grounding him for a brief moment. His entire body ached with the weight of his own frustration, his muscles tight, his jaw locked so hard it hurt.

Something shifted.

His senses sharpened, cutting through the haze of exhaustion like a blade. He became

aware

again, the world creeping back in around him, no longer dulled by his own self-pity.

And the first thing he noticed— Cathleen.

She was still slumped against the tree, her entire frame trembling, her skin pale as death. Then she lurched forward.

Another violent wave of sickness wracked her body, and she barely caught herself before retching onto the damp earth once more.

A pang of something sharp—something close to guilt—pierced through Geralt’s chest.

Shit.

This was his fault.

She had already looked unwell when he first pulled the djinn’s bottle from the river, but he had ignored it, too caught up in his own fucking problems. Then the seal had broken, and the surge of magic had hit her like a fist to the gut. He had seen the way she doubled over, seen the way she

flinched

when he snapped at Jaskier—

Flinched. Cathleen, who didn’t take shit from anyone, who never backed down from

anything

, had

flinched

at

him

. The realization sat like a stone in his stomach.

He was already moving before he even fully processed the thought, his boots crunching against the ground as he stepped toward her. He needed to get to her, to

help

her, to do something other than stand there like a useless idiot while she—

She lifted her head. And

pointed

. At Jaskier.

Geralt turned sharply, his gaze snapping toward the bard.

And his heart

dropped

.

Jaskier was on his knees, his back pressed against the tree, his hands clutching at his throat. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he fought for air. Panic shone in his wide, bloodshot eyes.

Then— He

choked

. And blood—

a lot

of blood—spilled from his mouth.

A strangled noise escaped the bard’s throat, something between a gurgle and a gasp, and suddenly, the frustration, the anger, the exhaustion—

all of it

—vanished, replaced by a cold, sinking

dread

.

For a single, agonizing heartbeat, Geralt felt

frozen

.

His mind reeled. Cathleen was sick.

Jaskier was dying.

The djinn was gone.

He was still so godsdamned tired he could barely think.

It was too much. Too much at once.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to

move

, to

focus

, to

do something

—but before he could even take a step, Cathleen was already stumbling forward.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing away whatever sickness remained, and dropped to her knees beside Jaskier.

“Geralt,” she rasped, voice hoarse and raw, “we need to get him to a healer.”

Her fingers pressed against Jaskier’s throat, searching for something—his pulse, maybe, or just some sign that he wasn’t about to drop dead right in front of them.

Geralt swallowed hard, nodding once.

He still felt

off-balance

, still felt like the ground beneath him wasn’t entirely steady. But Cathleen was right.

There was no time for this. They needed to move. Now.

Roach moved slower than usual, which was no surprise with three riders on her back. Still, the mare pressed on, her strides steady despite the extra weight.

Jaskier sat behind Geralt, barely conscious, his body slumped awkwardly, stiff but unresponsive. Cathleen had taken her usual place in front of Geralt, her warmth against his chest something he might have found grounding if the situation weren’t so dire. Instead, his focus remained on the barely-there grip of Jaskier’s hands around her waist—if she hadn’t reached back to clasp them firmly in her own, the bard would’ve already toppled off.

The town came into view, and Geralt wasted no time.

“Is there a doctor here?” His voice cut through the early morning air, rough with urgency.

A moment of silence, then—

“Yes,” a man answered.

Cathleen sagged in relief, the tension in her body momentarily lessening, and Geralt urged Roach forward without hesitation.

They barely made it into the heart of town before he was dismounting, yanking Jaskier down with him. The bard was barely on his feet, his weight heavy against Geralt as they stumbled toward a large tent where the healer waited.

Behind him, Cathleen slid off Roach, landing unsteadily on her feet.

“Cathleen…” She was too pale. Too unsteady.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” she insisted, voice tight, raw. She wasn’t.

Geralt could hear the slight raggedness in her breathing, could pick up the too-quick rhythm of her heart. She smelled of vomit, of stress, of something bitter and sour that wasn’t quite fear, but close enough. But she

wasn’t dying

.

Jaskier was. So he forced himself to focus.

Inside the tent, the elven healer worked quickly, peeling back Jaskier’s collar to reveal his throat, which was now swollen to an alarming degree. Geralt barely registered the hushed words exchanged between them, his body tense as he hovered close by. But even as his eyes remained on Jaskier, his senses refused to ignore

her

.

Cathleen had seated herself on one of the unoccupied beds, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Her breaths were measured, controlled—but

too

controlled.

Pale. Shaking.

Fighting it.

She would

always

fight it.

“The medicine should buy him a few hours,” the healer said, his voice pulling Geralt’s attention back to the present. “But he needs a magical remedy.”

Geralt’s stomach clenched as the elf’s gaze shifted

past

him. To Cathleen.

He turned just as her eyes met his, and in that single look, he already knew what she was thinking.

“I can do it, but—”

“No.” His voice was firm, his stance unwavering.

“Geralt—”

“You will

not

risk death.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Shit.

He knew that look. Knew it

too well

.

“I am

perfectly

capable of deciding how to fare with my magic and my life, thank you very much,” she snapped, her exhaustion doing nothing to dull the sharpness in her tone.

Fierce

, even now. “I can at least try—”

“You’re sick, Cathleen.” His voice was calm but resolute, a deliberate contrast to the storm in her eyes. “If you were at full strength, maybe. But not like this.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue again, might push past her limits like she always did—but then he softened his stance, just slightly.

His voice dropped, losing none of its certainty but all of its distance.

“I

won’t

lose you.”

Her glare flickered. Just slightly. But he saw it.

She swallowed hard, her jaw tight, her hands clenching at the fabric of her trousers. She hated this. He

hated

this.

But he wouldn’t yield. Not on

this

.

The elven healer cleared his throat, shifting their attention back to him.

“You’ll have to take him to another town.”

“There isn’t a mage here?” Geralt asked. That was highly unusual.

“Well…” The elf hesitated and Geralt was already fed up with this, giving the healer a pointed look to hurry up his tale about this mysterious mage.

“The mayor himself has made the catch and has imprisoned the mage in his house.”

“That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?” Geralt snapped, grabbing Jaskier to haul him up. He didn’t even care about the attempted warning the elven healer gave him, pushing past him to get Jaskier to this mage.

Geralt almost stopped dead in his tracks when his ears picked upa faint groan of Cathleen and then the shuffle of her feet against the floor as she followed them.

“Don’t even try to talk me out of it,” she warned him with a grumble as she took Jaskier’s other arm, draping it over her shoulder.

Geralt swallowed down his protest, only humming in reply as they both hurled Jaskier around and back onto Roach, the bard groaning.

Cathleen hated mages, feared them even, as Geralt was well aware.

After the Jaskier was seated on Roach’s back, his hands naturally found Cathleen to help her up, her face still pale, her stomach still not happy with this all. Still, she came along, was willing to risk a fight between her and the mage for Jaskier. And for what? So that Geralt could make a stupid wish to a stupid djinn.

“Fuck,” he groaned and then mounted Roach as well. He really was an idiot sometimes.

They rode swiftly into the night, the mayor’s house not far, yet Geralt felt like they were riding forever.

Jaskier was stiff as a board behind him, barely conscious. Cathleen was limp and exhausted in front of him, her body leaning slightly against his own, the last of her strength spent.

Fuck.

This was all so

fucked up.

He had no patience for the guard who stepped in their path, demanding an entry fee.

“Money opens all doors,” the man drawled.

Geralt grunted, reaching past Cathleen, his hand brushing her leg as he grabbed a pouch of coins. With a swift, forceful motion, he smashed it into the guard’s face, knocking him out cold before the bastard even had time to react.

“So it does.”

A quiet, breathy snicker rose from Cathleen. The sound was faint, tired—but still, it was

there.

Geralt felt the knot in his chest loosen just slightly.

“You could’ve just used

Axii,

” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his chest as he urged Roach forward again.

Geralt hummed in agreement. “Could have.”

Inside the mayor’s house, Jaskier was no longer able to even set a foot in front of the other, so Geralt quickly threw the bard over his shoulder. His unoccupied hand kept brushing against Cathleen’s as they walked close to each other through the dimly lit hallway, making sure she was there.

The first room they entered was what appeared to be a kitchen, only to be surprised by a very naked, very deluded mayor.

“She hexed him,” Cathleen muttered softly so that only Geralt could hear her after the mayor started rambling about

Her wanting apple juice

.

“Let’s get this over with,” she then muttered, grabbing the juice from the table to go find that mage. Geralt hurled Jaskier along.

Cathleen could feel the mage’s magic pulsing around her, making her own stir in response. It was instinct, as natural as breathing—a silent acknowledgment that there was another source of power in the room. She forced it down.

The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself. The last thing she wanted was for

her

to sense

her.

Her fingers curled tighter around the handle of the bottle as they moved through the halls, Jaskier’s ragged breaths and Geralt’s heavy footsteps the only sounds breaking the thick silence. She kept her own steps light, controlled, as if she could somehow make herself smaller.

She had no energy for a fight. She had no patience for one either.

Cathleen had spent years avoiding mages—years making sure they never got close enough to

see

her. Not just because she hated them, but because they hated

her

first.

She had been called an

abomination

more times than she could count. Had been hunted, had been forced to fight, had learned very quickly that no matter how powerful she was, no matter how much she could do, she would

never

be accepted among their kind.

Magic was a force to be controlled, they preached. A gift that had to be studied, structured, restrained.

Her magic didn’t follow their rules. Her magic had

never

followed their rules.

That terrified them.

Geralt’s hand brushed against hers again—warm, solid, grounding. She didn’t pull away.

She had no love for mages, but if this one could save Jaskier, she’d keep her mouth shut. For now.

The mage—no, the

sorceress

—clearly had a flair for the dramatic.

Cathleen’s lips pressed into a thin line as she watched the green smoke curl around their ankles, guiding them forward like a stage effect in some extravagant play. And what a stage it was.

They stopped in their tracks, staring at the scene before them.

A room full of people, naked bodies moving in a slow, dreamlike rhythm, lost in their own pleasure. Touching, swaying,

fucking

—completely unaware of their arrival.

Cathleen’s gaze swept over them, noting the oddity in their behavior. People usually reacted to Geralt. Whether with fear, awe, or disdain, there was always

something.

But here? Nothing. It was as if they didn’t exist to these people at all.

Magic. A powerful enchantment, and one woven so seamlessly that the people trapped in it likely didn’t even realize it.

Her stomach twisted.

And at the far end of the room, sitting with effortless poise, was the sorceress herself.

Cathleen had met many mages in her life. They tended to fall into two categories—the ones who wanted to kill her and the ones who simply

hated

her. She wasn’t sure yet which category this woman would fit into, but…

She felt

different.

Cathleen could

feel

her power—thick in the air, pressing against her senses. It was potent, intoxicating even. But despite its strength, her magic didn’t

rebel

against it.

It didn’t warn her to run. It didn’t urge her to

fight.

She didn’t know what to make of that.

Geralt caught her eye, his expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. They both knew this was going to be a headache.

With a shared look of resignation, they pushed forward, ignoring the writhing bodies around them.

Cathleen tried not to imagine what Geralt was

smelling

right now.

“Stay,” Geralt ordered, practically dropping Jaskier into the pile of enchanted partygoers. The bard was immediately pulled into their grasping hands, their bodies pressing against him, utterly indifferent to his swollen throat and ragged breaths.

Cathleen’s pulse kicked up.

She knew it wasn’t real—knew the enchantment was driving them—but the image of Jaskier, helpless among them, made her hands twitch with the urge to

do something.

Her heart thrummed violently in her chest, and she

knew

Geralt heard it.

His fingers brushed against hers again, fleeting but deliberate. She clenched her jaw.

Then, the sorceress turned her gaze on them. Purple eyes. Gorgeous, piercing, intelligent.

Cathleen swallowed.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

Yennefer of Vengerberg was elegance wrapped in power, draped in black silk and lace, her dark hair swept into a bun. She radiated confidence, beauty sharpened into a weapon—and she knew exactly the effect she had on people.

Cathleen straightened her spine, forcing herself to meet that gaze.

“We, uh,” she started, clearing her throat, trying

not

to seem like an idiot. “Brought you apple juice.”

Yennefer’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. She merely let her gaze flick over them, assessing, unimpressed.

“And quite a bit more,” she finally answered, voice smooth as silk.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken calculations, before the sorceress let out the softest sigh.

“You’re immune.”

Cathleen didn’t flinch. She just forced her shoulders to stay square, bracing herself.

“You must be the mage,” Geralt said flatly, cutting straight to the point.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.” She discarded the empty cup she’d been idly toying with and rose to her feet, slow and deliberate, like a cat stretching in the sun.

“We need your help,” Geralt said.

Yennefer arched a single brow in question.

Cathleen turned slightly, gesturing toward Jaskier, who lay gasping and feverish among the dazed townsfolk.

Yennefer’s lips curled slightly as she glanced at him. Then, her gaze shifted back to Geralt.

“Your heartbeat, it’s extraordinarily slow. You’re… a mutant.”

There was no fear in her tone. No disgust. Just mild curiosity.

“A witcher,” Geralt confirmed. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Yennefer hummed softly, then turned to Cathleen.

“You’re immune too.” She tilted her head, scrutinizing her. “And you’re not a witcher.”

Cathleen fought the urge to tense.

This was the moment—the moment where everything could turn to

shit.

If Yennefer sensed

what

she was, if she decided Cathleen was something unnatural, if she so much as

hinted

at hostility, this could end in a fight. And right now, Cathleen was in no shape for that.

Lying was pointless. The sorceress would

know.

So she lifted her chin and spoke the truth.

“I’m a witch,” she said evenly. “Cathleen of Brokilon.”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Yennefer’s face.

Then, she merely asked, “What do you need me for, then?”

Cathleen exhaled slowly.

“I have exhausted myself earlier…” she began, but Yennefer’s stare was unyielding, pressing for more.

With a sigh, she admitted, “My magic works differently than yours.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How so?”

“It’s not… chaos magic.”

That caught the sorceress off guard. Her lips parted slightly, brows lifting in genuine surprise.

Cathleen didn’t elaborate.

She had no interest in standing here explaining her magic to a woman who might turn on her the moment she fully

understood

it.

Yennefer shifted her attention back to Geralt, stepping closer.

“The famous White Wolf,” she murmured, circling them like a predator. “I thought you’d have fangs or horns or something.”

Geralt didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve had them filed down.”

Yennefer

laughed.

A small, indulgent chuckle, like she was mildly entertained by a particularly amusing pet.

Then, Yennefer’s gaze landed back on her, eyes gleaming with interest.

“I’ve never seen a witcher up close,” she mused. Her fingers

skimmed

over Geralt’s shoulder as she circled around them, dragging a slow touch across the back of Cathleen’s shoulders.

It took

everything

in her not to flinch.

“Nor the infamous witch I’ve been told about.”

Cathleen remained silent, her expression carefully blank.

Yennefer finally turned back to Geralt.

“What little spells can you cast with your hands?” she asked. “Call it professional curiosity.”

Her gaze snapped back to Cathleen, sharp as a blade. “And you? What spells do

you

cast?”

“Please,” Geralt interrupted, his voice edged with restrained urgency. “Jaskier needs immediate attention.”

“And then,” Cathleen added, pushing her own unease down, “we can indulge your curiosity.”

Geralt raised the pouch containing the broken sigil.

“He was attacked by a djinn. Whatever’s wrong with him, it’s spreading.”

Yennefer plucked the pouch from his hands, inspecting the contents with a thoughtful hum.

“Fix it,” Cathleen said, her voice steady. “And we’ll pay you. Whatever the price.”

For a moment, Yennefer simply studied her.

Then, she smirked.

“You’ll have to do better than juice.” Cathleen didn’t waver. She

meant

what she said.

Yennefer’s gaze lingered for another beat before shifting past them, taking in the enthralled crowd still tangled together.

Then she called, “Ragamuffin!”

And just like that, the spell broke. The writhing bodies stilled. Confused murmurs rippled through the room as people scrambled to cover themselves, realization dawning in slow, horrified waves.

The green smoke dissipated, unraveling at their feet.

Cathleen inhaled sharply.

She already knew, deep in her gut, that Yennefer of Vengerberg was more than they’d bargained for.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 25 –

Friend or Foe

The kitchen was dimly lit, the candle on the table flickering weakly against the thick air.

Geralt leaned against the wooden counter, arms crossed, golden eyes fixed on the door leading upstairs. The house was silent now—eerily so, compared to the…

mess

they had walked into earlier. The muffled creak of floorboards occasionally drifted down from the second floor, where Yennefer was tending to Jaskier, but otherwise, nothing.

The weight in his chest hadn’t lessened, though. Not one damn bit.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before glancing at Cathleen.

She sat at the worn wooden table, one leg tucked under the other, fingers wrapped around a cup of something warm Yennefer’s magic had conjured for her before disappearing upstairs.

Her color was coming back, slowly but surely.

Earlier, she had been pale as death, her breathing too shallow, her hands too cold. Now, though… she looked

better

. Not well, not yet, but better.

Still, her magic had

stirred

against Yennefer’s. He had felt it in the way she tensed, the way her fingers twitched, the way her pulse

skipped

.

Mages terrified her.

And after everything she’d been through with them, who could blame her?

"You’re quiet,” Cathleen murmured, breaking the silence. She didn’t look at him, just stared into her cup, her fingers tracing the rim absently.

Geralt exhaled through his nose.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have come.”

Cathleen sighed, shaking her head. “Geralt—”

“I got us into this.” His voice was rough, a growl of frustration curling at the edges of his words. “You were sick, Jaskier was dying, and instead of getting him somewhere safe, I brought you both

here

.” He motioned vaguely around the kitchen. “Into a fucking sorceress’ web with ulterior motives.”

Cathleen finally looked at him then, her blue eyes steady and sharp.

“Are you finished?” she asked dryly. Geralt frowned.

“I mean, if you wanna sit here and blame yourself for shit out of your control, I can wait. Maybe I’ll go make more tea while you wallow.”

He scowled. “Cathleen—”

“Geralt,” she cut him off, setting the cup down and leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. “We

always

end up in some kind of mess. It’s practically tradition at this point.”

“This one’s different.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “They

always

are.”

Geralt clenched his jaw. “You were

sick

, Cath.” Her expression softened slightly at the nickname. It was still slightly new to her, he had only recently started calling her by it and only ever did so rarely.

“And I’m getting better,” she said, rolling her shoulders, as if to prove the point.

Geralt stayed silent.

She sighed again, running a hand through her hair before giving him a pointed look.

“Look, if you really think I was gonna let you ride off alone with a half-conscious bard, you don’t know me at all.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. Of course she wouldn’t have. She never did.

His eyes flicked toward her cup, then back to her face. “How are you feeling now?”

Cathleen considered the question, tilting her head slightly. “…Better than before,” she admitted. “Still a bit drained, but nothing concerning.”

Geralt studied her, searching for any hint of deception.

She held his gaze, unwavering. Finally, he nodded.

“Your magic,” he said after a beat. “How did it react to her?”

Cathleen hesitated, fingers curling around her cup again.

“…Strangely,” she admitted. “I expected it to scream at me. To fight her. But it didn’t.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Didn’t?”

She shook her head. “It…

stirred

, yeah. Reacted to her power. But it didn’t warn me. It didn’t perceive her as a threat.”

Geralt frowned, processing that.

“Every mage I’ve encountered before…” Cathleen continued, her voice quieter now, “my magic

hated

them. It always reacted like it was preparing for a fight. But with her? It was different.”

Geralt leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again. “Why do you think that is?”

Cathleen chewed her lip in thought before finally shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

She hesitated, fingers drumming idly against the wooden table.

“But I

do

know she’s hiding something.”

Geralt raised a brow. “Mages always are.”

She huffed out a breath. “Yeah, well, this feels like

more

.”

He considered her words, turning them over in his mind. Yennefer

was

powerful. That much was clear. But there

was

something else about her—something guarded, hidden beneath layers of sharp wit and even sharper edges.

A mage’s secrets were rarely harmless.

But if Cathleen’s magic didn’t see her as a danger…

Geralt sighed, rolling his shoulders. “She’s dangerous,” he muttered.

Cathleen smirked faintly. “So are we.”

He gave her a look, but she wasn’t wrong. The room fell silent again for a moment, only the soft crackling of the candle filling the space.

“…You really don’t blame me?” he asked eventually, quieter this time.

Cathleen exhaled through her nose. “For what?”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “For dragging you into this.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Geralt, if I blamed you for every reckless decision that led us into trouble, I’d never stop.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh. Cathleen’s smirk softened into something gentler.

“We’re in this together,” she murmured. “Always have been.”

Geralt held her gaze for a long moment before finally, quietly, nodding. The silence that followed was a little easier this time, only interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Yennefer.

“He’s in a deep healing sleep,” she said as she reached the bottom step.

Cathleen immediately turned to face her, shifting her position on the table so the sorceress was no longer at her back. Geralt didn’t miss it. She might have been regaining her strength, but her wariness of mages was instinctive, ingrained deep.

“How long will he be asleep?” Geralt asked.

“Long enough for you to bathe,” Yennefer replied, lips curling slightly.

Cathleen let out a quiet snicker, and before Geralt could argue, the sorceress dropped a bundle of clothes onto the table—his own, as well as Cathleen’s.

His brows furrowed. “How did you—” He caught himself, exhaling sharply. “Right. Magic.”

“I insist,” Yennefer said, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “I can not only guess the age and breed of your horse but also its color

by the smell of you two

.”

Cathleen made a sound between a snort and a laugh before hopping down from the table—not quite as smoothly as usual, but well enough.

She snatched up the clothes, casting Geralt a pointed look before turning back to Yennefer.

“Ignore him,” she said breezily. “He likes to pretend he’s allergic to water. We’ll take a bath—

gratefully

.” That last word was clearly meant for

him.

Geralt huffed. He wasn’t about to argue. Not with two women who had already made up their minds.

“Hm.”

A few minutes later, warmth seeped into Cathleen’s bones, soothing away the lingering ache of exhaustion.

The bath was enormous, carved into the stone floor, filled deep enough that the water lapped just below her collarbones. Steam curled around them, thick and lazy, making the air damp and heavy.

She and Geralt sat close together, as they always did, his fingers tracing absentminded circles along her waist beneath the water. The familiarity of it, the comfort, made her sigh softly.

Her body was still weak, though she could

feel

her strength slowly trickling back. Whatever damage the djinn’s magic had done to her was fading now, burned away by warmth and time.

Yennefer sat beside the tub, now dressed in a flowing white gown, watching them with the kind of keen interest that made Cathleen uneasy. She wasn’t sure if the sorceress was studying them or simply enjoying their presence, but the weight of her attention felt heavy regardless.

“Fishing for a djinn seems an extreme measure to remedy sleeplessness,” Yennefer remarked idly.

Cathleen didn’t reply, but she silently agreed.

Geralt let out a slow breath. “When extreme measures seem reasonable, yes, I’m desperate.”

Yennefer’s lips curled in amusement. “And yet, you didn’t ask

me

to help with that.”

Geralt’s fingers stilled briefly against Cathleen’s skin before he smirked. “Looming death kind of jumped the queue. Now I’m wondering if we can afford you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze drifted, dragging over him, taking in the collection of scars across his chest, his shoulders, his arms.

Cathleen had long since memorized those scars. She knew their stories, the battles behind them. But Yennefer was looking at them with something else—curiosity, maybe.

“Go ahead,” Geralt said, voice dry. “Ask about them. Everyone does.”

But Yennefer only sighed and stood, stepping around the tub with the effortless grace only a sorceress could manage.

“Everyone else is

boring

,” she murmured.

Cathleen followed her movements, watching as Yennefer came to stand beside her. There was something unreadable in those violet eyes, something

assessing.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Yennefer reached for the delicate strings of her dress. She hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before her gaze flickered to Cathleen, as if waiting for… what? Permission? A challenge?

Cathleen only arched a brow, then dipped her head in a small nod. She didn’t care if Geralt saw Yennefer naked.

He had seen plenty of women before her, and he would see plenty more on the Path. If he ever strayed, well—that woman could

keep

him.

The moment passed, and Yennefer let her dress slip from her shoulders, the fabric pooling at her feet.

“Turn around,” she ordered Geralt.

Without hesitation, without argument, Geralt chuckled and did as he was told, his back pressing against Cathleen’s side.

Cathleen exhaled a quiet laugh, resting her chin on his shoulder as she watched Yennefer step into the water.

This was going to be

interesting.

The sorceress settled gracefully in front of Cathleen, their gazes locking in the quiet intimacy of the bathing chamber. The warm water rippled between them, steam curling in the dim light, thick with the scent of soap and something faintly floral—probably another of Yennefer’s luxuries.

“Tell me,” Yennefer drawled, her voice a purr of amusement. Despite the way her violet eyes lingered on Cathleen, the witch knew the question wasn’t meant for her. “Are all witchers similarly blessed?”

Geralt stayed silent long enough that Yennefer let out a quiet chuckle, tilting her head.

“Come now. You promised.”

“I haven’t conducted a survey,” Geralt said at last, his deep voice vibrating subtly against Cathleen’s side. She felt the rumble of it as she leaned against him, comfortable in their closeness. “But I’d hardly say we’re blessed.”

Yennefer scoffed, amusement dancing on her lips. “Don’t be so grim.”

Cathleen watched as the sorceress reached for a sponge, her movements fluid, practiced. There was a careful deliberation in the way she ran it over her sun-kissed skin, her violet gaze never once leaving Cathleen’s.

It wasn’t an invasion of privacy, Cathleen realized. If anything, it was an invitation.

The water shifted as Yennefer stretched out a leg beneath the surface, her toes brushing lightly against Cathleen’s calf.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yennefer murmured, her lips curling into a playful grin.

Cathleen’s own mouth twitched as she met her gaze. “Not at all.”

The sorceress smirked before turning her attention back to Geralt.

“You were created by magic.

Our

magic.”

Geralt let out a dry huff. “Thank you,” he replied, voice laced with sarcasm. “Made for a magical childhood.”

Cathleen snorted at that, unable to help herself.

Yennefer sighed, rubbing the sponge along the curve of her neck. “Happy childhoods make for dull company.” Her voice was light, almost teasing, but her gaze sharpened as it shifted back to Cathleen.

“What about you, witch?” Yennefer mused, watching her closely. “Was your childhood a happy one?”

There was something in her tone that made Cathleen’s fingers itch with the urge to wipe that smug little grin off her face. Naturally, she refrained.

“I wouldn’t call it happy, no.”

Her voice was steady, but she didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t need to. The bath was warm, the water soothing, but the weight of the past had a way of making even the coziest spaces feel cold.

The water sloshed gently as Yennefer shifted, stretching out her legs beneath the surface more, the women's legs entangling.

Cathleen was no stranger to the weight of curious eyes, but Yennefer’s gaze felt different. It wasn’t laced with fear or disdain, the way most mages looked at her. No, Yennefer’s eyes gleamed with something else entirely.

Intrigue

.

“You promised to indulge my curiosity,” Yennefer reminded her, swirling a hand through the water. “For the bard, right?”

Cathleen’s fingers tensed against the smooth stone of the tub’s edge. She could feel Geralt shift slightly behind her, his silent presence grounding, even as he said nothing.

Yennefer’s lips curled slightly. “Tell me about your childhood.”

Cathleen exhaled slowly through her nose. “Not much to tell.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Cathleen opened her eyes to find Yennefer watching her, fingers idly tapping against the rim of the tub. There was no malice in her gaze, no sharp edge of mockery. Just patience.

“I don’t remember it,” Cathleen admitted finally. “My earliest memory is Brokilon.”

Yennefer’s brow arched. “No parents? No home?”

Cathleen shook her head. “If I had any before, I don’t recall them.”

That gave Yennefer pause. For the first time since this conversation had begun, Cathleen saw something flicker in those violet eyes—an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Sympathy? No. Something deeper.

“What do you remember, then?” Yennefer asked, quieter now.

Cathleen’s lips pressed together. She wasn’t sure why she was hesitating. Maybe it was because she hadn’t spoken of these things in a long time—if ever.

“The forest,” she said at last, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “The trees. The rivers. The wind.”

Yennefer’s brows pulled together, curious. “The wind?”

Cathleen nodded. “It spoke to me. Not in words, exactly. More like...

urging

. It taught me things.”

Yennefer studied her. “Magic?”

Cathleen hummed in confirmation. “I didn’t know what it was at first. It was just

instinct

. Like breathing. The forest showed me how to call the rain when it was dry, how to pull fire from the air when it was cold. How to make the earth listen beneath my feet.”

Yennefer was silent for a long moment, her violet eyes unreadable. Then, finally, she leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the tub’s edge.

Yennefer let out a slow breath. “That explains why your magic feels...

off

.”

Cathleen tensed. That was

exactly

what mages always said before they tried to kill her. Before they tried to drag her before their council, to demand explanations, to strip her apart and figure out

why

she was different.

She must have stiffened visibly, because Yennefer tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’re afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a taunt. It wasn’t even an observation laced with amusement. It was just... fact.

Cathleen clenched her jaw. “Not you, necessarily. Just... mages.”

“You’re a mage, too,” Yennefer reminded her gently and Cathleen scoffed bitterly.

“I am a witch. Because mages would rather kill themselves than allow them and me to be the same.”

Yennefer did not reply immediately. She simply watched her, gaze flicking over Cathleen’s face, as though piecing together a puzzle.

And then, softly: “They’ve hunted you, haven’t they?”

Cathleen swallowed. She didn’t want to answer. But she had made a deal.

So she nodded.

Yennefer sat back slightly, her expression unreadable. “I assume because you don’t draw from chaos?”

Cathleen nodded again. A quiet moment stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Geralt’s hand—steady, grounding—moved beneath the water, tracing absentminded circles against her waist.

“Do you know why?” the sorceress asked at last.

Cathleen hesitated. “Why they hate me?”

Yennefer nodded.

Cathleen let out a breath. “Because I don’t fit their mold. I exist outside their

order

.” She shrugged. “And what mages can’t control, they try to destroy.”

A shadow passed through Yennefer’s gaze. “They’re afraid of you,” she murmured.

Cathleen huffed a quiet, bitter laugh. “They don’t fear me. They fear what I

represent

.”

Yennefer hummed, a contemplative sound. “And what’s that?”

Cathleen held her gaze steadily. “That magic doesn’t belong to them.”

Yennefer studied her for a long, long moment. Then—abruptly—she laughed. It was not a mocking laugh. Nor was it unkind. If anything, it was...

pleased

.

“That’s why they want you dead,” Yennefer said, shaking her head slightly. “You’re a threat to everything they stand for.”

Cathleen’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “So I’ve been told.”

“I believe you and I will be great friends, Cathleen of Brokilon.” For the first time, Yennefer’s smile lost its edge. A genuine, honest smile. Cathreen couldn’t help but return it.

Then her gaze shifted and Cathleen swallowed. There was something almost unnerving about the way Yennefer was looking at her now—like she was seeing something she hadn’t before. Something she

recognized

.

After a moment, Yennefer let out a quiet hum. “Your magic. How does it feel?”

Cathleen frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Yennefer’s fingers traced small patterns along the stone beside her. “Chaos magic has rules. Boundaries. We mold it, shape it. We

control

it.” Her violet gaze flicked back up. “But you? You don’t control your magic, do you?”

Cathleen hesitated.

“I do control it,” she said slowly, trying to put the feeling of her magic into words. “But it’s… it’s not like chaos, I guess. The magic is like an extension of my senses. It allows me to control things around me, to feel things others don’t.”

Yennefer tilted her head, gaze sharpening.

“Then tell me,” she murmured, voice low, almost a purr. “What does your magic say about

me

?”

Slowly, she met Yennefer’s gaze. “It doesn’t see you as a threat.”

That seemed to genuinely surprise the sorceress. “No?”

Cathleen shook her head. “It’s wary of you. Curious, even. But it doesn’t tell me to run. To hide. To fight.” She inhaled slowly. “And that’s... unusual.”Yennefer studied her for a long moment, before a slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

Geralt’s voice cut through the thick air between them, smoothly diverting Yennefer’s attention from Cathleen.

“Judging by your wrists and your wits,” he said, his tone deceptively casual, “your childhood must have been very happy.”

Yennefer’s smile faltered.

Cathleen’s gaze flickered downward, landing on the thin, pale scars circling the sorceress’s wrists. Stark against her tanned skin, they told a story that needed no words. Not mere accidents, nor the careless nicks of a blade—no, these were deliberate. A past pain, possibly even a final attempt to escape it.

Geralt had cut deep, and he

knew

it. It was cruel. But it had worked.

The weight of Yennefer’s attention lifted from Cathleen, shifting instead onto the witcher who had never shied away from being the villain in another’s tale.

“But Aretuza fixed you up nicely,” he continued, voice flat, as if he were commenting on the weather. “What was your ailment before? Clubbed foot? Split ends?”

Yennefer’s violet eyes remained steady, but Cathleen could see it now—the blankness creeping in, the way she wasn’t truly

here

anymore. Caught, instead, in a memory.

Cathleen had seen that look before. On Geralt, sometimes. On herself.

But then Yennefer caught herself, forcing a smile back onto her face. Not a real one. Not even close.

She adjusted her posture, tilting her head with the grace of a practiced courtier. Her voice, when it came, was smooth again, as if nothing had passed between them.

“Tell me,” she drawled, flicking her attention between the two of them. “How did you manage to charm someone as lovely as Cathleen?” A slow smirk. “With a coarseness like that… or is it your

coin

she finds charming?”

Cathleen did not answer. Because she knew Geralt wouldn’t want her to.

He preferred to fight his own battles, and she wasn’t about to wound his pride by stepping in for him.

Geralt, for his part, didn’t even flinch at the insult. If anything, he seemed

bored

by it.

“You seem to find coin rather charming yourself,” he noted, utterly unimpressed. “Clearly capitalizing on the political situation here.”

Yennefer’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m serving the stifled people of this town,” she countered, voice careful, measured. “Filling a need. Ever heard of it?”

Geralt scoffed. “It’s fine to fly in the face of overzealous authority, but to pretend it’s anything other than making a profit…”

Ah. That hit a nerve.

Cathleen could

see

it in the way Yennefer’s jaw tightened, the subtle twitch of her fingers against the water.

But she recovered quickly. “And to pretend

you

are after a djinn to cure insomnia?” she returned, voice dangerously smooth. “

Hmm?

”

Cathleen felt Geralt stiffen beside her.

The tension coiled tighter, heavier, settling into the room like an impending storm.

Cathleen had the distinct sense that if she weren’t here—if the water between them weren’t there—one of them would have lunged for the other’s throat by now.

But the words that tumbled from Geralt’s lips next were not the sharp-edged retort Yennefer might have expected.

“Fortunately for you,” he growled, voice dark, “once we’ve paid for your fine services, it’ll be none of your concern.”

Cathleen nearly sighed.

She didn’t have the heart to correct him, but her magic already

knew

—Yennefer would remain a part of their story.

It whispered of unseen threads tying them together, tugging them toward something yet to unfold. It did not warn her of danger, nor did it tell her to leave.

No, if anything, it

pulled

her toward the sorceress. As if intrigued. As if Yennefer of Vengerberg was not an enemy. Not yet. And perhaps… not ever.

Yennefer studied Geralt for a long moment before finally leaning back, her expression unreadable.

“Fortunately for

you

,” she purred, “I’ve determined that your company and conversation are payment enough.”

Geralt went still for the span of a single heartbeat.

Then, without another word, he stood.

Water sluiced down his scarred body, steam rising in tendrils around him. He didn’t bother with a towel, didn’t even look back as he strode from the chamber, leaving only wet footprints in his wake.

Cathleen watched him go. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze back to Yennefer, still seated in the spacious tub, still watching her with those sharp, knowing eyes.

Alone, at last.

Cathleen exhaled slowly, sinking a little deeper into the water now that Geralt was gone. The heat seeped into her skin, easing the remnants of exhaustion weighing down her limbs. The room felt quieter now—though not

tense

, as it had before.

No, with just the two of them left, the atmosphere had shifted.

Less antagonistic. More…

curious.

Cathleen tilted her head, letting her gaze settle on Yennefer, who had yet to look away from her.

"You and Geralt bicker like an old couple," she remarked, voice tinged with amusement.

Yennefer's lips curled in a smirk. "Is that so?"

Cathleen shrugged, reaching for the sponge Yennefer had discarded. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were an old married pair, forced to endure each other's company for eternity."

Yennefer huffed a laugh, shifting in the water as she leaned back against the tub’s edge.

“Please," she said dryly. "If I were married to your witcher, I'd have killed him by now."

Cathleen chuckled, scrubbing at her arm with slow, deliberate movements. “Would you, though? I’m not convinced. You seem to enjoy getting under his skin far too much.”

Yennefer hummed thoughtfully, twirling a strand of damp hair around her finger. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But that doesn’t mean I’d tolerate him for long. Men like him are… infuriating.”

Cathleen shot her a knowing glance. “And yet, here you are—sharing a bath with his lover, entertaining conversation instead of sending us on our way.”

Yennefer’s eyes gleamed, her expression unreadable. “Maybe I’m just curious,” she murmured. “Or maybe I find

you

far more interesting than your witcher.”

That gave Cathleen pause.

Because the strange thing was… she wasn’t unsettled by Yennefer’s interest. Not the way she might have been with another mage.

Her magic didn’t bristle, didn’t push her away or urge her to be wary.

It simply

watched

—curious, intrigued, as though recognizing something familiar in Yennefer.

Yennefer’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Geralt must be

incredible

in bed for you to stay with him," she mused, lips quirking into something sly. "A man like that... brooding, emotionally unavailable, prone to running headfirst into danger. I imagine the sex has to be

spectacular

to make up for it.”

Cathleen blinked, then snorted. She couldn't argue with that logic.

“Oh, he

is

,” she admitted, her laughter soft.

Yennefer arched a brow, amused. “Mm. I

thought

as much.”

“But,” Cathleen added, voice quieter now, more thoughtful, “it’s not just that.”

She set the sponge aside, letting her fingers drift lazily through the water.

“There’s something about him,” she continued, “something steady. Even when everything else is chaos, when the world shifts beneath my feet, he’s…

there.

”

Yennefer tilted her head, listening.

Cathleen exhaled, glancing toward the doorway where Geralt had disappeared moments before. “He doesn’t demand anything from me. Doesn’t expect me to be something I’m not. And he never—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “He never asks me to

change

.”

Yennefer was silent for a moment, watching her carefully. Then, with a knowing smile, she murmured, “That is a rare thing.”

Cathleen turned back to her. “You sound like you know that from experience.”

Yennefer didn’t confirm nor deny it. She only sighed, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight of something unseen.

“Men have a habit of wanting women to be convenient,” she said. “Easy to understand. Easy to control.” Her mouth twisted. “Geralt seems to be an exception.”

“He is,” Cathleen agreed softly.

Yennefer studied her for a long moment, eyes sharp yet thoughtful, as though seeing something in Cathleen she hadn’t noticed before.

Then, quite suddenly, her expression shifted.

“Still,” she said, lips curving into a smirk, “I’d wager he’s a

terrible

conversationalist.”

Cathleen let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, absolutely.”

And just like that, the tension—what little remained—dissolved entirely.

Something unspoken passed between them, something neither of them needed to name. Not friendship, not yet. But something

akin

to it. A quiet understanding. A recognition of sorts.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 26 –

The Last Wish

Geralt leaned against the wooden vanity in the dressing room, arms crossed, scowling at his reflection in the mirror.

He didn’t like how well the clothes Yennefer had given him fit.

The leather jacket was supple and new, the fabric still stubborn around his shoulders. The pants, though comfortable, weren’t the familiar weight of his usual armor. Even the boots felt

different

—too polished, too soft.

Damn mages. Always so

insistent

.

He exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair, rolling his shoulders against the slight stiffness in the jacket. It wasn’t

bad

, he supposed. But he still felt like he’d been shoved into someone else’s skin.

At least it was clean.

With a resigned sigh, he pushed away from the vanity and stepped toward the door, listening for signs of the women’s return.

Muffled voices carried through the hall beyond. Low, warm tones—Cathleen’s softer, edged with laughter; Yennefer’s rich, full of something conspiratorial.

He frowned.

What in the hells had happened while he was gone?

The door across from him swung open, and suddenly, they were there.

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

Cathleen stepped into the room first, and for a long, disoriented second, he

forgot

how to think. Because she looked—

Stunning.

His breath hitched, just for a moment.

The dress was nothing like what she usually wore. Dark fabric, soft and flowing, cinched at her waist, accentuating every line of her body. It dipped low at the front, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbones, the swell of her chest. Her hair—still damp from the bath—was pushed back, revealing the strong cut of her jaw, the delicate curve of her neck.

Geralt had always thought she was beautiful. Always.

But this—

This

was something else.

Something that punched him square in the gut, left him breathless in a way that had nothing to do with battle or exhaustion.

And the worst part? She didn’t even

notice

.

Didn’t seem remotely aware of the way she looked. Didn’t notice the way his entire being had just narrowed down to

her

, the way his muscles coiled with the sudden, visceral urge to step forward, to pull her against him, to

devour

her right there in the middle of this godsdamned dressing room.

But then—

then

—he

did

notice something else.

Something far more perplexing than his own reaction.

Yennefer.

Standing beside Cathleen, the mage wore a satisfied little smirk, eyes gleaming as she flicked her fingers over the fabric of Cathleen’s sleeve, straightening the delicate material with the casual ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

And Cathleen—

Cathleen just

let

her.

No tension in her shoulders, no wary glances, no hesitation in their proximity.

What.

What in the fuck had happened in the last ten minutes?

Yennefer wasn’t just standing beside Cathleen. She was

close

to her.

A

deliberate

kind of close. The kind that spoke of familiarity. Of understanding. Of something unspoken but already cemented between them.

And that was— That was—

What the fuck?

There was

affection

in the mages gaze, affection for

his

Cathleen. It made him pause, his brain not comprehending what his eyes noticed.

"Are you just going to stand there gaping?" Yennefer drawled, arching a brow. "Or are you going to compliment your gorgeous lover?"

The mage didn’t wait for a reply and instead left the dressing room, the fabric of her white dress rustling with each step.

Geralt watched her go, still rooted to the spot, still

thoroughly

baffled.

Then he turned to Cathleen. She met his gaze, brow raised in amusement.

He exhaled sharply. "What the fuck did I miss?"

She only shrugged and approached him, the movement of her hips suddenly more obvious to him. It has been

ages

since he last saw her in a dress. And fuck, it went straight to his cock.

“My magic… likes her,” Cathleen muttered and reached for his face, cupping it gently with her warm hands. Instinctively, he leaned his face into her.

“She’s scheming,” he muttered, eyes locked onto hers and she smiled gently.

“She is a mage,” she chuckled. “It’s in her nature, I guess.”

He only hummed in answer and when Cathleen started to raise on her toes, he met her halfway, pressing his lips to hers ever so gently.

“She is right, though,” Geralt murmured against her lips, “you

are

gorgeous.”

Cathleen chuckled again before leaning away slightly.

“Come on,” she said, her smile faltering just slightly. “We can see Jaskier now.”

Yennefer led them into a bedroom, her movements confident, almost lazy, like a cat leading mice into a den.

On the massive bed lay Jaskier, unnervingly still.

Geralt didn’t hesitate. He moved straight to his side, his sharp gaze scanning over the bard, cataloging every detail—his shallow breaths, the pallor of his skin, the unnatural stillness in his limbs. He was alive, that much was certain, but there was something off, something Geralt didn’t like.

Even as he focused on Jaskier, his other senses remained locked on the two women. He still didn’t trust Yennefer, no matter how much Cathleen’s magic seemed to

like

her. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Cathleen circled the bed, slipping onto the mattress beside Jaskier. She took one of his limp hands in hers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles as if she could will him back to consciousness through touch alone. Her free hand hovered just above his forehead, fingers trailing delicately through the air. A soft pulse vibrated through the room—her magic.

Geralt recognized the sensation instantly. She was feeling him out, searching beneath the surface, speaking a silent language only she and the elements could understand.

Yennefer lingered in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Do you doubt my capabilities?" she asked, voice smooth but laced with something sharper. The question was for him.

Cathleen didn’t even look up, too focused on whatever her magic was telling her.

Geralt’s jaw tightened. "No," he admitted gruffly. "Just your intentions."

Yennefer didn’t reply. But he caught the slight flicker of amusement in her expression.

His attention returned to Cathleen. She still had that look on her face—worried, determined, lips barely parted as she mouthed words too soft for anyone to hear.

Guilt hit him like a war hammer to the chest.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face.

And perhaps it was the unfamiliar friendship forming between Cathleen and Yennefer, or perhaps it was the stillness of Jaskier’s body, but—

He spoke.

"I said some things to him."

Cathleen’s gaze lifted, her warm eyes locking onto his.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

She just understood. Not pity—never pity. She had never looked at him with anything close to that. She understood him in a way no one else did. It was part of why he loved her so much.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to continue.

"He’s a…" The words stuck, like tar in his throat.

Yennefer tilted her head, watching him with something unreadable in her violet gaze. "A friend?" she supplied.

His muscles locked. His first instinct was to snap back, to push her away with his usual sharpness, but she wasn’t wrong.

And that—that was the problem.

Geralt turned to her, leveling her with a hard stare. "I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers."

Yennefer’s expression didn’t shift.

"If he remembers at all," she said easily, and when his face darkened, she chuckled.

"It’s a joke, Witcher. Relax."

She finally stepped further into the room, her violet eyes scanning over Jaskier’s body, then flicking back to him.

"He’ll survive," she said, her tone surprisingly gentle. "And recover his vocal talents. Does that satisfy you?"

"Very much," Cathleen murmured under her breath.

Geralt, however, wasn’t convinced. "Not in the slightest."

He stepped away from the bed, feeling Cathleen’s eyes on him as he approached Yennefer.

"But don’t reproach yourself for it,

Yennefer

," he continued, his voice low, rough. "I’m not easily satisfied."

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move back.

Most people did when Geralt loomed over them. She didn’t.

Her heartbeat stayed steady. Unshaken.

But her eyes—her eyes were watching him carefully, like she was studying him.

He might have said more, but then—

The scent hit him. Faint, but unmistakable.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto the far side of the room. The sigil.

It was there, behind Yennefer. The same sigil that had held the djinn in its bottle back at the riverbank.

His gaze flicked to the floor, taking in the salt-lined circle at the foot of the bed. A nine-pointed star, with candles burning at each point.

"

Geralt?

" Cathleen’s voice.

She had noticed his shift in focus. Of course, she had. She always noticed.

His eyes darkened as he turned back to Yennefer.

"It’s the sign from the seal," he said slowly. Yennefer didn’t flinch. But her heartbeat did. Just for a second.

"We’ll be taking Jaskier now," he announced, already stepping back toward the bed.

Cathleen was a step ahead, pulling the sheets away from the bard’s still form.

Yennefer sighed, shaking her head. "If you wake him before he’s healed," she said, voice cutting through the tension like a knife, "the spell won’t take. That’s no way to treat a friend, Geralt."

His teeth clenched. "You want the djinn," he said. "But the amphora is broken. The djinn’s already long gone."

A gust of wind tore through the room, rattling the windows, making the candle flames rise impossibly high.

It wasn’t Cathleen’s magic.

The air hummed with something ancient, something raw.

A soft, luminous whisper coiled through the space, curling through his ears like a ghost.

Yennefer smiled.

"Do go on," she murmured, stepping closer. "Tell me how stuff works."

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

"The djinn is tied to this plane and its master," she explained. "How many wishes did the bard express before he lost his voice?"

Geralt’s stomach twisted.

"You need Jaskier to make his last wish," he realized, voice hard. "So you can capture it."

Yennefer didn’t deny it.

"So that’s… two, then," she mused.

"

Yennefer–

" Cathleen’s voice cut through the air—only to

stop

just as quickly.

Her body swayed—her eyes rolling back.

And then, before Geralt could react, she collapsed.

His heart lurched.

He moved instantly—reaching for her, instincts screaming—but Yennefer lifted a hand.

"Relax," she said smoothly. "She’s just sleeping

.

No harm done."

Geralt’s hands curled into fists. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Yennefer."

She merely shrugged, her expression unreadable.

"The djinn will fight you," he warned, voice dark. "If you try to

bend

it–"

His words cut off abruptly. Something was

wrong

.

His muscles locked. His breath hitched.

His senses—the ones that were always sharp, always attuned to the world around him—were

distant

. Not where they should be.

A whisper curled inside his skull. Soft. Feminine.

Foreign.

His vision blurred. His limbs

wouldn’t move

.

Yennefer’s voice broke through the haze.

"Tough to get into your head," she murmured, stepping closer.

Geralt

couldn’t move

.

"You have a

strong

will," she mused, studying his face. "But you can’t contend with me. Sorry I couldn’t be direct. I

knew

you’d fight it."

She smiled.

"And I do love a good old-fashioned trap."

The world

tilted

.

Then, nothing. Only darkness.

When Cathleen awoke, she was disoriented, her mind sluggish, her body heavier than it should be. The rhythmic sway beneath her and the distant creak of leather had her confused for a moment.

She was moving.

“What the fuck?” she muttered, her voice thick with sleep.

A low rumble of amusement vibrated behind her.

"You’re awake," came Geralt’s familiar rasp.

The sound of his voice grounded her almost instantly. Her body knew before her mind did—she was exactly where she always belonged. Safe. Warm. Pressed against Geralt’s chest as they rode together on Roach.

But how the hell had they gotten here?

The last thing she remembered was— "

Yennefer

?"

Geralt huffed, the exhale stirring her hair.

"She put you to sleep."

His tone was gruff, but beneath it, she could hear something else. Something tight. Worry, maybe.

She shifted slightly in the saddle, the stiffness in her limbs making itself known. His arms around her tightened reflexively, and only then did she notice how firmly he was holding her. Not just steadying her, but

holding

her.

Not letting go.

Before she could comment, he continued, his voice still laced with that quiet tension.

"She tried to capture the djinn. It didn't go as planned." A beat of silence. "It was

my

wishes, not Jaskier’s. Last one saved her life. Then the djinn was gone. And we parted ways… on

friendly

terms."

That surprised her.

"Friendly?"

Geralt let out another huff, this one less amused.

"As friendly as Yennefer gets."

Cathleen tried to process it all. Geralt using his last wish to save Yennefer? That meant—

"What was your wish"

Geralt’s arms tensed for half a second before relaxing again. "I… wished her fate connected to ours.."

She frowned. “I thought you don’t trust her.” He was silent for a moment.

“You do,” he offered gently. “And you were right to. She had ulterior motives but… they weren’t to do harm.”

She hummed softly.

"You slept through the whole ordeal," he said, his voice rough. "Courtesy of Yennefer. Jaskier carried you out after he woke up."

She exhaled through her nose, trying to shake the last remnants of grogginess. "

Jaskier

carried me?"

Geralt hummed. "Not sure how, but he managed."

Cathleen snorted at the image of the bard struggling to drag her unconscious form through a collapsing building.

"Where

is

Jaskier, anyway?" she asked, suddenly realizing he was nowhere in sight.

"He wanted to stay in town for a while," Geralt said. "Something about appreciating his voice more."

She chuckled. "That probably translates to ‘I want to show this town my vocal talents’."

Geralt grunted in agreement.

She shifted again, stretching out her arms before settling back against him. His grip on her didn’t loosen. If anything, he pulled her in closer, his chin brushing the top of her head for the briefest moment.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be touchy with her, but this was…

more

. He was holding onto her like he needed to remind himself she was still there.

A realization hit her then.

"Geralt," she said, tilting her head back slightly. "

How

long was I asleep?"

His hesitation was answer enough.

"Geralt."

He exhaled slowly. "Almost a full day."

Her stomach flipped. "A

day

?"

"Yennefer put you under

deep

," he muttered. "You wouldn’t wake up no matter what I did."

That explained the worry in his voice.

"Wasn’t even sure you were

just

sleeping," he admitted quietly.

Ah.

There

it was.

Cathleen felt a pang of guilt. Not that it was her fault—none of it was—but she could imagine what it must have been like for him. Seeing her so still, unable to wake her, wondering if she’d ever open her eyes again.

She reached up, placing her hand over one of his on her waist, giving it a light squeeze.

"I’m okay, Geralt."

His arms tightened around her in response, but he said nothing.

They rode in silence for a few moments, the steady rhythm of Roach’s hooves filling the space between them. The road ahead stretched long and open, winding through rolling hills and dense patches of trees. The sun hung lower in the sky now, casting everything in shades of gold and deep orange.

Then she realized something.

“You

changed

me,” she grinned, pretending to accuse him. The dress had been replaced by her usual attire, the white tunic, dark brown pants and her boots.

Geralt hummed in agreement, not seeming the least bit sorry, which made her chuckle again.

Finally, she asked, "Where are we even

going

?"

Geralt shifted slightly behind her.

"North," he said. "To Kaedwen."

That surprised her.

"Kaedwen? Why?"

He hesitated. She turned her head enough to glance up at him. "Geralt?"

He sighed. "You need rest. Somewhere safe." Ah. This was about

her

.

Her lips parted, ready to argue, but the way he was holding her—the way he had

held

her this entire time—made her pause.

This wasn’t just his usual protectiveness. This was fear. Guilt, too.

He thought had

almost

lost her. He didn’t want to risk it happening again.

Her chest ached at the thought.

So instead of arguing, she settled back against him, letting her body mold to his.

"Alright," she murmured.

Geralt pressed a slow kiss to the crown of her head, something only she would ever get to see, ever get to feel.

And as the sun dipped lower, as the air grew cooler around them, they rode on.

Geralt had always been good at silence. Silence was safety. Silence was control. Silence was the thing he could hold onto when the world spun too fast, too violently, when his emotions threatened to turn into something untamed, something he didn’t

know

how to handle. But not with her.

With Cathleen, his thoughts were loud. Too loud.

It had been that way since the beginning. And now, as he held her against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her body against his, the fact that she

was awake

, it was deafening.

He hadn’t let her go since she’d stirred. Not really. Even now, with Roach’s steady gait carrying them toward Kaedwen, his hands remained firm on her waist, his arms wrapped around her.

He had been afraid.

Truly

afraid.

Yennefer’s magic had put her in a sleep so deep, so still, that he’d found himself checking her pulse more times than he cared to admit. He hadn’t trusted the mage’s word—not entirely. Not when it came to Cathleen.

And now she was awake, talking, smiling, and the relief was a physical thing, settling in his bones, making him want to bury his face in her hair and just—hold her. Keep her here.

But he couldn’t.

He wasn’t good at words. Not ones that mattered. So he would let his touch speak for him instead.

And she understood. She always did.

Her fingers skimmed over his hand on her waist, a small, grounding touch.

"I’m okay, Geralt."

He said nothing. Just held her tighter.

Kaedwen had been good for her. She had rested. He had watched over her, eyes tracking her every movement, looking for any sign that she still felt the lingering effects of Yennefer’s magic.

She had called him

overbearing

. He hadn’t cared.

The thought of losing her—no. He wouldn’t think about it.

After Kaedwen, the world had called to them again. Coin needed earning, monsters needed slaying. And so they moved.

Contracts took them across the land—wyverns, wraiths, a particularly nasty foglet that had nearly gotten the jump on him before Cathleen burned it to ash with a flick of her wrist.

They worked well together. And they fought well together.

And— fuck—they fought.

Not just against beasts and men but against each other.

He had lost his temper once, during an argument over whether or not she should come with him on a particularly dangerous hunt. She had insisted, he had refused, and when she

insisted harder

, something in him had snapped.

He had

yelled

. Not just raised his voice—yelled.

The moment it had left him, he had regretted it. The last thing he ever wanted was for her to fear him. But instead of backing down, instead of flinching, she had yelled right back. No fear. No hesitation.

His anger had fizzled out so fast, it had left him disoriented. And the way she had looked at him afterward—

Like she wasn’t going anywhere.

The argument had ended the way most of them did—with his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, worshipping her with every touch, every whispered apology he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

Because he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve

her

.

And yet, no matter how many times they fought, no matter how many times he pushed or pulled or lost his grip on that careful control—she stayed.

She chose him.

And fuck, he loved her for it.

What he hadn’t loved was Cathleen insisting on going on a dragon hunt. Afterward, he had suspected it had been her magic urging them to join, since they ran into Yennefer six years after that mess with the djinn. So after almost plumbing to death from a steep cliff and then having to protect the dragon, which resulted in Cathleen getting hurt. Which then made Geralt explode at Jaskier, leaving the bard behind.

The witcher regretted what he said instantly but, despite Cathleen pressing him to, he couldn’t get himself to apologize.

And a year later, that was the least of his problems. Especially after he and Cathleen saw the force of Nilfgaard’s army marching for Cintra – and his child surprise.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

– 27 –

People Linked By Destiny Will Always Find Each Other

She had thought she’d need to convince him. But even after so many years together, Geralt still managed to surprise her sometimes.

It had been his idea to take the child—to protect it.

Cathleen hadn’t objected, hadn’t pointed out that it was long overdue either. She had simply agreed, because that was what they did. No matter the path ahead, she would always stand beside him.

Even as he had shied away from the responsibility during the meeting with Mousesack, pretending to care only for the child’s safety rather than its fate, she had seen through him.

Then they had learned—Princess Cirilla. A girl.

She had felt the shift in Geralt the moment her name was spoken, even before she saw it on his face. His mind had already begun to change, but it was the news of the child’s orphaning that sealed it.

And, as always, danger had followed.

The attack on them had been enough to convince Mousesack of the peril Cirilla faced, but Queen Calanthe had not relented so easily. The woman was strong, powerful in presence, but Cathleen had wanted nothing more than to

smack

her across the face in her own courtyard.

She hadn’t. Instead, she had stood behind Geralt, hands clasped behind her back, a silent force at his side as he debated the queen over a child that—by law and by destiny—was his.

A step behind, always. Watching. Listening. Feeling
.

And when they were finally led to the royal chambers, where Cirilla – Ciri, as the Queen had called her – awaited them, Cathleen knew something was wrong.

Her magic had pushed against her skin the moment they entered.

The girl before them—frightened, pale, a ghost of a princess—hurried off to her friends the second she was dismissed.

As soon as the door shut behind them and they were alone again, Cathleen exhaled.

"It’s not her," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Geralt.

He turned his head slightly. "What?"

"She’s not—" Her voice trailed off as her magic

surged

, pressing against her ribs like a restless animal,

pushing

her forward.

She barely glanced at him, eyes fixed ahead.

"Cathleen?"

His voice was a deep rumble, steady, grounding. But she didn’t look at him. Instead, she took a step forward. Then another.

Her magic

pulled

her.

Not this way.

She turned sharply toward the far wall, breath catching as the stone shimmered, the edges of an archway flickering into existence.

Geralt cursed under his breath. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and

pushed

. The hidden door groaned open, revealing a dimly lit passageway beyond.

She didn’t question it. She didn’t hesitate.

She followed the call of her magic.

Geralt trailed after her, his presence a steady, protective force behind her. He didn’t try to stop her—he had long since learned that when her magic led her, it was best to follow.

The air grew colder as they descended the passageway, the scent of damp stone thick around them. It twisted and turned, the narrow corridor pressing in, but she kept moving forward, every step purposeful.

And then— Light
.

A breeze.

The passageway opened up into the courtyard beyond the castle walls.

The sound of laughter met her ears. A group of children played in the open space, their voices bright despite the looming shadow of war over the kingdom.

And then— Her magic zeroed

in

.

Among the children, dressed in boy’s clothing, a hat pulled low over fair hair—was Cirilla. The real Ciri.

Cathleen’s heart stuttered.

She turned to Geralt, urgency rising in her throat. "Geralt, it’s—"

"I know." His voice was quiet, but certain.

She blinked, startled. His golden eyes were fixed on the girl, his expression unreadable. But she could feel it—the same pull.

Destiny.

He had felt it too.

Geralt was furious. When he confronted the Queen, he could barely contain the urge to snap. He had met his fair share of arrogant fools over the years, but Calanthe… she was beyond that.

Arrogant. Stubborn. Plain

stupid.

“She needs family,” the Queen spat, her voice sharp with disdain. “And you? You know nothing about that.”

He could feel it coming before she even said it.

“Your own mother cared so little she discarded you.”

The words should have stung. Maybe, once, they would have. But before he could even react—before he could let the cold anger take hold—Cathleen moved. Fast.

Her fist slammed into Calanthe’s face with a sharp, sickening crack.

The Queen stumbled back, clutching her nose as blood dripped onto her regal attire.

Geralt blinked. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the sight.

“Queen or not,” Cathleen hissed, voice low and dangerous, “I will rip your tongue out right here if you say something like that ever again.”

The two women locked eyes, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.

Calanthe, to her credit, didn’t call for her guards. Maybe she knew how fragile her position was—that they were right, that she had no ground to stand on. Or maybe she was simply too proud to admit she had been

struck

in her own castle.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Because minutes later, her husband Eist had led them both to a chamber under the pretense of

talking things through

—only for the doors to lock behind them.

Trapped. Of course. A moment later they were hauled into the dungeons beneath the castle, no sunlight reaching them this low.

Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose.

“She will be dead by morning anyway,” Cathleen muttered beside him, crossing her arms as she leaned against the cold stone wall. “What’s a punch to the face then?”

Despite everything, despite the looming dread curling in his gut, he smirked.

He turned to her, watching the way her eyes flickered with lingering anger. Always so fearless, always so damn loyal.

She had defended him without hesitation. Had put herself between him and a

Queen

.

And the way she said it—

she will be dead by morning anyway

—so certain, so resigned, as if she already saw the bloodbath waiting just beyond the horizon.

Because she did. She felt it, the same way he did. Both of them were alive long enough at this point to know how things would end. History had a habit of repeating itself.

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. “You should sleep.”

She scoffed. “And let you brood here in the dark? No thanks.”

He huffed out a quiet chuckle.

Then, her expression softened. “You should meditate.”

He lifted a brow.

“You’ll be able to focus your senses above. Maybe hear something useful. Besides, you’ll need all your strength.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll keep watch,” she added firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He hesitated—just for a second.

But then he nodded and knelt on the ground, hands spread on his thighs. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

And he

listened

.

At first, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of his own breathing. The muffled crackling of torches in the hallway. The faint sound of Cathleen shifting beside him, as well as her heartbeat, something he was always aware of on purpose. The day he wouldn’t hear that heartbeat anymore, he’d drive a knife into his throat.

Then— He expanded his senses.

The castle walls could not keep the truth out.

Above, the city of Cintra wept.

Distant cries of children, the sharp clamor of steel, the hurried, desperate whispers of servants sneaking through the corridors, praying they would not be found.

Panic
.

Even the ones who did not know what was coming could

feel it

. The looming, inevitable doom pressing down on the city like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Then— Screams.

Far off. Not yet in the castle, but closer than they should be.

A child sobbing. A man shouting orders. The galloping of horses against cobblestone.

And beneath it all, the distant roar of flames.

Geralt’s jaw tightened. The city was already burning. The slaughter had begun.

Cathleen had been right – by morning, Calanthe would be dead. And with her most of the city.

“Geralt.”

Her voice pulled him from the depths of his meditation like a sudden plunge into icy water.

He opened his eyes, blinking away the fog of deep focus, his senses immediately snapping back into place. The screams. The smoke. The blood.

War. Death.

And in front of him—Cathleen.

She grinned, tossing a ring of keys between her fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world. He stared for a second, his mind catching up to reality. His gaze flickered past her, landing on the unconscious guard crumpled at their feet.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course.

“Let’s get the girl,” she said, voice steady despite the chaos roaring above them.

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

Geralt surged to his feet as she unlocked the cell door, and together, they moved.

The moment they stepped out of the dungeons, the world turned red.

Flames clawed at the sky, swallowing rooftops and spitting embers into the blackened air. The acrid stench of burning wood and scorched flesh choked the streets. Corpses littered the ground—soldiers, civilians, old, young. It didn’t matter.

War never cared for innocence.

“Stay close,” he ordered, glancing at Cathleen.

She nodded without question. She was always fearless, always reckless—but she wasn’t stupid.

Then— “Geralt!”

His head snapped up just as Cathleen pointed toward the courtyard.

And there, sprawled lifelessly across the blood-streaked stone—Queen Calanthe. Dead.

Her once-magnificent dress was soaked through with crimson, her crown missing, her body twisted unnaturally. Her eyes—once sharp with defiance—were dull, unseeing.

She hadn’t made it ‘til morning.

Fuck.

The temptation to feel something for her death passed quickly. Geralt clenched his jaw and turned away. They had bigger concerns.

They tore through the castle like wolves on the hunt.

A dozen soldiers fell beneath Geralt’s sword, their bodies hitting the stone before they could even cry out. Cathleen was just as merciless. The dagger in her hand was slick with blood, her face streaked with soot and sweat, but she never faltered.

They interrogated anyone who still had breath left to speak. No one knew where the princess was.

But they didn’t find her body either. And that meant—

“She’s alive,” Cathleen panted.

She stood beside him in the darkened alley, chest heaving, hair wild, blood staining the cuffs of her tunic. Her fingers flexed around her dagger, still ready to fight.

Geralt turned to her, his own breath steady but heart pounding. “Can your magic lead us to her?” His voice was rougher than he intended.

Scared. Fuck. He was scared.

Ciri was just a

child

. Twelve years old. Alone in a city that was dying.

Cathleen hesitated, her brows pulling together. “Maybe,” she admitted, frustration in her tone. “But right now, it’s overwhelmed with—”

“I know.” The death. The suffering. The pain.

It clouded everything. Made his own senses hum with chaos, made Cathleen’s magic burn too bright, too much.

But she was alive. That was enough.

“We’ll find her, Geralt,” Cathleen said firmly, meeting his gaze. There was no doubt in her eyes. No hesitation.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.”

Destiny. That fucking word.

He hated it. Hated the way it loomed over him like an unbreakable chain.

Yet… it was a promise – a comfort – that they’d find Ciri. They’d find her.

“Typical,” Cathleen muttered angrily. “Fucking typical of you. How the fuck are we supposed to find the girl if you are dying?” She stared angrily at Geralt’s unconscious face. She had placed his head in her lap after the man they had saved from the ghouls had been kind enough to take them with him, Roach tied to the cart on which they were allowed to travel.

They had barely made it out of Cintra, her magic having trouble properly zeroing in on Ciri, so they only had a vague direction to go. Which, luckily, aligned with their overall goal; Kaer Morhen. It’d be safest there for the Princess. Provided they’d find her before the first snow fell. And also provided Geralt would stop being reckless and wouldn’t get bitten by ghouls in the thigh.

At some point, he had opened his eyes but he clearly wasn’t seeing her, wasn’t aware where he was. A result of the ghoul’s venom.

“When you survive this,” she muttered angrily, running her fingers gently through his hair and over his sweat-covered face, “you’ll teach me your stupid alchemy until I can make every fucking antidote to every fucking venom there is.” Her magic had done little to help him since there was no way to naturalize the venom cursing through his veins. She was only able to slow his heartbeat down even more than his mutation already did, making sure the venom took even longer to reach every part of his body.

When his skin grew even paler, she rummaged through the back, looking at every vial and forcing her magic to help her.

“Come on,” she muttered to herself. “Which one? Damn, witcher, fucking label your shit.” She stopped at a small vial with some black liquid in it, her magic sensing a pulse to it. This one..

“Okay,” she whispered and looked back at Geralt.

“Sorry.” She smacked him across his face with her palm. His instincts forced him awake but she knew it wouldn’t last one.

“Drink!” Cathleen ordered and opened the vial, forcing the throat to his lips.

“Drink, Geralt!” He chucked down half of it, squeezing his eyes shut as he groaned. Then his large hand grabbed the vial from her and poured the rest of it over his wound, grunting in pain.

In the distance, she could hear explosions. Nilfgaard has reached Sodden.

Geralt was out a second later.

“Hurry,” she begged the man, cradling Geralt's head in her lap once more.

When the hallucinations kicked in, she started to panic. She’d never seen him this deluded and when he started calling for his mother– fuck, she was crying.

Sniffling softly, she held his head close to her, stroking over his hair, desperate to bring him any kind of comfort.

She knew how his mother had left him, he had told her the story almost five years ago. And she knew no matter how long ago it was, no matter how much Geralt pretended not to care… she was his mother. And she had left him.

When Cathleen looked at his distressed face, she knew where his mind was, knew how helpless and scared he must’ve felt. She tried his hardest to comfort him, even as he continued to call for his mother.

When they stopped for the night, she still held him in her lap, now on the ground, as he cried out different names. Renfir, Yennefer, Visenna, her own. She watched him cry, something she rarely ever saw, and she silently brushed his tears away. He didn’t wake, not even as she and the man lifted Geralt onto the cart again in the morning and continued their journey to the man’s home.

Shortly before they arrived, he finally woke up, his eyes clear, no sweat on his forehead.

Geralt’s first breath upon waking was deep and sharp, his body instinctively bracing for a fight.

The moment his senses returned, he realized several things all at once:

Pain. A dull, throbbing ache in his thigh. The scent of dried blood and alchemy. His own, mostly. The ground beneath him shifting. A cart, moving slowly over uneven terrain. Warmth. Someone holding him.

And Cathleen’s voice.

“Fucking finally,” she muttered, exhaustion clear in her tone.

Geralt blinked against the fading haze of venom-induced delirium, his vision sharpening. Above him, the sky stretched in grey-blue streaks, and right at the edge of his sight—her face.

Her red-rimmed eyes.

“You’re crying,” he rasped, voice raw.

Cathleen scoffed, but she didn’t bother wiping the evidence away. “Yeah, well. It’s fucking terrifying watching you relive every trauma you’ve ever had.” Her fingers, warm and steady, traced over his jaw, grounding him. “Next time, let’s not get bitten by ghouls, hmm?”

Geralt exhaled slowly. His head was clear now, the venom almost completely burned from his system, but the weight in his chest remained. The echoes of whatever his mind had conjured still clung to him, vague but suffocating. He remembered calling out names.

Renfri. Yennefer. Visenna.

Cathleen.

His stomach twisted.

“How bad was it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Her lips pressed into a tight line. “You called for your mother,” she said softly.

Geralt closed his eyes.

Fuck.

It had been decades
since he’d last dreamt of Visenna—his mother, his curse, the woman who had shaped his life by disappearing from it. Yet the venom had dragged him right back to that day, to that helpless, pathetic child waiting for someone who would never return.

“I must’ve been delirious,” he muttered, an attempt to brush it off.

But Cathleen’s grip on him tightened.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.

His jaw clenched. He hated this. Hated feeling like this—exposed, vulnerable, like a wound still bleeding. He had spent decades training himself to ignore the ache in his soul, to accept what had been done to him and move on.

But she wouldn’t let him. She never let him.

Geralt exhaled slowly, staring up at her. Despite the exhaustion lining her face, her eyes remained fierce. Unwavering. Like she’d fight the entire world for him if she had to.

“You stayed,” he murmured.

Cathleen’s brows furrowed. “Obviously.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “You didn’t even try to slap me awake this time?”

Her expression darkened instantly. “Oh, don’t act like I didn’t,” she snorted. “Bastard, you were hallucinating so badly, I had to force that potion down your throat.” She glared. “You owe me.”

Geralt huffed, shifting slightly. Pain flared through his leg, but it was manageable. The wound was no longer burning, no longer poisoned.

“You found the right antidote?” he asked.

Cathleen scowled. “Barely. You need to start labeling your shit, Geralt. I almost gave you something that would’ve stopped your heart.”

He hummed, unconcerned. “You would’ve revived me.”

“That is

not the fucking point

.”

His smile almost cracked through. “I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Damn right, you will.”

She reached up, brushing a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, her thumb dragging softly over his temple. Geralt leaned into the touch before he could think better of it.

Her hand was steady
.

His wasn’t.

“I heard you,” he admitted quietly. “Even through the fever.”

Cathleen tilted her head slightly.

“You kept talking,” he clarified. “Even when I wasn’t awake.”

She swallowed, her fingers tensing in his hair before relaxing again. “I figured if I kept talking, you’d find your way back to me.”

Geralt let that settle in his chest, warm and aching all at once.

His gaze flickered past her, scanning their surroundings. The road ahead stretched toward a small, isolated cottage nestled between barren trees. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney—their destination.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Cathleen glanced back. “The man we saved said we could rest at his home for a few days. He owed us his life.”

Geralt grunted in response. His entire body still ached, and though he would never admit it, rest sounded like a damn good idea.

Cathleen’s hand slipped from his hair, moving to press lightly against his chest. “I need you to promise me something.”

Geralt raised a brow.

She glared. “The next time you get bitten by some rotting undead piece of shit, you—” She took a breath. “You won’t almost die.”

He smirked. “I’ll try.”

Cathleen punched his shoulder.

Geralt groaned. “Fuck, woman—”

“That’s for making me cry, you asshole.”

He sighed, but there was no heat in it.

Geralt had never been good with words. Never knew how to say the things that truly mattered. But as he let himself sink against her warmth, as her fingers curled softly around his own, he figured he didn’t have to. She already knew.

When the cart came to a stop, neither Geralt nor Cathleen paid much mind to the couple reuniting. Instead, they cleaned his wound and bound some linen around it.

“This should hold,” Cathleen muttered just as the woman next to the cart said,

“I met a girl.” Both their hands froze, their gazes locking, eyes wide. Suddenly, Cathleen shuddered and her head whipped around. Her magic…

Without saying a word, they slipped from the cart. Geralt barely registered the ache in his leg as he followed Cathleen into the forest. The world around him—trees swaying in the wind, leaves crunching beneath their boots, the distant calls of the couple they had left behind—blurred into insignificance.

He wasn’t thinking. He was feeling.

Cathleen’s magic was pulling her forward, guiding her through the undergrowth as if some unseen hand had grabbed her by the ribs and yanked her toward something unseen. Someone unseen.

But it wasn’t just her anymore. Geralt felt it, too.

It wasn’t as sharp, not as precise as Cathleen’s magic, but it was there—a pull. A thread deep in his chest, tightening with every step.

Familiar. Foreign.

He had spent years ignoring the weight of destiny, spitting in its face whenever it reared its head. And yet—here he was. Walking toward it. Toward her.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

The trees thickened around them, the scents of damp earth, rotting leaves, and the distant sting of blood curling in his nose. Geralt’s steps slowed. His shoulders tensed.

Then— The pull snapped. Vanished.

Geralt and Cathleen stopped at the same time, confusion flashing between them as the forest turned silent.

Nothing. No magic, no guiding force. Just the rustle of leaves, the hush of the wind—

And then—footsteps. Fast. Desperate.

His body moved before his mind caught up, turning sharply toward the sound, toward the ragged breaths and pounding heart of someone running.

A flash of ashen hair.

A small figure, darting through the trees, stumbling over roots and pushing forward. His heart lurched.

And then, she saw him.

Ciri. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow down.

She ran. Straight to him.

Geralt barely had time to exhale before she collided into him, her arms wrapping around his middle in a tight, desperate grip. He staggered back half a step, his hands catching her shoulders on instinct.

And then he felt it.

Her scent hit him first—beneath the dirt, sweat, and dried blood, she smelled of something uniquely hers. Faint traces of elder blossoms and pine, wind and earth, like she belonged to the open sky itself. Like she belonged to him.

Her heartbeat thundered, fast and erratic, pressing against his ribs where she clung to him. His own chest tightened, an unfamiliar weight settling in his throat as he let his arms come around her, careful at first. Then tighter.

“People linked by destiny,” Cathleen murmured next to him, her voice quiet but certain, “will always find each other.”

Geralt closed his eyes, burying his face into the crown of Ciri’s matted hair.

Not a burden. Not a mistake.

She shuddered in his arms, fingers clutching the back of his shirt, holding on like she thought he might disappear.

Geralt tightened his hold, steadying her.