Ciri's Crimson Cravings

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless assault on the decrepit cabin nestled deep in the cursed forests of Kaedwen. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint metallic tang of blood. A single fire flickered in the hearth, casting jagged shadows across the walls, as if the darkness itself was dancing with the storm outside. The roof creaked ominously under the downpour, threatening to give way at any moment.

Ciri shoved the door open with her shoulder, the wood groaning in protest as she stumbled inside. Her ashen hair clung to her face, soaked and streaked with mud, while blood trickled down her thigh, seeping through the torn leather of her armor. Her emerald eyes burned with a mix of exhaustion and fury—she’d just carved her way through a pack of ghouls, and the bastards had gotten a few good swipes in before she sent them back to whatever hell they crawled out of. Her sword, still clutched in her hand, dripped with ichor, the blade catching the firelight as she scanned the room.

She wasn’t alone.

Sprawled in the cabin’s only chair, one leg slung over the armrest, was a man she hadn’t expected to see—or wanted to. Jack, a mercenary with a reputation for trouble and a smirk that could charm a harpy, sat nursing a bottle of what smelled like the cheapest ale in the Northern Kingdoms. His dark hair was tousled, a fresh bruise blooming under his left eye, and his leather vest hung open, revealing a chest crisscrossed with old scars. He looked like he’d been dragged through a tavern brawl and lost. Badly.

“Well, well,” Jack drawled, his voice a lazy purr as he tilted the bottle in a mock toast. “If it isn’t the Lioness of Cintra herself, gracing this shithole with her royal presence. What’s the matter, princess? Lose a fight with a mud puddle?”

Ciri’s jaw tightened, her grip on her sword twitching. She kicked the door shut behind her, the slam echoing through the cabin, and stomped over to the fire, ignoring the throbbing pain in her leg. “Move,” she barked, glaring down at him. “Or I’ll carve that smirk off your face and use it as a coaster.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, unfazed, and took a slow, deliberate swig of his ale. “Oh, come now, love. There’s plenty of room on the floor. Or, if you’re feeling friendly, my lap’s open for business.” He patted his thigh with a wicked grin, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief.

“You’re a pig,” Ciri snapped, dropping her sword against the wall with a clatter. She towered over him, her presence commanding despite the blood and grime. “I’m not in the mood for your tavern-rat charm, Jack. Get up, or I’ll drag you out into the storm myself.”

He chuckled, leaning back in the chair as if he owned the damn place. “Tavern rat, eh? That’s rich, coming from a princess with a stick so far up her arse she could pass for a flagpole. Tell me, does that fancy Elder Blood of yours come with a sense of humor, or did they skip that part?”

Ciri’s lips curled into a sneer, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. She crossed her arms, her posture rigid, though the pain in her leg made her wince slightly. “Keep talking, mercenary. I’ll enjoy watching you choke on that ale when I shove the bottle down your throat.”

Jack grinned wider, swinging his legs off the armrest and sitting up, though he made no move to vacate the chair. “Promises, promises. But fine, I’ll play nice. You’re bleeding all over the floor, by the way. Care to sit before you keel over and ruin my evening?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, dropping heavily onto the edge of the chair’s armrest, close enough that their thighs brushed. The contact sent a jolt through her, one she promptly ignored. “I’ve had worse,” she muttered, peeling back the torn leather to inspect the gash on her thigh. It wasn’t deep, but it stung like a bitch.

Jack tilted his head, watching her with an intensity that belied his casual tone. “Looks nasty. Need a hand, or are you too proud to let a lowly rat touch you?”

“I can handle it,” she shot back, though her fingers fumbled with the makeshift bandage she’d started to wrap. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her hands shakier than she’d like.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, then leaned over to rummage through a battered pack by his feet, pulling out a strip of cloth and a small jar of salve. “But I’ve got steady hands and a knack for fixing pretty things. Your call, princess.”

Ciri glared at him, but after a moment, she relented with a huff, shoving the bandage at him. “Fine. But if you try anything, I’ll gut you faster than you can blink.”

Jack’s smirk returned as he took the cloth, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Well, maybe a little.” He winked, then knelt in front of her, his hands surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound. His touch lingered, warm against her skin, and she caught her breath, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Stop dawdling,” she growled, though her voice lacked its earlier bite. “And don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late for that,” he murmured, his breath hot against her thigh as he worked. “Ideas are all I’ve got, especially with a view like this.”

Her hand twitched toward her dagger, but she restrained herself, instead opting for a sharp retort. “Keep your eyes on the wound, not my legs, or I’ll give you a matching bruise on the other side of your face.”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the small space between them. “Fair enough. But you’ve got to admit, we make a hell of a pair—two battered idiots hiding from the rain in a cabin that’s one gust away from collapsing.”

Ciri snorted, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Speak for yourself. I’m only here because I didn’t feel like sleeping in a ghoul’s nest. What’s your excuse? Lose another bounty?”

Jack’s smirk faltered for a split second, but he recovered quickly, tying off the bandage with a flourish. “Let’s just say the bastard got away. For now. But I’ll get him. Always do.” He stood, brushing off his knees, and handed her the jar of salve. “Your turn. I’ve got a cut on my back that needs tending. Unless you’re too high and mighty to help a poor, wounded soul?”

She arched a brow, taking the jar with a skeptical look. “Turn around, then. And don’t whine if I’m not gentle.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, peeling off his vest and shirt with a wince, revealing a shallow but bloody slash across his shoulder blade. Ciri moved behind him, her fingers cool against his skin as she applied the salve, her touch firm but not unkind. She could feel the heat of him, the way his muscles tensed under her hands, and it sent an unexpected thrill through her.

“You’re softer than I expected,” Jack teased, glancing over his shoulder. “Careful, princess. I might start thinking you like me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, though her lips twitched into a smirk. “I just don’t want you bleeding out before I can prove I’m better than you at… everything.”

He turned to face her, his shirt still off, and the firelight played across the hard lines of his chest. “Is that a challenge? Because I’ve got a bottle of ale and a long night ahead. Bet I can outdrink you before the storm lets up.”

Ciri laughed, a sharp, biting sound that filled the cabin. “You’re on, mercenary. But don’t cry when I drink you under the table.”

They settled by the fire, passing the bottle back and forth, their jabs and insults growing sloppier with each swig. “You fight like a drunk bear,” she taunted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“And you swing that sword like you’re trying to impress a crowd,” he fired back, his grin lopsided as he leaned closer. “Admit it, though. You’re having fun.”

She didn’t answer, but the glint in her eyes said enough. The ale burned down her throat, loosening the walls she’d built around herself, and when their hands brushed reaching for the bottle, neither pulled away. The air between them crackled, heavy with something more than just banter.

It was Jack who broke first, his voice low and rough. “You’re trouble, Ciri. The kind I can’t stay away from.”

She met his gaze, her own eyes dark with a hunger she hadn’t expected. “Good. Because I don’t play nice.”

Their lips crashed together in a desperate, bruising kiss, all teeth and heat, fueled by the adrenaline of survival and the raw edge of desire. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into skin, while his slid to her waist, pulling her closer. The storm raged outside, but inside, something fiercer was brewing—a fire that promised to consume them both before the night was through.