Sword of Vengeance (Bjorn and Zyro #2)[COMPLETED]

3: Forged in Blood and Passion

The room was dimly lit, the quiet hum of the city outside barely audible through the old windows. Bjorn sat at the edge of the bed, his back slightly slouched as he stared out into the night. Conrad leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching him. There was a strange tension in the room—something that had been growing between them for weeks now, but neither of them had fully acknowledged it until tonight.

"Tell me again," Conrad broke the silence, his voice low but curious. "About the vampires and the werewolves. The real history, not the twisted versions we hear."

Bjorn looked up, his amber eyes flickering with the weight of centuries of knowledge. He motioned for Conrad to join him on the bed, and after a brief pause, Conrad complied, sitting next to him, close enough that their knees brushed.

"The real story isn't the one written in books," Bjorn began, his voice soft, as if dredging up memories he had tried to bury. "It goes back to when the world was still wild—when vampires and werewolves weren't enemies but allies. They fought alongside each other against demons, against forces that threatened the supernatural balance."

Conrad nodded, listening intently. He could feel the gravity of the conversation pulling him closer to Bjorn, not just physically but emotionally. "What changed?"

Bjorn's eyes darkened. "Vanong," he said bitterly. "Vanong despised the wolves. He believed that they were too primal, too unpredictable. When his son, Juanito, fell in love with a werewolf woman... he couldn't take it. He killed her and started the war. Vampires and werewolves haven't trusted each other since."

Conrad swallowed, feeling the weight of that history on his own shoulders. "And now, we're part of this same cycle. The Ghost Alpha... me."

Bjorn's gaze softened as he looked at Conrad. "You didn't ask for this, any of it. And yet, you're here. Right in the middle of it all." He reached out, his fingers brushing against Conrad's hand, lingering there for a moment. "You have no idea how much power you hold, Conrad. Not just because of your bloodline, but because of who you are."

Conrad's breath hitched at Bjorn's touch. The air between them shifted, the tension that had been simmering under the surface bubbling up. "Bjorn..."

The history lesson seemed to melt away as something deeper, more primal, took its place. Bjorn's eyes locked onto Conrad's, a heat rising between them that had little to do with the past and everything to do with the present.

Without thinking, Conrad closed the distance between them, his lips crashing into Bjorn's with a sudden, hungry need. Bjorn responded immediately, his hands slipping around Conrad's neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was desperate, fueled by the weight of their shared burdens and the desire for release—something neither of them had allowed themselves until now.

Conrad's hands roamed Bjorn's back, fingers gripping his shirt before pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The feel of Bjorn's skin against his sent a shiver down his spine, igniting something wild and unrestrained inside him. Bjorn groaned softly as Conrad's mouth moved down his neck, tasting his skin, marking him.

Conrad made Bjorn's shirt torn off. He caught him by the waist, pressing his body against his. Bjorn positioned himself on Conrad's lap.  Conrad licked Bjorn's nipple, playing it with his tongue. 

A soft moan escaped from Bjorn's lip. He pressed himself sweetly to him. Conrad flared every fire inside him.

They tumbled back onto the bed, bodies entwined, as the world outside faded away. For a moment, it was just them—no war, no history, no supernatural politics—just the raw connection of two people who had been circling each other for far too long.

Bjorn's hands slipped under Conrad's shirt, his touch sending sparks of electricity through his body. The sensation of skin on skin was intoxicating, each touch a promise of something more.

Conrad sat down, spreading his legs slightly as Bjorn slid his hand down the rejection inside his shorts. He began jacking off his shaft and he took off his short. 

Taking a full view of his penis, Bjorn slowly moved forward, licking the head as Conrad let out a soft moan.  He swirled his tongue around the shaft. He didn't want to make Conrad come yet. So, their lips met again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if they were savoring the taste of each other.

"Conrad," Bjorn breathed, his voice husky with desire. "Are you sure?"

Conrad's eyes darkened with need as he pressed his forehead against Bjorn's. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

What followed was a blur of heated kisses, whispered promises, and the slow, deliberate rhythm of two people finally giving in to everything they had been holding back. Their movements were a dance, one born from the tension of battle and the intimacy of shared trauma. They explored each other, every touch a claim, every breath a reminder of how fragile and powerful they were.

When it was over, they lay entangled in the sheets, bodies still glistening with sweat, hearts pounding in sync. The room was silent except for their heavy breathing, and yet, the connection between them was louder than any words they could speak.

Bjorn turned to Conrad, his hand resting on the other's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.