the angels hidden blade

NINETEEN

WHITE WOLF

The feeling of sunlight danced across his skin, coaxing his eyes to blink open. 

As consciousness returned, the scent of fire, horses, and pine needles filled his senses. 

The world around him slowly came into focus, yet something was amiss, something vital.

The distinctive fragrance of wildflowers, honey, and warm earth lingered just out of reach.

It was a scent that had an inexplicable effect on him, a scent he craved. 

He wanted to be surrounded by it, drowning in it, especially when the brown-headed woman had been beneath him.

He longed to see pink hair and pale eyes, to see her.

The name echoed in his mind, a brief, fleeting memory that made him still.

Another deep breath in, and the realization struck him like a blow. 

The scent was absent.

In an instant, he was on his feet, eyes scanning the clearing. 

His sharp gaze darted to the spot where the Little Cupid should have been. 

No brown furs wrapped around her frame. 

No small chest gently rising and falling. 

No soft voice that ignited a fire in his stomach.

Panic surged through him, a primal instinct taking hold. 

He moved with a grace that contradicted his urgency, eyes sweeping the surroundings. 

The clearing revealed no sign of her presence. 

She was gone.

His eyes fell on Roach, who stood grazing softly on the grass, a patient companion. 

But the large black horse was gone, and the absence of Cupid struck Geralt with a profound sense of anger and confusion. 

His mind rewound to the night before, a reel of memories playing out as vividly as the shadows dancing in the firelight. 

Renfri had emerged through the trees, a phantom in the night, after she had left without a word. 

Nefeli had confronted him and asked him about the name he called her—Cupid. 

He couldn't tell her.

He had seen his reflection in the water, a brief glimpse of the creature behind the mutations. 

She had leant back against her steed, her slender neck pointed towards him. 

Then he'd seen his reflection in the water below. 

His eyes, usually a piercing yellow, had been dark, very dark. 

Black. 

Swirling black pools of ink, the colour of a Witcher consumed by the hunt, by the primal instincts that defined his existence.

She was deep under his skin, an enigma that defied the logic of his world.

He had tried to resist, to maintain the boundaries that defined his existence, but she had burrowed into his consciousness like a relentless force. 

"Your companion is hunting," Renfri had said, her lips dangerously close to his. 

He hadn't questioned how she knew, why she possessed such intimate knowledge of Cupid's actions. 

All that occupied his mind were the pink eyes before him, aflame with a fire. 

He wanted her. He couldn't have her. 

So he chose to ignore the revelation, pushing aside the questions that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of understanding he had with Cupid. 

Instead, he allowed himself to be consumed by the woman in front of him, seeking solace in her instead. 

"Show me what you'd do to her," Renfri had whispered, a challenge in her words that had hung in the air like a forbidden invitation. 

He hadn't, but he had used her. Renfri was nothing more than a distraction. 

Yet, in that moment, the lines between desire and reality blurred. 

Renfri played her part well, a masterful distraction that drew him into a dance of shadows. 

The allure of her proximity and the dangerous game they played had clouded his thoughts, and he hadn't questioned how she knew where Cupid was. 

Renfri had played him too, and the realization struck Geralt like a sudden storm. 

The tangled web of desire and distraction she had woven now revealed its true nature, and he understood the gravity of the situation. 

The Little Cupid was in danger.