It was impossible to remain cold and distant under such fervent ardor, and Bran almost thought he could hear the roar of a forest fire in the thunderous rush of his pulse that made blood and passion alike race through his veins.

The sound he made was one of surrender, but not defeat. He was giving in, not giving up.

All right, let life claim him for a while longer if this was to be part of it, perhaps it might even actually be worth it. Perhaps this was enough to warrant further existence.

His fingers buried themselves in Tybalt's hair as he felt and tasted and arched against that lithe body that could move with such deadly grace.

It might well be the death of him in this moment.