Set directly after Rook. Anders/Bethany, with perhaps a hint of Justice/Bethany? Set in the Snare series.
It was worrisome, he'd realise later, that he didn't notice the clinic door open until his unexpected guest was standing by his elbow, politely clearing her throat in the quiet. Vigilance wasn't just for proper Wardens, and Anders had been hunted long and often enough to have a bit of an aversion to being snuck up on.
"Maferath's balls," he hissed, quill scratching across the paper he'd been pouring over, destroying a half-page of arguments regarding the use of the Harrowing. Craning around in his chair, Anders regarded his young (and lovely, Maker, so lovely) visitor, keeping his expression as neutral as possible considering the fright she'd given him (and the inappropriate thoughts she gave him on a near daily basis). Stripped down to his shirtsleeves, his coat discarded before he'd sat down to write, Anders felt strangely exposed. "What— Bethany? Is everything all right?"
"Oh, I'm sorry—" She was a flurry of movement, leaning over him with shapely arms reaching and ample breasts nearly spilling out of her soft white shirt, and Anders swallowed back a groan at the scent that filled his nostrils. Sweet soap with a hint of lemons, fresh air and sunlight, and some other warm, womanly fragrance that he was damnably sure wasn't bought from a shop, but was simply her. He felt the Fade tug, the stir of Justice in the back of his mind, as Bethany called up a small blast of ice to freeze the ink he hadn't even realised he'd spilled, righting the bottle with her elegant fingers.
Gathering up his mess of papers while he sat staring like a slack-jawed idiot, Bethany studied the ruined page, biting her bottom lip. Her plush, pink bottom lip—
Stop it.
"I'll recopy it," she said suddenly, setting all the papers at the corner of his table, safely away from the frozen trickle of ink. He'd have to pry that off the wood in a moment. "First thing tomorrow, or right now if you want. I'm so sorry."
In this, as in everything she did, she was just so bloody earnest and honest. It made parts of him sit up and take notice— parts that he never imagined would notice anything of the sort. It was difficult enough trying to keep his weak, human side in check, but now his other half was becoming strangely enamoured as well. It was… challenging.
"It's nothing." He smiled, realising too late that smiling would simply encourage her to return the expression, with those big, chocolate eyes twinkling. Bugger. "No harm done. You saved the rest from the rubbish bin, anyway, so we'll call it even." Tearing his gaze away from her face, Anders focused on easing just enough force magic under the frozen ink to lift it, without shattering the ice or staining his fingers. It was a delicate procedure, and it gave him an excuse to look anywhere but at her, without seeming rude about it. For a moment or two, at least— plenty of time to collect himself.
"Is everything all right?" he repeated, balling up the floating black ice in a spare rag and tossing it aside to melt. "You're here late."
Swishing her skirts absently— no robes for Miss Bethany Amell, ordinary Hightown lady, or any staff either— Bethany rested one hip against the edge of the table, and the softening of her expression to something decidedly affectionate set bells of warning ringing between his ears. "We were having a discussion today, before my brother nosed in. You promised we'd finish it."
That earlier discussion had nearly frayed his self-control to the breaking point, faced with Bethany's determined arguments and soft, willing body leaning close, pressing against him until his hands came up, entirely instinctively, to draw her closer still—
"I did say that," he agreed, a tad hoarsely. Earnest, honest, and tenacious… the affection he held for this remarkable woman scorched him down to his soul, making him ache with the burn of it. "I also said I don't want to hurt you. I can't be the man you deserve, Bethany."
Of all the things he expected to follow his admittedly half-hearted but well-meant excuse, a kick to the shin wasn't on the list.
"Ow, bugger—" She didn't kick hard, but it was enough to smart, and make Anders flinch back. Rather than look at all apologetic, Bethany folded her arms under her breasts, frowning.
"Is it at all possible, even once in my entire life, to let me decide what's best for me? Even once? Maker, have you been taking coddle Bethany lessons from Callum?"
Coddle, cuddle, curling up with her, warm and soft and safe—
Stop it. She would never be safe with you, with us—
Blinking back the rush of thoughts, Anders rubbed his fingers against his forehead, feeling the stirring of a significant ache beginning between his brows. "That's not it at all. You… Bethany, you know what I am. You're the only one in this blighted city who does. Do you understand how dangerous that is?"
"You're a man who tried to help a friend." Her hand on his shoulder made him flinch even more than her shoe bruising his shin had, but Bethany held on, her fingers sliding up just enough to brush the skin of his neck. It was utterly torturous, sending sparks skittering down his nerves. "A good man, who showed me that my magic is truly not a curse, but a blessing. A caring, passionate man who all but kills himself to give all he has and more to others, asking nothing in return." She paused, glancing away into the dark clinic, and Anders felt his cheeks heat, humbled by her belief in him. "You… You're the man I've grown to love, Anders, for good or ill."
Oh by Andraste's flaming pyre, she said it. Even in his most painful, blissful dreams of quiet cottages, beautiful dark-haired babes, and sweet, lazy mornings of lovemaking, he'd never dared to say that.
Maker strike him dead, he couldn't stop himself from moving.
"Bethany—" When he stood, chair toppling over carelessly behind him, Bethany gasped. He was kissing her before his mind caught up, tangling his hand in her long, black hair, just as silky as he'd imagined. Her lips were so damned soft, so plush and welcoming as they opened for him, and she tasted like summer.
He could drown in her, content to die wrapped in nothing but her scent and her taste, her touch overwhelming his senses to the point of madness.
Her fingers squeezed the back of his neck, clinging as he bent to her. It was no great strain to lift her petite body that short distance to sit on the table, but then her legs wrapped around his hips, trapping him close— too close— and everything was happening too fast.
"Stop," he gasped, breaking away from her eager mouth with great strength of will. His skin felt too tight, and the idea that Justice was right there, not sinking deep into his consciousness as he ought to, made this entire mistake all the harder to correct.
Aren't you meant to keep me honest, you useless fucking prat?
"This will be a disaster." The complaint didn't sound nearly firm enough, which was almost funny, considering how firm he was quickly becoming with such a perfect, nubile young woman pressed tight against him.
"I want you," Bethany said breathily, fluttering kisses against his jaw, as if want was enough to make this less of a tragedy-in-waiting. "I love you, Anders."
He whined wordlessly, dropping his head until his face was cradled in the crook of her neck, rubbing his nose against the thrumming pulse he found there. "Sweetheart, you must stop saying that when I'm trying to be sensible. Please."
Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, and he could feel all good intentions crumbling out of his grasp, like stone turned to sand. "I will never stop saying it," she whispered. "Never. I love you."
Never.
He would test that promise, he was utterly certain, and the thought broke his heart. But for now, for this moment, Anders allowed the warmth of her words to curl in his chest like the most soothing healing magic imaginable, filling him up. He couldn't… he couldn't go on without this. Not anymore.
"Forgive me," he said softly, wrapping both arms around her back and drawing her impossibly closer, pillowing his head over her heart. "I love you, so very much. Maker, how I love you."
He had nothing left, not an ounce of resistance. When her fingers lifted his chin, pulling him gently into another sweet, tender kiss, he went willingly.
Damned, but willingly.
