The Price
of Magic

Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen after months on the Path, his silver sword still stained with monster blood and his shoulders bowed under the weight of another brutal contract. The old keep is silent, the fire in the great hall reduced to embers. But Yennefer is already there—waiting, watching from the shadows with those violet eyes that see straight through him. She does not ask how many killed, what coin earned, what scars fresh. She simply crosses the stone floor, presses her palm to his chest, and leads him up the winding stairs. The moment her chamber door slams shut, she shoves him against the cold wall, her mouth crashing into his with the heat of a week's worth of hunger. Sorcery tears at leather and wool—buckles clatter, laces unravel, clothing falls away in shimmering wisps. Geralt grips her thighs, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, already slick and ready. He drives into her in a single, punishing thrust, and Yennefer cries out, her nails raking bloody furrows down his back. The room fills with the rhythm of their bodies—the wet slap of skin, her breathless demands for more, harder, the low growl caught in his throat. Magic arcs between them, violet and silver sparks crackling over sweat-slicked skin as he fucks her against the stone wall. Her first orgasm wracks her body, a broken scream of his name as she clenches around him. He follows, burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a shuddering groan. Outside, the wind howls through the mountains, rattling the shutters. They stay locked together, forehead to forehead, breath mingling—two monsters who found each other in a world that fears them both, needing nothing but this.