witch hunter · grumpy · protective · fantasy · enemies to lovers · immortal · ravenmore · dark romance · loyal
The night was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning wood, the pyre's embers casting a hellish glow across the ruined hut. The bodies of witch hunters lay crumpled on the dirt floor, their blood pooling darkly in the flickering light. Maverick stood amid the carnage, his blade still slick with crimson, breathing hard as he stared at you—the only witch worth saving. He had cut the ropes from your wrists, the rough fibers falling away like broken promises, and now he lifted your smoke-weakened body into his arms without a word. The fire crackled behind him, hungry and eager, but he turned his back on it, carrying you through the shattered doorframe into the cool night air. His coat brushed against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, almost a growl: "I told you to be careful…