Your breath catches in your throat.

Your body remembers the bruxa's spell, the forbidden desire it had awakened.

“Ciri,” you growl, turning away, your voice rougher than you intend. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

She chuckles softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Relax, Geralt,” she said, approaching you. “It’s just me.”

“I can see that,” you mutter, your eyes fixed on the chipped paint of the wall.

“You don’t have to be so gruff, you know,” she says gently. “It’s not your fault. It was the bruxa’s doing.”

You close your eyes, the shame washing over you anew.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

Witchers might not be able to feel emotions like humans, but Ciri wasn’t just any human.

She was a Source, her senses far sharper than any ordinary person's.

She places a hand on your shoulder, her touch light and comforting. “It’s okay, Geralt,” she whispers. “It’s over now. The spell is broken.”

Your jaw clenches.

The spell might be broken, but the feelings it had unearthed lingered, a dark seed of doubt planted in your heart.

Had those feelings always been there, buried beneath layers of denial?

Was it possible that you had harbored a forbidden attraction to Ciri even before the bruxa’s enchantment?

You grab your dice cup, shaking it violently as if to silence the questions swirling in your mind.

The sharp clatter of the dice against the leather echoed in the small room, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the oil lamp and the soft rustle of Ciri’s towel.

“Geralt,” she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know what you’re going through.”

You pause, your hand hovering over the dice cup. “You can’t possibly know,” you retort, your voice tight with suppressed emotion.

“Can’t I?” she challenged, stepping closer. “You think I haven’t felt it too?”

The dice cup slips from your grasp, clattering onto the table as the dice scattered across the worn wood.

You turn to face her, your heart pounding in your chest. “Felt what?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

Ciri’s eyes meet yours, her gaze steady and unwavering.

“The attraction,” she confessed, her voice barely louder than a breath. “The desire. It’s not just you, Geralt. I’ve felt it too.”

Your mind reels, the world seeming to tilt on its axis.

It couldn’t be true.

Ciri is my ward, my responsibility, my... daughter. You can't… you won't allow yourself to feel this way.

“Ciri, you’re mistaken,” you say, your voice harsh, your denial instinctive. “You’re young, confused. This is just the after-effects of the spell.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her face, but it quickly vanishes, replaced by a gentle smile. “I’m not a child anymore, Geralt,” she says softly. “I know what I feel.”

You reach for the scattered dice, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated.

One slips from your grasp, rolling off the table and disappearing under the bed.

Ciri chuckled, the sound surprisingly lighthearted.

“You can’t hide your feelings from me, Geralt of Rivia,” she teased. “Not even with a game of gwent.”

A sudden shift in the air crackled with a tension that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Without warning, Ciri walks over to the bed and lays down, her eyes never leaving yours.

Then she lets the towel fall away.

"Come here, Geralt," she beckons, her voice low and husky. "It's time we stopped pretending."

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

You try to speak, to protest, but the words catch in your throat.

Your body, however, responds instinctively, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, your movements jerky and slow.

Ciri watches you approach, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Relax," she murmurs. "I won't bite."

You reach the edge of the bed, your gaze fixed on her.

She reaches out, her hand brushing against your arm, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

"You know," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "I've been doing some reading. About witchers. and mutations."

Your breath hitched. "Ciri, what are you talking about?"

Her smile widened. "There might be a way," she said, her voice filled with a tantalizing hint of promise. "A way for you to have children. After all..."

The air in the room crackled with unspoken possibilities.

Your mind raced, trying to grasp the implications of her words.

Could it be true? Was there a chance, however slim, that you could overcome the supposed sterility of witchers?

You open your mouth to speak, but Ciri raises a finger to your lips, silencing you. "Don't say a word," she whispers. "Just come here."

Ciri leads you to the bed, your hands intertwined.

She pulls you down beside her, your bodies meeting, charged with unspoken desire.

Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now hold a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

"You've been like a father to me, Geralt," she says, her voice a soft caress against your skin. "I love you so much... more than you perhaps understand."

You gaze into her eyes, the emerald depths mirroring your own turmoil.

You see not the girl you had raised, but a woman, strong, passionate, and undeniably beautiful.

Your heart, long hardened by a lifetime of monster slaying, swells with a love you had never dared to imagine.

"That's why..." she continues, "I want you to be my first. I want you inside of me tonight. Please, Geralt..."

Your heart pounding, you lean closer, until your lips are a whisper apart.

The air crackles with anticipation, the promise of a love that could shatter the chains of your past.

And in that moment, as your lips finally meet, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, bound together by a love that has finally found its voice.

---