You turned back to him and whispered, “You’re insane.” The fond warmth in your voice betrayed you before the words even leave your lips.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his crimson eyes were the only thing in your vision. “I prefer the term captivated.”

His mouth brushed yours in a kiss so brief it felt stolen, a tease rather than a promise. You barely had time to chase it before he eased back, eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of arrogance and affection.

Soft candlelight flickered across the cut of his cheekbones, turning him molten bronze and shadow. He looked sculpted for this moment, built for quiet rooms and devotion rather than the violence that usually wrapped itself around him.

He always commanded a room, ruled everyone and everything as its reigning emperor. And his focus is fixed on only one subject: you.

“Don’t you think this is a little ridiculous?” you asked, smiling and giddy despite yourself. “An entire restaurant just for us? What would you have done if I said no?”

“You wouldn’t have,” he responded without hesitation. “But, hypothetically…” His voice dipping into something playful. “I could have used any of the tricks you pulled on me to get what I wanted.” 

He leaned in again, lips grazing your throat. “After all, I learned from the best when it comes to getting what I want.”

Your breath caught on a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

Sylus reached for your wrist, his thumb gently drawing slow circles over your pulse, each stroke grounding you and claiming you all at once.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said simply, his voice rich and low with warmth. “You’re in my grasp because of meticulous planning, sweetie, and I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

You tilted your head, studying him through your lashes. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” he said proudly, bringing your wrist up to his lips and placing a kiss against your fluttering pulse. “You’ve been out of my reach for too long. I don’t intend to repeat such a torturous experience, kitten.”

Soft footfalls interrupted the warmth between you as a waiter approached, cheeks flushed, eyes lowered. He set down dishes you didn’t even remember ordering, every one of them laid before you like a banquet designed to your tastes. 

You would never have imagined this: sitting across from Sylus Qin, wanted by him, chosen by him. He didn’t just tolerate the darker pieces of you, he held them gently, reverently, like they were precious.

“So what happens now?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “Now that you have me exactly where you wanted me?”

“Now,” he said, voice close and low enough to vibrate through you, “you stop worrying about that shell of a life in Linkon. Your apartment. Your job. All of it. I’ll handle everything.”

The calm certainty of Onychinus’ leader would’ve frightened anyone else. Hell, it should’ve frightened you, the way he spoke as though your life outside this table had already been erased. But you weren’t just anyone.

“What should I be worrying about then?” you asked, quiet but steady.

“Me,” he replied simply. “Only me. And all the ways you plan to keep me happy.” His tone dropped into something dark and honey-thick. “You’ll be with me in Onychinus. No Hunter will ever touch you again.” 

His eyes sharpened, something dangerous stirring behind the crimson. “There were people in your old life who nearly made me lose control.” His thumb brushed over your pulse point on your wrist, slow and possessive. “And I never lose control, sweetie.”

Your lips parted, caught somewhere between a sigh and a smile. “And you think I’ll just sit at home while you get yourself shot at? And what about the women you’ve been entertaining? Should I just smile and accept that? Really, Sylus?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement. “You planning to put a leash on me, sweetie?”

“Maybe I should,” you murmured, leaning in. “Just to make sure you don’t go mingling with little socialites behind my back.”

A real laugh escaped him, unguarded and warm. Nothing like the low, calculated chuckle you’d grown used to. The smile that followed was almost disarming in its brightness. You’d never seen him like this. Months of watching him from the edges of his world, waiting for something to break through that armour, and somehow you were the one he had saved this version of himself for.

The conversation lulled into something soft and unrushed, punctuated only by the quiet clink of silverware and the low hum of the music. For once, it wasn’t strategy or blood or violence filling the space between you. It was laughter, flirtatious shared glances and the occasional brush of his fingers against yours that sent little sparks throughout your skin.

Sylus looked devastatingly at ease, lounging back with the kind of confidence that made the night feel privately his. Which, in a way, it was. With his top shirt button undone and tie hung loose, he looked less like the man who’d gutted people for breathing wrong and more like something dangerously human.

How many times had you longed for this? Imagined this? None of your fantasies had ever come close. The reality of him, warm and laughing within reach, was too much for your imagination to have dared. 

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that wanting him was impossible. That this, him, here, laughing in candlelight like something out of a fevered dream, could never belong to you. 

Yet here he was. Real. Tangible. Close enough to touch. Every detail, from the faint scar at his eye to the trembling edge of his smile, was too vivid to be fantasy.

Affection swelled in your chest so sharply it almost hurt. It pressed up against your ribs, uncontainable, something that felt like a mixture of panic and worship.

Worship was the right word. 

You’d never understood people who surrendered themselves to something unseen. Devotion had always seemed so hollow. Blind faith in something you couldn’t touch, couldn’t taste, couldn’t prove. 

Until Sylus. Now you understood: worship wasn’t belief. It was a surrender. A yielding to something vast and consuming, trusting it to break you beautifully. And god, you’d already given him everything. Your loyalty. Your conscience. Your heart. All of it laid bare at his feet for him to ruin or to cherish. 

Either way, you would be content.

You didn’t know if he realised just how deeply you felt about him. How the beat of your heart tripped and stuttered for him alone. Maybe he did. Maybe that faint knowing smile meant he’d been reading you the entire time, quietly pleased by every tell you failed to hide. 

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice rich with warning and amusement, “I might forget how to behave.”

How long had you been staring at him, you wondered? 

You smiled, swirling the last of your wine in the glass. “Maybe I want you to forget how to behave.”

He stilled, that wicked grin faltering as his gaze darkened. His fingertips brushed the hem of your dress, grazing up the inside of your thigh with a touch so gentle it stole your breath. His knuckles grazed your skin before trailing upward, a featherlight touch that caught your breath and vanished all rational thought from your mind. 

“Careful,” he warned, thumb skimming the warmth inside of your knee. “You don’t know what could happen if you keep tempting me.”

Your pulse stuttered, your body leaning instinctively toward him. “Maybe you should show me.”

His jaw visibly tightened, restraint flashing across his face like pain, the aethercore in his eye glowing bright with thinly veiled desire. The candlelight trembled with the force of it, the sheer will it took for him not to drag you into his lap and surrender to the ruin you both wanted.

“Whoever said the devil is a man,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once, “has clearly never met the sweet temptation of you.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “Temptation’s supposed to be resisted, Sylus. Are you going to resist me?”

He leaned in, his thigh brushing yours beneath the table, voice dropping to a low hum. “Temptation is the quickest route to sinning, kitten,” his voice dropping into a low hum as his fingers trace slow circles higher along your thigh. “And I’ve never been one for restraint.”

Your breath hitched, the words unfurled inside you in a slow, intoxicating burn. His gaze locked on your mouth, wound tight and waiting patiently, just aching to give in.

“Then sin with me,” you whispered.

His lips parted, the ghost of a smile breaking through his restraint. “Just a taste,” he breathed. “For now…”

And then his mouth found yours.

The kiss was slow enough to feel like reverence, deep enough to shatter all thought. His fingers tightened on your thigh, drawing you closer until you nearly spilled off your chair, heat rolling off him in waves that made the room tilt.

He was trembling with the effort of restraint, every line of him tightly coiled, one breath away from breaking the promise he’d made to himself. Your hand rose on its own, fingertips tracing the open edge of his collar finding its way to the smooth skin of his neck. The rapid beat of his pulse sent sparks of electricity through the tips of your fingers, betraying just how affected by the kiss he was.

The door crashing open cleaved the moment apart.

Sylus moved immediately, a predator replacing the man.

A Hunter stood in the doorway, his gun pointing threateningly at the two of you. 

The insignia of the Association stood out on the hunter’s shoulder, the silver metal catching the light like a scar. His black uniform was crisp, his stance too self-assured for someone who had just walked into hell. His face was a cloud of darkness as he called out Sylus’s name like a curse, venomous and prideful.

You quickly rose, pulse hammering, the taste of Sylus still tingling your lips. Sylus shifted slightly, placing himself between you and the intruder, a cold precision instantly sliding into place.

“Sylus Qin,” the hunter barked, “you’re under arrest.”

You blinked. This pathetic man was who dared interrupt your night? This soft-skinned idiot? You almost laughed. This scrawny hunter was nothing more than an irritant, a smudge on what had been a beautifully perfect evening. 

Sylus didn’t flinch. The only sign of irritation was the tightening in his jaw and a quiet calculation behind his eyes. Then he laughed, amused and utterly unbothered.

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that line?” he asked, brushing a speck of dust from his cuff. “And yet… here I am.”

The hunter, god, you couldn’t even remember this imbecile’s name, hesitated. The barrel of his gun wavered slightly as his gaze flicked between the two of you. 

The date was over.

And the idiot didn’t even realise he had just signed his own death certificate.

Sylus appeared to relax even more, smoothing out an invisible crease from his cuff. He was the picture of lethal refinement, sighing before stepping around the table, the movement drawing the hunter’s full attention. 

“You’re interrupting something very important,” he said, sounding almost bored. “So let’s skip the theatrics. Name your price.”

The hunter blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Sylus tilted his head, crimson eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms. “Everything has a price. Integrity. Loyalty. Ambition most of all.”

The hunter stiffened, the grip on his gun tightening.

“I don’t know what you think you’re implying-”

“Don’t you have a sick child at home?” Sylus continued. “A little boy. Seven. A respiratory disorder the doctors still can’t identify. The Association insurance will never be able to cover the treatment. His lungs are rapidly deteriorating.”

“Shut up,” the hunter snapped and even dared to look shocked. His voice cracked, “Y-you don’t get to talk about my family.”

Sylus lifted a brow. “I can make sure he gets the treatment he needs.” He took a step forward, still blocking you from the hunter’s sight. “Effectively, I have the power to get him to specialists you’ve never even heard of. Your son can live a normal life.” 

Silence dropped into the room like a stone hitting deep water. 

“I’ll fund it personally. Full treatment. Private facility. No bills. If he ever relapses, I will pay for it again. All you need to do is walk out that door right now and tell the Association that you know nothing.”

Maybe it wasn’t the best time for it, but god, Sylus looked unbearably attractive like this. Entirely in his element, commanding the room with ruthless precision. Every angle of him sharpened into purpose, every word a calculated path toward victory.

Any sane man would have taken the offer. Only an idiot would believe his badge outweighed a child’s life.

A wrinkle forming between the hunter’s brows told the story of a conscience tiptoeing between the Association and his family. “You think I am going to give up the biggest arrest of my career for a bribe?” the hunter shouted, gripping onto his gun a little tighter.

Sylus blinked once, a perfect brow raising in disbelief. “Saving your son isn’t a bribe. It’s mercy.”

“You want me to give up too much,” the hunter spat. “Once the Association sees that I’m the one who brings you in, I will have everything. A higher rank. The highest medal. A desk job far from fieldwork. That is worth more to my family in the long run.”

“More than his health?” Sylus asked quietly. “More than his life?”

“He’ll manage,” the hunter spat.

A low, incredulous sound slipped from Sylus, something bordering on a laugh with none of the warmth. “So you’ll sacrifice your son,” he said, “but not your ego.”

The hunter bristled. “Shut your mouth. And move away from-”

He finally saw you.

His expression curdled.

“…Y/N?”

Fuck. 

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse hammered in your veins. The situation had just transformed into something far worse.

“What the hell are you doing with him?” the hunter snarled. “After everything the Association did for you?” His lip curled. “Tenebra.”

The word hit like venom. He could have called you anything but tenebra had always been a blade sharpened for betrayal. One word and your entire reputation turned to ash. Tenebra. 

After everything you had sacrificed for the Hunter Association. Every mission where you nearly died. Every civilian you had pulled out of danger. Was falling in love really the crime that erased all of that?

Your eyes moved to Sylus. His expression was unreadable apart from the dark fire in his gaze. The aether core in his eye glowed brighter, locked entirely on you. Waiting for your choice.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” you murmured.

The hunter raised his gun again, finger trembling on the trigger. “Y/N L/N, you are under arrest and you will come with m-”

You moved first.

You kicked the table up on its side and drew your gun in one smooth motion. Bullets ricocheted as you fired toward the hunter, the room exploding into violence before he even processed that you were coming for him.

Sylus moved behind you like a shifting shadow. The two of you fought as if the choreography had been etched into your bones.

You kicked the gun out of the hunter’s hand. Sylus caught the hunter’s wrist and twisted. 

You swept the hunter’s legs. Sylus punched him into a nearby column.

You slammed your gun into the hunter’s jaw. Sylus drove an elbow into his sternum. 

A perfect duet in brutality.

The hunter staggered, blood spilling from his nose as his knees buckled. Sylus wrenched one arm behind the hunter’s back until it bent at an angle that should never exist.

All traces of the hunter’s earlier arrogance had been beaten out of him, his face dripping with blood from his busted nose and lip. 

“You won’t get away with this,” he spat, a mix of spit and blood splattered across your shoes.

“Oh, really?” Sylus replied, twisting his arm on the ground until another broken wheeze tore from the man’s throat.

“The Association is already coming. I called for backup. Once they arrive, neither of you will get out of here.” He coughed and a tooth clattered onto the marble floor, the sound echoing in the ruined quiet.

“Then we’ll deal with them when they get here,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady given the turn of events.

“Y-you’re not scared of what they’ll do to you?” his voice trembling as the reality of the situation finally settled in.

You grinned, sharp and unhinged, crouching down to pinch his chin between your fingers, forcing his trembling gaze to meet your cold eyes.

“Why should I be scared of them when I have Sylus Qin protecting me? Do you honestly think he would let anything happen to me?” 

You looked up and met Sylus’s gaze over the hunter’s shoulder. Something silent and electric passed between you before you rose to your full height, blood staining your dress and heels.

“W-wait!” the hunter begged, his voice turned frantic, with no trace of his earlier pride. “Don’t do this! I won’t tell them you were here, Y/N!” 

His earlier ambition was gone. He looked terrified.

“Please-” His hands lifted, blood-stained palms open. “Please, please, don’t. I… I have a family.”

Sylus made a soft, almost pitying sound. “Amazing,” he said, voice smooth, “how quickly you found your humanity once you realised you lost.”

The hunter sobbed. “I’ll walk away. I’ll disappear. I swear. Just… let me live. Let me-”

You tilted your head, studying him the way one studies something filthy clinging to the underside of a boot. “You didn’t care enough to save your own son. Why should we care enough to save you?”

His breath stuttered. “P-please.”

“His voice is so irritating,” you said to Sylus.

Sylus’s dark, pride-soaked smile unfurled slowly as he looked up at you.

“Do it, sweetie,” he encouraged.

You didn’t hesitate.

One clean, point-blank shot.

The sound split the quiet restaurant, a soft thud of bone and flesh collapsed. Blood and brain matter bloomed across the marble like a violent flower.

For a heartbeat, it didn’t register that you’d just shot your colleague in the face. The echo was distant and bright, reminding you of the first time you’d killed for Sylus. That panic and spiralling guilt had been so all-consuming back then.

But now? 

Now there was nothing. No remorse or horror. Just the simple, startling truth of it.

It was so easy. It felt right.

The room folded back into itself, sharp and vivid, the taste of copper and relief sliding warm across your tongue.

Silence followed, warm and thick and strangely intimate.

Sylus knelt at your feet, looking up at you like you’d paved the world in gold. He reached for you, blood and brain matter streaked across his cheek, and a dazed smile on his face that was full of unhinged devotion.

“Kitten,” he whispered, gently holding the palm of your hand in his. Awe burning through every word. “I’ve never wanted you more.”

Reality crashed down cold and merciless.

The watch on the dead hunter’s wrist blared to life with notifications and alarms, faint, mechanical, and unmistakably Association-issued.

You stiffened. Sylus’s gaze snapped to yours, recognition sparking between you. Panic.

That sound meant one thing.

The Association was coming. In minutes, the N109 zone would be crawling with hunters and operatives.

“Shit,” you muttered, breath fogging with adrenaline. “How long do we have?”

Sylus tilted his head to read the influx of messages on the watch. “Twenty minutes at most. Less, if any units were nearby.”

The alarms thrummed beneath the rising urgency like a heartbeat refused to still.

You stepped over the corpse without looking down. Sylus followed behind so closely that your shoulders brushed.

“What do we do?” you asked, your mind running hot. “They will come for me. They will never stop coming for you.”

He did not contradict you. He did not soften the truth. He only looked at you with something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“I have a plan,” he said softly. “It’ll work, but I need your agreement.”

“Just tell me, Sy, we’re running out of time.” 

“We fake your death, Tonight. Here. I-” he paused, gaze dropping for the first time. He looked unsure. “I have everything ready. A body. Your medical files have been modified. It covers everything. You will be legally dead.”

You stared at him, shock swallowing the panic from moments ago. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. 

“You… already have everything prepared?” you asked softly, barely trusting your own voice.

Sylus didn’t flinch. Didn’t backtrack. He simply met your stare, his expression almost vulnerable.

“Yes,” he breathed, the words shaped like a sinful confession.

“For how long?”

His jaw worked, a subtle clench. “A while. Since before the nightclub.”

Your stomach dipped. “That was months ago!”

“I know.”

A faint crease formed between his brows, guilt, rare and raw. “I knew you wanted me, but I didn’t know if you’d choose me. Letting you play your game and come to me was one thing, but, kitten, you know me. I had to have a contingency plan in place. There’s no world in which I would allow you to slip through my fingers.”

You blinked once. Then twice. “So your contingency plan was me as a corpse.”

He winced. Actually winced. “It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“Sylus.”

He stepped closer, his hands rising to your shoulders with a careful touch, as if you were something fragile in a world full of breaking points.

“I wasn’t going to use it,” he murmured. “Not unless I had to. Not unless I had to do something drastic.”

“And now?” Your voice cracked in the middle, a sharp fault line splitting through your chest.

“Now,” he said softly, “we need it.”

You swallowed hard. “So you were willing to fake my death… before you even knew if I’d choose you?”

His fingers tightened in the barest, trembling way.  “Yes. Because I chose you. I thought I made that clear, sweetie.”

Something hot and overwhelming rushed up your throat. 

Of all the things you’d braced yourself for, running, fighting, dying, this wasn’t it. Not the quiet confession of a man prepared for a world where you said no to him. A world where you didn’t want him. A world where he kept you anyway.

Recognition.

The kind that punched through your ribs and settled deep.

You whispered in realization, “You were planning to steal me.”

He released a slow breath. “If it ever came to that, yes.”

You should have been horrified. You should have stepped back or screamed.

Instead, a shaky laugh broke out of you, half awe and half madness. “You are unbelievable.”

Sylus’s expression faltered, a thin crack breaking through the hard lines of his face. Pain threaded through his gaze. “If you hate me for it, I will accept that.”

“Hate you?” You pressed closer until your chest brushed his, your hands framing his face, your bloody fingerprints streaking across his perfect cheeks.

“Sylus,’ you breathed, eyes bright with something enormous and terrifying and certain, “that might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.” 

His breath shuddered. His forehead dipped to yours, relief trembling through him like a man unshackled.

“You agree then?” he whispered.

You nodded, fingers threading into his hair as you whispered into his lips. “Yes. Burn my old life. Kill it. I don’t want one that doesn’t have you in it.”

He inhaled sharply, drinking in your words as if the oxygen he’d been starving for.

“Good.” He pressed his lips against yours in a kiss, brief and desperate, aching with all the things he didn’t have time to say. “Then come. We need to torch this place and make it look like that bastard took you down with him.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and spoke rapidly to someone on the other end. 

“Operation Juliette. Two minutes. Send it. You have the location. I’ll take care of the rest.”

No more hesitation.

Sylus grabbed your hand, fingers interlocking with yours and pulled you out the back door. The cold air bit at your skin, smoke and adrenaline still clinging onto you both as he led you toward the sleek black car sitting idle in the shadows.

He opened the passenger door and guided you in, buckling your seatbelt himself with quick, precise movements. His touch was unexpectedly gentle despite his hands being stained with blood. 

His eyes flicked to yours, burning. “Stay with me.”

Then he slammed the door, rounded the hood in three long strides, and slid into the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life. Tires screeching against the pavement as the two of you tore off into the night, leaving the flames and the corpse of your old life behind.

The city streaked past in blurred ribbons of neon and stars, the engine growling beneath you like something alive. Your pulse still hadn’t slowed, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as the road disappeared behind you in the rearview mirror. 

Sylus drove hard and fast, one hand gripping the wheel, the other, still smeared with the hunter’s blood, gripping tight on the gear shift. But his eyes kept flicking toward you, sharp and restless, like he was checking to see if you were still breathing.

“Y/N,” he said finally, low but steady. Too steady. “You understand what this means.”

You turned to face him, heart thudding. “I know.”

“No,” his knuckles whitened around the wheel. “You don’t. Not yet.”

He exhaled, the sound rough, as if the words scraped their way out of him.

“They’ll hold your funeral,” he murmured. “A closed casket. An entire ceremony built around ashes and lies. Tara will cry. Your neighbours will leave flowers. Your colleagues…” He swallowed hard. “They will sit in that briefing room and listen to someone announce that you died in the line of duty.”

He’d thought about everything when he prepared for this. For your grief over losing your old life, over deceiving your friends and family. The reality was stark. 

Your throat tightened.

Sylus continued, voice dropping. “You can’t go back to your apartment. Your old bed. Your books. Your favourite coffee place. No more Association briefings. No more missions. No more colleagues teasing you at lunch.”

His eyes met yours, burning, terrified in a way Sylus Qin never allowed himself to be.

“You are choosing a life with me. That means killing every part of the one you had before. Do you understand?”

The road hummed underneath you, the only sound between breaths.

You swallowed. “Sylus-”

“I need to hear it,” he said, voice cracking like a fault line splitting open. “Not because I doubt you. But because if we do this, if we burn everything… there’s no undoing it. There’s no second chance. No matter what you choose, I’ll live with your decision for the rest of my life.”

He turned fully now, abandoning the road for half a second because you were the more dangerous thing.

“But I can’t-” His breath caught. “I can’t lose you because you woke up tomorrow and realised you didn’t mean it.”

Your heart flipped violently, something warm and razor-sharp rising in your chest. His eyes flicked back to the road, as if giving you privacy to think.

“Sylus, look at me,” you whispered, taking the hand that he’d gripped onto the gear shift so tightly you were worried it would pop straight off.

He did.

“You think I’d give up everything I know for just any man?” you asked. “Sylus, I’m choosing you. I’ve already chosen you.”

He still searched your face, needing more.

You laced your fingers together, the dried blood looking almost like the red stings of fate curling around your hands, the fate that had brought you together in the first place. 

“I want you,” you said. “Not the life I had. Not the plans I thought I’d make someday. I want you.”

He inhaled like your words punched the air back into his lungs.

“And I don’t want a world where I have to pretend otherwise.”

He pulled into the underground garage and parked. The car jolted as he yanked the handbrake up, the entire city falling quiet around you for the first time all night.

Sylus turned his hand, palm up, wrapping his fingers around yours. Warmth and comfort seeped into your skin. How could something that felt so right ever be wrong?

“You’re certain?” he asked, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

Something broke in his expression, relief so fierce it bordered on agony. He lifted your joined hands and pressed your knuckles to his lips.

“Then we do this together.”

You barely registered crossing the garage. You barely registered the click of Sylus entering the lift code. Everything blurred around the edges, sliding past you in a smear of sensation. Adrenaline narrowed the world until there was nothing left in focus but him.

The elevator felt like it swallowed the two of you whole, its doors sealing shut as you let his hand fall and took your place facing opposite him. The small space stretching wide and cavernous under the weight of what hung between you.

Silence rolled in thick and heavy, charged enough to spark. It hummed with static, the air bending toward inevitability the way it does right before a storm breaks.

You picked at the stiff, drying blood on your dress, suddenly hyperaware of how it clung to your skin.

And Sylus just… looked at you. Not blinking. Not moving. Just staring as though the sight of you had knocked something loose inside him.

His chest rose too quickly, jaw locked tight, pupils swallowed in black. You could see the memory reel behind his eyes replaying every second, every motion of you standing over the hunter with calm that bordered on divine judgement. The blood on your hands and soaked through your dress. 

The calm.

To him, you’d looked like something mythical. A dark, vengeful goddess risen from the ashes, and he was a man on his knees lucky enough to witness it.

He moved toward you with a slow, deliberate prowl that made the elevator feel impossibly wide, as if the world itself tried to pull him closer inch by inch.

Step. Step. Step.

The air trembled with each step. It pushed you back wordlessly, your spine meeting the cool mirror behind you, as if the room itself conspired to place you exactly where he wanted you.

“Sylus,” you breathed, but you didn’t know if it was a warning or an invitation.

His answer came in a shuddering breath, torn from the depths of his very soul. 

“You have no idea,” he murmured, each word scraped out like a confession he’d held back for too long, “how you looked when you did it.”

His fingers lifted, slow and reverent, brushing the smear of drying blood on your cheek as if it were something sacred.

“You stood there,” he murmured, voice low with barely concealed awe, “like you were born for it. Towering over me and taking everything you deserve.” 

A tremor ran down your spine. 

His other hand planted against the wall beside your head, caging you in. You could feel the restraint on him straining, stretched to the limit and ready to snap at the slightest push.

Your breath hitched. 

His forehead tipped to yours, a soft touch that stole your breath more effectively than any kiss.

You felt it in the tremble of his breath, in the heat radiating off him. He had dreamed of this, wanted it, but never let himself believe it could be real.

“Say something,” he whispered, lips ghosting yours in a near-kiss. “Anything. Before I-”

Break?

Lose it?

Give in.

The heat of every unsaid word curled between you, his lips barely a breath away.

Well, you thought, actions speak louder than words.

You reached for him, fisting your fingers into the soft silver strands of his hair, forcing his mouth to meet yours in a collision that stole the ground out from under you. 

The clash was fierce, raw and unrestrained, teeth clashing before it melted into something molten and hungry. A livewire sparking as your tongues met in the chaos. 

He groaned into your mouth, the sound raw and grateful as it vibrated through you. 

The taste of him invaded your senses, pure and unfiltered, as your mouths tangled messily. Tongues sliding, lips dragging, the world tipping off its axis under the sudden heat of it all. 

His body surged into yours, coiled tension finally allowed to snap loose. His hand found your waist and yanked you closer with a grip that made your knees buckle.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, hauling him toward you with a force that made him groan into your mouth.

A moan slipped out of you, unrestrained and needy. The sound shuddered through him, loosening something in his composure.

“Sweetie,” he breathed against your mouth, voice shaking against your lips, “you’re going to ruin me.”

Your laugh broke against his lips, soft and breathless.

He groaned as he slid his hands beneath your knees and lifted you with a rough, effortless strength, fitting himself between your thighs, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all night. His body aligned with yours, every inch of him, huge and all-consuming, locking into place. The pressure made your breath hitch, your pulse leap, heat coiling through you, a second heartbeat pulsing under your skin.

Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, instinctive and desperate.

His grip tightened on your hips, his mouth tracing the line of your jaw in slow, reverent drags that bordered on worship. 

Decency fell away entirely as he claimed your mouth again, a mess of tongues and harsh breaths. Your skin was on fire, heat coiling from where he pressed the hardness of himself between your legs, sharp and dizzying.

The elevator climbed, humming steadily beneath the chaos the two of you were making of each other.

You pulled him into you by his hair, chasing the taste of him like you needed it to breathe.

He let out a trembling breath, forehead pressing to your cheek as if he needed to feel every inhale you took to believe you were real.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

“Never,” he answered, his voice splintering as if something inside him had finally surrendered.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open, cleaving through the moment, forcing your mouths to part, something neither of you wanted. 

You stayed close, foreheads pressed, breaths tangling in frantic bursts between you.

He looked at you as if your touch had rewired something fundamental in him.

You held his gaze right back, breathless and undone, like he had placed the stars in the sky just for you.

He lowered you to the ground with a care that contradicted everything about the last minute, his hands shaking even as he kept them steady against your waist.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even try.

“Come with me,” he whispered, threading his fingers through yours and tugging you toward the penthouse with a certainty that felt like fate tightening its grip on you. 

The penthouse door slammed shut behind you, the echo rolling through the dark, sharp and final. His palm engulfed yours, refusing to let go even as the automatic lock clicked into place with a mechanical snap that felt far too final for what had simply started as a dinner date. 

“You know, this isn’t how I wanted this night to go,” he murmured, his thumb sweeping over the top of your hand.

He stepped into you, his hands finding your waist, his thumb brushing a streak of dried red at the edge of your ribs, and something inside him snapped. 

“But the truth is, I just can’t hold back any longer.” 

Your breath stalled, your mind scrambling to catch up with his sinful words.

But then his mouth was on yours again, and all chance of thought dissolved. 

Hunger and reverence shaped each movement, stealing the strength from your legs and the sanity from your mind. His fingers dug into your hips, a grip tight enough to betray the fear that you might vanish if he loosened it.

You fisted his already loose tie, dragging him closer until you were flush against the heat of his chest and the cold of the door at your back.

Locked in with him, finally at his mercy in the privacy of your penthouse, blood streaking your skin, your dress ruined beyond repair.

His breath hitched at the sight of you. The sight of you in that ruined dress made his pulse stutter. He didn’t mind the blood, in fact, he relished it. Relished in the side of you that only he got to see. The vicious, protective part of you that never hesitated when reaching for what you wanted. 

He would replace everything you wore if it meant you never had to think about indulging in all of your wicked little desires. He would give you the world, burn it to the ground or rebuild it as your private oasis. 

But he didn’t care about the world.

You were his.

His hands skimmed lower, catching on the fabric, wet and stiff where the hunter’s blood had soaked into the seams. The sensation almost dragged him back to reality.

His lips broke from yours, hot breath spilling between you. “This needs to come off,” he tugged at the fabric on your hips.

You nodded sharply, stealing another kiss from him. “Yes,” you panted. “Please. Off.”

You felt his cock twitch beneath his slacks at your breathless plea. 

Your eyes met. The red halo around his pupils had thinned out, leaving his gaze almost black with a hunger that threatened to consume him. His raging desire pressed firmly against your lower stomach, hard and insistent in making itself known. 

He took your hand again, guiding you toward the bathroom with a steadiness undercut by the tremor in his fingers. The sconces lit as the door opened, gleaming off black marble, glass, and chrome. You couldn’t care less what the damn place looked like.

Sylus reached past you and turned on the shower, steam rising instantly, thick and heavy like a shroud hiding you away from the outside world.

“Take it off,” he commanded, bracing a hip against the counter and giving you his full attention. 

Your panties were a mess at this point, completely soaked through, your arousal slicking down the insides of your thighs beneath your dress.

He would know. The moment the dress came off, he would see exactly how deeply he’d undone you. And yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel embarrassed. 

You drew a steadying breath and turned, baring your back to him.

“Then,” you murmured, glancing over your shoulder coyly, “won’t you unzip me?”

You knew exactly what you were doing to him, little minx.

Sylus growled low in his throat and reached for the zipper, dragging it down slowly as if savouring each inch of exposed skin. 

“Mmmm. Looks like Christmas came early for me,” he said thoughtfully. “I get to unwrap my gift so soon, sweetie.” He leaned down, his lips grazing the soft skin of your neck as the zipper reached the bottom of your lower back. “I must have been a very good boy.”

His hands worshipped each new inch of skin, fingertips trailing up your spine and smoothing along the lines of your body. God, he was giddy, finally seeing you bare after so long watching you through just a screen.

His cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his trousers. 

Once the dress was unzipped, you slipped the shoulders down and let it pool around your feet, turning to face him in nothing but the underwear he had chosen for you.

His eyes trailed a path of fire over your skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. 

A warm ache bloomed between your legs, building into a raging fire, a fluttering pulse that beat willfully each time he looked at you like he meant to devour you whole.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, awestruck by the goddess standing nearly bare before him. This was so much better than seeing you through Mephisto's eyes, a live feed was nothing compared to your warm skin, your breath, your presence right here. 

Your cheeks warmed with a mix of both arousal and desire, the blood pooling under your skin made you feel dizzy from his attention. But, it wasn’t enough. You wanted to see him, too. 

You stepped forward, tentative but hungry, looking in his eyes and seeing that smile growing a shade more confident as your shaky hands reached for the buttons of his shirt. When his jacket came off, you didn’t remember, and you didn’t really care. It was just one more layer that you didn’t need to remove to see him clearly and finally. 

Each undone button revealed more of his chest and abs until there was no layer separating your eyes from the chiselled mass of muscles and tanned skin in front of you. You couldn’t help yourself, every inch of him too tempting to resist. 

Your hands moved of their own volition, smoothing up the sharp cut of his abs, marvelling at the hardness and heat of the muscle beneath your palms. They drifted higher, over his chest, your fingernails grazing lightly over his nipples. He moaned, soft and involuntary, drawing in a sharp breath at the sensation, and oh god, you were addicted. 

Addicted to the noises he made, to the way his brow furrowed and his eyes slipping shut, addicted to the look of absolute pleasure on his face. You would never get enough of this. 

His eyes snapped open, a fire dancing in what was left of the thin rim of crimson irises. His hands pulled you back to him, your chests crashing together as he kissed you deeply. It was all-consuming, your tongues meeting once again with renewed hunger. 

“I don’t ever want to let you go,” he breathed, then corrected himself. “No. I’m never letting you go. You’re mine. All fucking mine.”

Then his lips were on yours again and his hand was trailing up your back to unhook your bra with a twist of his fingers.

His mouth was ravenous for your taste, but the desire to see your newly bared skin was even more enticing to him. He dragged the straps down your arms, hungry and unrestrained, exposing your breasts to the damp air of the bathroom.

Steam billowed from the shower, misting your skin just enough for the light to catch. You looked ethereal, and just as you couldn’t, he couldn’t resist the soft call of your gleaming body. His hands slid up from your waist and stopped just below where your breasts began to swell. 

They crept higher, almost nervous in their slowness, until his thumbs reached your nipples, the roughness of them dragging a moan through your lips. Your skin felt like a drug, potent enough to ruin him. The softness and weight of your breasts were perfect in his hands, and god, the noises you made when he pinched your sensitive buds just so. Oxygen was less necessary to him. 

His trousers had become unbearably tight; his own underwear, marked with his desire for you, was a prison that you desperately wanted to free him from. 

You tore at his belt, pulling it free and letting it ring out as it clattered to the floor. The buttons to his trousers were next on your hitlist, the fastening giving beneath your desperate, greedy hands, until finally, finally, you could push them and his underwear down to just under his ass. 

Freed of the confines of his clothing, his cock stood proudly between the two of you, long and thicker than any you had seen before in your life. God, each part of him was perfect, from the slight curve in his shaft, the vein that ran down the outside and even down to the flush that blushed the leaking swell of his throbbing tip.

You were staring, you knew you were staring but you couldn’t help yourself. 

Of course his cock was as pretty as the rest of him, as beautiful and big and girthy as he was beautiful and tall and broad. 

You reached for it without thinking, barely managing to grip it before he caught your wrist, and his Evol shredded your panties leaving you just as bare before him. 

His eyes skimmed your face and for just a moment, beneath the hunger, there was a shadow of conflict, as if he was considering every single outcome that would unfurl from the decision you were about to make together. 

“As much as I would love to have your hands on me,” he breathed, the words ghosting over your skin. “I don’t want another man’s blood on you while you do it.” 

A sharp sting bloomed across your ass as he landed a swat. “Get in the shower. Now,” he commanded, his voice fraying on the last thread of restraint.

There he was, the big, bad boss of Onychinus, using that tone he reserved for everyone beneath him. It should’ve pissed you off, but your body moved before you could think, following his command and stepping into the shower. 

He tore off the rest of his clothes as he watched you step away, a wolfish grin cutting across his face. The sight of the goddess before him felt like a blessing he would never deserve. 

The steam wrapped around your bodies as he stepped in after you. Despite the sheer size of the shower stall, Sylus stayed close, your hips in his hands, your foreheads pressed together. 

“I like you like this,” he murmured sweetly, “bare and at my mercy. The trust you have in me, it’s… well, it’s addictive, kitten.” 

“At your mercy, hmm?” You asked, slipping your arms around his shoulders and tightening your fingers in the strands at the base of his neck. “I’m the one who did all the scheming to get you here. If anything, you’re at my mercy.”

His grin turned devilish as he remembered everything you had done, each action you had taken to carve out your name across his heart, each step that felt like you were staking a claim on him. 

“I suppose we’re both at each other’s mercy, sweetie,” he agreed, drawing back to his full height. 

He pressed closer to you, nudging you back into the stream of water from the shower head and watching intently as the rivulets trailed down over the hills and valleys of your shape. The water loosened the dried blood on your skin, sending red and pink trails down your body, a baptism in the blood of your enemies. Fuck, it suited the two of you so well.

“Only you could look this beautiful, covered in blood,” he said, eyes fixed on you.

“That’s only because you haven’t seen yourself," you replied, a soft, fond smile spreading across your lips. “If you could see yourself through my eyes, you would know what true beauty looks like, Sylus." 

He scoffed lightly, as if the idea of him being more beautiful than you offended him. 

He stepped fully into the water with you, chest brushing yours. His hands rose to brush away the strands of hair slicked to your cheeks. They smoothed over the blood on your skin, washing away the streaks of red with a tenderness that bordered on desperation. 

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, voice low.

His eyes flicked over your body like he was committing every detail to memory as he wiped the blood from the rest of your body with a washcloth. The warm scent of vanilla body wash simmered between you all while his hands cleansed the evening from your skin. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off him and the way his eyes worshipped your form, how gently his hands cleaned your skin. He gathered your hair in his hands, guiding you a step closer to the spray before tipping your head back with his palm. The gesture was so gentle it startled you, as if he feared you might break under anything less than utter reverence.

Warm water streamed over your scalp while he shielded your eyes with one broad hand, his thumb resting against your temple. You could feel his breath, steady and close, the quiet concentration shaping every movement. 

When he reached for the shampoo, he didn’t rush. He worked it through your hair in slow deliberate strokes, fingertips massaging your scalp with a tenderness that unravelled something tight in your chest. Steam curled between you, blurring the edges of his face, but his touch kept you anchored. 

He rinsed the suds away with the same careful attentiveness, smoothing your hair back from your forehead as though uncovering something precious. You found yourself watching him, really watching him, the way he studied your expression, the way his hands moved with a quiet intensity that bordered on devotion.

He combed conditioner through your hair with his fingers, each touch considerate and patient. A warmth spread behind your ribs, soft and almost painful in its intensity. 

He leaned in slightly, checking your eyes again before guiding you back beneath the stream to rinse you clean. Water ran down your shoulders, down his hands as they flowed through the strands of your hair, and something about the simplicity of it, the gentle drag of his fingers, made your throat tighten. You weren’t sure if it was the heat of the water or the feeling of being cared for so completely, but your eyes almost burned. 

You reached up, brushing your fingertips over the faint smear of blood you’d left on his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his smile softening into something almost shy.

“Let me return the favour, Sy,” you whispered.

He chuckled under his breath as you reached for his hair, your arms stretching automatically toward him. You wobbled on your toes, and his hands shot to your waist in an instant, steadying you as if the thought of you falling was unbearable. 

“Sweetie,” he murmured, voice warm with worry, “be careful. Let me make it easier for you.” 

Before you could protest, he sank to his knees. 

A quiet spark lit low in your belly as he settled beneath you, the juncture of your thighs level with his jaw. Steam curled around the two of you, water tracing down the lines of his shoulders as he tilted his head back to look at you. His hands slid down to wrap around the backs of your thighs. 

He looked up at you like a man kneeling before his chosen deity.

“You’re staring, sweetie,” he said with a low laugh. “Enjoying the view? Is this how you wanted me? Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do.” 

He pressed a kiss to your hipbone, soft and lingering, drawing the moment out with the faintest brush of his tongue over your skin. Your breath hitched.

“J-just stay like that,” you managed, reaching behind you for the same shampoo he’d used on you. 

His hair was impossibly soft beneath your fingers, strands slipping like silk through your hands as you lathered the soap into them. You worked, trying to replicate the slow devotion he showed you. You massaged his scalp, careful and reverent, trying not to tug at the silver strands even as the urge curled warm and insistent in your chest. 

His eyes drifted closed, a soft sound escaping him every time your fingers dragged through his hair. Water streamed over him as you rinsed the suds away, your touch gentle, unhurried, the intimacy of it settling around the both of you like a second kind of heat. 

When you finished, he didn’t rise like you thought he would. Instead, he leaned in, arms wrapping around your thighs, holding you against him as he breathed you in, steam, skin and the quiet, steady scent that was yours alone. 

He held you as the entirety of his world narrowed to this. Your hands in his hair. His arms around your legs. The soft rush of water. And the silence between your breaths. 

Your thighs shifted underneath his grasp as his breath fanned against your skin. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, two pools of molten black framed by a barely there crimson ring. 

You brushed his hair back to get a better look at the way desire sharpened his features. 

His chin pressed against your lower stomach, and his lips followed. A soft, slow, agonising drag of his lips over the softness of your stomach that made your heart thump just a little wilder in your chest like it was trying to escape the cage of your ribs and be held by him. 

His thumbs stroked the backs of your thighs, inching toward the heat between as he kissed lower and lower, past your hips and onto the tender curve, closer to where you wanted him the most. 

His brow lifted in question. “May I?”

You nodded before you even realised you’d moved, and in the next breath one thigh was over his shoulder while his hands gripped the soft curve of your ass to steady you.

His eye contact vanished. Every one of his senses had narrowed to your glistening pussy, calling to him like a siren pulling a sailor under. 

He inhaled deeply, nuzzling into the slick heat of you before dragging one slow, claiming lick from your entrance to your clit. 

You gasped and he answered with a raw, guttural moan, your taste flooding across his tongue.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, long and wrecked. “You taste so good. So sweet, kitten. Fuck.” 

He dove back in, licking into your fluttering hole, gathering every drop he could before smoothing it over your clit with the flat of his tongue. His tongue worked over your clit, flicking side to side until your head spun and his name ripped out of you in a gasp. 

“Oh, Sy!” you moaned. “Feels so good!”

You felt his grin curve against your pussy and when you looked down, he was already watching you, observing and studying every twitch and gasp, learning exactly what made you fall apart and moan the loudest. 

How you gasped when he dipped his tongue into you. How you moaned when he licked at your clit. And when he sucked on that sensitive bud, you nearly screamed his name like a prayer. 

He could very much get used to hearing his name from your lips while you thrashed in pleasure that he was providing. 

“Perfect little pussy,” he murmured, the words vibrating through you as he spoke against your skin, unwilling to part from the sweetness of you.

His Evol pressed you back against the shower wall, lifting you as he guided your other leg over his second shoulder. And finally, he was free to explore you with his hands and his mouth together. 

Two fingers traced your entrance, gathering the slick that spilled from you before pushing inside. His tongue worked your clit while his fingers curled deep, finding every sensitive spot inside you, and for a second you might’ve seen god.

You were reduced to a moaning and panting mess, suspended above him. Your hips would’ve been bucking into his mouth if not for the grip of his Evol keeping you exactly where he wanted you, your hands free only to tangle in the hair you’d so carefully washed. 

You pulled at the strands and his deep moan sent blazes of heat running through you. 

Wet sounds mixed with the shower, your moans and his, a sinful symphony echoing off the black marble around you.

It was all too much, his fingers and mouth working so diligently to bring you right to the edge. God, you’d never imagined he would be able to work your body so well. But the look in his eyes, that greedy and hungry stare made you crumble. 

“I’m gonna- fuck, Sylus, fuck I’m gonna-” you moaned. Your eyes snapped shut as the pleasure began to crest, rising and building up inside you. 

“Yes. Do it. Fuck, cum for me. Cum all over me, kitten,” he begged from between your thighs. 

He sucked harder, pressing his fingers against that spongy spot inside you until you saw stars. Your body tensed as your pleasure crashed, walls clenching around his fingers and your clit becoming overly sensitive with the heat of it. 

You nearly screamed with the force of your orgasm. 

He eased up, easing you through it with soft kitten licks and slow, steady strokes of his fingers as you twitched and tried to writhe above him.

“Ahh- can’t,” you panted. “S’too much, Syyy.” His name was a long, drawn-out whine. 

He chuckled against your clit, warm puffs of air brushing your oversensitive nerves and dragging a near-sob from your chest.

“Sorry, kitten, you just taste so good,” he breathed, removing his mouth from you and licking his lips like he’d been served the finest meal on the planet. He slipped his fingers out of you and sucked them clean, groaning as he held your gaze.

“You’re a menace, Sylus,” you groaned, turning your head, unable to handle how sinfully he was looking at you.

He laughed softly, low in his chest and dripping with satisfaction. “You say that like you don’t enjoy it.”

Leaning in close to you again, Sylus rested his cheek against the softness of your stomach and pressed the softest kiss there before rising to his feet. The water streamed down his body in slow rivulets, catching on the sharp planes of muscle and the silver strands of his hair.

He stepped closer, those warm hands moving to your waist, thumbs pressing gently into your skin as if to anchor you back into yourself before your legs threatened to give out. For a moment, he simply held you there, foreheads brushing and breath mingling with yours in slow, uneven pulls.

You were still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. He felt it. Of course he did.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to sag into him. His palms slid up your back in a slow, soothing pass, fingers splayed wide as if he could calm you by sheer will alone. It would have worked, but his body betrayed him with tension coiled tight beneath his skin.

His length pressed into your stomach, hot and painfully hard. Your hand drifted instinctively towards him, fingers brushing along his side, then drifting toward the tempting size of him. 

You wanted to please him, too. To provide him with the same earth-shattering pleasure he had just given you. To bring him to his high and let it spill, warm and wanting over you. To lap up his pleasure and take him into you as reverently as he had done for you. 

He caught your wrist immediately, pinning your arm effortlessly above your head as he leaned closer into your space. 

You looked up at him, brows knitting in quiet confusion. “What?”

His breath left him in a slow exhale, shaking with restraint and anticipation. He brought your other hand to his chest, pressing it flat over his heart. It raced beneath your palm, powerful and unsteady all at once.

“Not like that,” he said quietly.

Your thumb brushed over his skin, feeling the frantic beat beneath it. “I thought you wanted me.”

His mouth curved, but the smile was tight, controlled.

“I do,” he assured you. “God help me, I do.” His forehead dipped to yours, voice dropping an octave lower. “But I wanted to take care of you first. Properly.”

Something in his tone made your chest ache.

“You’re already doing that,” you replied softly.

He shook his head. “Not finished yet.”

He shifted his grip, bracing both hands against the tile on either side of you, caging you in without touching you at all. Water streamed over his shoulders and down his spine, his head bowed as he dragged in a slow, steadying breath.

Then he lifted his head and kissed you.

His mouth crashed into yours like he was starving, like the restraint he had just hauled back into place snapped for a single, reckless second. His lips were hot and insistent, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to make you gasp before his tongue swept in to steal the sound right out of your mouth. 

You could taste yourself on his lips. Your wetness, combined with the unique flavour that was Sylus, flooded into your mouth with his tongue. 

He kissed you like he needed to remind himself what you tasted like. Like he was grounding himself in you. One hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing firmly beneath your chin as he tilted your head just right, deepening the kiss until your breath tangled with his and your toes curled against the slick tile.

A low, broken sound tore from his chest when you kissed him back just as desperately, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, your body leaning into his without permission. He swallowed the noise, lips moving against yours with bruising intent, his control fraying in every press of his mouth.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back.

His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet. His thumb brushed over your mouth once, reverent now, like he was sealing something sacred back into place.

“See,” he murmured hoarsely. “This is exactly why I have to slow down.”

“No, you don’t. Please, just give it to me,” you all urged, the words sounding needy even to your ears. 

For a moment, he just stood there, forehead resting against the wall above your shoulder, his breath heavy and uneven. The steam curled around you both, thick and hazy, muffling the world down to the sound of water and the rise and fall of his chest.

“Kitten,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have rushed like that.”

You felt his shoulders tense as he spoke, as if admitting it cost him something. His head turned slightly and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, barely there, nothing like the devouring touches from moments before.

“I wanted to take my time with you,” he murmured. “In a bed. With candles. Somewhere I could savour you properly.” A faint, rueful breath left him. “It seems you bring out the fiend in me, it’s almost impossible to control myself.”

You lifted your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing along the sharp line of it until he looked at you. His eyes were still dark, still burning, but there was a vulnerable edge there now, something unguarded and earnest.

“I don’t feel rushed,” you said softly. 

That seemed to steady him more than anything else. His eyes searched your face, as if checking for cracks that were not there, and when he found none, something eased in his expression.

“Good,” he said quietly. “That matters to me.”

He shut the water off and the cold air seemed to seep straight into your skin. You shivered a little. 

He reached for a towel and wrapped it around you, carefully patting you dry and tucking it around your shoulders. He drew you into his chest, arms firm and protective with his chin resting lightly atop your head, and you weren’t so cold anymore.

“There,” he smiled, letting you go to wrap his own scandalously short towel around his hips. “Come on.” 

Sylus took your hand, leading you out of the shower, but you stayed rooted to the spot. 

You tipped your head back to look at him, eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like you were still catching your breath but also trying to piece something together. He noticed immediately.

“What is it?” he asked, one brow lifting.

You huffed a quiet laugh, half breathless, half incredulous. “You realise you’ve stopped me twice now, right?”

His mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”

Now it was your turn to study his face. The tension still humming beneath his skin, the way his hands kept flexing like they were itching to touch you again, the way his hard length formed a tent under his towel, the way his eyes burned with a hunger that thrummed under the surface of every glance. 

Something clicked into place.

“Sy,” you said slowly, lips curving. “Are you…a virgin?” 

He pulled back just enough to look at you incredulously and laugh. Soft and breathy, almost disbelieving.

“After what I just did to you? That’s the conclusion you’ve come to?”

Your heart sank a little, the dream crushed before you could ever relish in it properly.

Something sharp and unexpected twisted in your chest.

“Oh,” you said, a little too lightly.

You hadn’t realised how much the idea had pleased you until it slipped through your fingers. The thought of being his first. Of being the one to shape him, teach him, make him fit only you. It left a faint, petulant heat behind, one that curled low in your stomach and refused to be ignored.

Your gaze drifted away from his face, jaw tightening. “So,” you said casually, but your eyes darkened, “you’ve done this before.”

He stilled immediately, the ghost of a smile pinching the corners of his lips. “Is that what this is about?”

You shrugged, lifting one shoulder and pouting ever so slightly, like a child who didn’t get their way. “I just…” You huffed a quiet breath. “I don’t like the idea of you touching other women.”

His mouth curved fully, slow and knowing, amusement warming something dangerous beneath it. He stepped closer, crowding into your space again, his hand coming up to tilt your chin until you had no choice but to look at him.

“None of them mattered,” he said simply.

The certainty in his voice made your breath hitch.

“They were bodies,” he continued, thumb brushing along your jaw, possessive and unhurried. “Convenient. Temporary.” His eyes softened when they searched yours. “You’re not.”

Your irritation wavered, reshaping itself into something warmer. 

“And you,” he added, voice dipping, “have lived a life before me too.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off gently.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t hold it against you.” A pause, then a faint, dangerous smile as he thought about exactly what he had done to your ex. “I don’t need to.”

The words settled between you, quiet and absolute.

His attention returned to you instantly, the softness back in his expression as if he hadn’t just reminded you of what he was capable of.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was reassurance rather than a claim. “That’s all that counts.”

“If I’m yours,” you said softly, “then why do you keep pulling away?”

His gaze softened when it settled back on you. “This is different,” he said quietly. “You are different.”

“Oh,” you said, clarity sharpening the image of the man before you. 

You smiled, slow and fond, stepping closer to him again. “So you’ve just never been in love before.”

His breath stuttered,  barely noticeable but he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he wrapped a devastatingly fluffy robe around you and pulled the tie tight around your waist, pressing a kiss into your hair like he needed the grounding. “I want to get this right,” he murmured. “With you.”

“You already are,” you whispered against his chest as you looped your hands around his waist in a hug. 

He lifted you easily, setting you on the counter by the sink before reaching for the hair dryer. The low hum filled the room as warm air brushed over your damp tresses. He worked slowly, adjusting the heat, testing it against his own hand before letting it near you, attentive to every small reaction, every shift of your breath.

He treated you like you were made of glass, precious in a way that had nothing to do with fragility and everything to do with care.

His hands lingered at your shoulders, your neck, the line of your jaw, fingers mindful as they moved. Never rushing, never tugging, always following what your hair seemed to need rather than forcing it into shape. 

When your eyes met his in the mirror, the look he gave you was unguarded and devastating. Not possession. Not hunger. Something deeper. Something settled and sure.

By the time he was done, your hair felt cared for, respected, tended, exactly as it was meant to be and the reverence in his touch lingered long after his hands had stilled.

He shut the dryer off and lifted you again without hesitation, your towel clutched in one hand, his arm secure beneath your thighs. 

Sylus carried you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, the space dim and quiet, lit only by the low glow of the city beyond the windows.

He laid you down on the bed, gentle and with utmost care, settling his hips between your parted knees. He lingered there, weight warm and solid settling between your thighs, hands braced on either side of you like he was still holding himself in place by habit rather than necessity.

You looked up at him, hair still warm from the dryer, robe loose and soft around you, and something about the way he hovered made your mouth twitch. His gaze tracked your face with unnerving focus, as if every flicker of expression mattered. As if he were cataloguing you.

“So,” you said lightly. “Is this the part where you keep staring at me like you’re about to combust, or do I get a turn?”

His breath hitched. Barely, but you caught it.

“A turn?” he echoed, one brow lifting.

You nodded solemnly. “Mm. Feels unfair otherwise.”

Before he could answer, you shifted forward, hands bracing on his shoulders as you slid closer. His hands came up instinctively, gripping your waist to steady you, but you were already moving. Already climbing. You rolled onto his lap and settled there, unrepentant, pleased, every inch the cat who got the cream.

A low sound slipped from him, caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Kitten,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief. “You really don’t know how dangerous you are.”

You smiled and looped your arms around his neck, leaning in until your noses brushed. “I do,” you whispered. “And I like the way you look underneath me like this.”

That earned you a soft, breathy laugh against your mouth. His forehead tipped forward to rest against yours, eyes slipping shut for a second like he needed the contact to steady himself.

“You’re impossible,” he said fondly.

“And yet,” you murmured, rocking just enough to feel the tension in him sharp beneath you, “you’re still here.”

His hands tightened at your waist, thumbs pressing into the plush fabric of the robe like he was grounding himself through touch. When he opened his eyes again, the look in them was dark and warm and utterly fixed on you.

“Still here,” he agreed. “And not going anywhere.”

You kissed him then. Gentle at first. Unhurried. A brush of lips that lingered until he sighed and followed your lead. The kiss was unhurried, soft where the last one had been all teeth and hunger. This one lingered. This one smiled.

When you pulled back, it was only enough to whisper,  “See? You can be a good boy, you can behave.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Barely.”

You rested your forehead against his again, breathing in the distinctive scent that you’d come to associate with him, fingers threading into the air-dried strands at his nape. He shivered, the smallest tell, and you felt absurdly pleased with yourself.

For a moment, you stayed like that. Wrapped in too-soft robes and city light and the afterglow of everything you had survived together. Your weight in his lap. His arms around you. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the hum of something inevitable.

“This,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is going to be the death of me.”

His fingers found the tie of your robe, not pulling, just testing the knot. The fabric slackened beneath his touch, slipping lower at your shoulders as if it had given up pretending to contain you. Cool air kissed your skin, and his gaze followed the exposed line of your throat without any shame.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

This time when you kissed him, you didn’t tease. You pressed into him with intent, lips parting as your hips began a slow, deliberate rhythm in his lap. He met it instinctively, hands tightening, breath breaking, control finally giving way in earnest. 

The kiss deepened, heat blooming where your mouths met. His restraint didn’t snap so much as yield.

You smiled against his lips, and he felt it, responding in turn.

“Kitten,” he breathed, the word half warning, half surrender.

His hands came up hard, gripping your waist as he kissed you back, mouth opening under yours with a sound that tore from his chest. You both deepened the kiss, falling headfirst into heat, letting your simmering desire bloom from the meeting of your mouths.

You softened the kiss, dragging it out until he followed without thinking. When you pulled back, it was only far enough to bare your jaw, your throat, the skin you were deliberately offering him.

His mouth followed.

The first kiss landed beneath your ear, slow and reverent. The second pressed lower, warmer, his lips lingering as if committing the shape of you to memory.

When his teeth scraped lightly over your skin, you gasped.

That did it.

A low sound rolled out of him as his mouth returned to your neck, kisses turning heavier, more insistent. He nipped, soothed, lingered. Each mark felt intentional. Possessive. Like punctuation.

His name slipped out of your mouth without permission, breathless and wrecked, and he answered by biting just enough to make you whimper before sealing it with his lips.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against your shoulder, breath hot, hands firm at your waist.

“I should apologise,” he murmured. “But I’m not sorry.”

The admission lingered between you, heavy and honest. You felt it settle in your chest, warm rather than sharp.

You tilted your head, giving him more space, more skin, your pulse still racing beneath the marks he’d left. “Good,” you whispered. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten I belong to you.”

His mouth curved against your skin, teeth grazing one last time as his lips softened again.

“Never,” he said, rough and certain.

His hands moved decisively then, no hesitation left in them. He pulled your robe open fully, letting it slide off your shoulders, the fabric pooling uselessly in his lap. Cool air brushed over your heated skin, and his gaze followed the trail of goosebumps as they rose. 

“God,” he breathed, almost to himself.

His mouth descended again, hunger taking over. His lips closed around one nipple, tongue laving slowly, deliberately, like he was learning you by heart. Your breath stuttered, your back arching as his hand came up to cup your other breast, fingers kneading the softness, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until your hips rocked without permission.

The friction was unbearable. The thick, insistent length of him pressed hot and unyielding between your thighs through his robe, and you ground down instinctively, chasing the pressure with a needy sound that made his grip tighten.

His mouth left a searing mark before moving to the other side, giving it the same unhurried attention. Tongue, lips, teeth. Testing, teasing, claiming. When his teeth scraped gently over the flushed peak, you whined, high and helpless.

Your eyes snapped to his.

He was already watching you.

The faint crimson glow of his Aether core burned bright, his gaze pinning you in place, dark and full of intent and devastatingly focused. Something about the look alone made your body clench, heat coiling low and tight in your belly.

It was too much. His mouth. His hands. The weight of him beneath you. The way he was everywhere and still somehow holding back.

You wanted to let go and take everything you could. 

You wanted to be greedy.

“Sy,” you moaned, voice breaking. “I want you.”

Your fingers found the tie of his robe, tugging experimentally. You half expected him to stop you again, to catch your wrist and murmur something about patience or control.

He didn’t.

Instead, he sat back, eyes never leaving your face, and let you peel the robe open. Let you bare him inch by inch, as if surrendering to your touch was a choice he was making deliberately.

You reached for him, finally closing your hand around the heat and weight of him. His skin was impossibly soft, flushed and sensitive beneath your fingers. A quiet, broken sound left him as you stroked him once, then again, slow and exploratory.

A bead of precum glistened at the tip. You swiped your thumb through it, watching his breath hitch as you spread it along him, easing the glide of your movements.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Kitten.”

His hands returned to your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself as you stroked him again, twisting your hand just slightly at the tip. He twitched beneath your touch, head tipping back for a moment before his gaze dragged itself back to you.

“So good for me,” he murmured. “Look at you. Touching me like that.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, pleased by every reaction you drew from him. You leaned forward, brushing your lips over his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, kissing him everywhere except where he clearly wanted most.

He laughed, sounding absolutely wrecked. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Mmmm,” you hummed, stroking him again. “You said you wanted to take your time.”

His eyes darkened. “Careful.”

You kissed him then, lazy and deep. His mouth opened under yours immediately, control fraying as he kissed you back, desperate now, needy, hands roaming your back, your hips, your thighs, all while your hand worked over his cock.

Your movements slowed deliberately, twisting your hand around the head of his cock to draw a shaky breath from his chest.

“Kitten,” he warned, voice low and strained. “If you keep doing that…”

“I know,” you whispered against his mouth. “I want you like this. Hot and bothered. All needy and desperate for me. I want you to crave me like I crave you.”

His hands tightened, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he breathed you in, grounding himself in the feel of you, the scent of you, the reality of you straddling him and wanting him just as much.

“Then come here,” he murmured.

His hands came to your hips, steadying rather than guiding, fingers digging in just enough to let you feel how much restraint it took for him to stay still. How ready he was.

You smiled at that. Slow. Knowing.

One hand stayed at his shoulder for balance, the other sliding between you as you hovered on your knees, gripping his cock firmly in your hand. You slid his tip through your wet folds, coating him in your arousal, letting the mess from you both mix before finally positioning him at your entrance. 

You circled your hips once, twice, until his hands clenched hard enough to bruise.

You sank down slowly, letting your walls adjust to the thickness of him. The stretch stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt him everywhere at once, filling you, shaping you, forcing you open around him.

He watched you do it. Watched you take him in with eyes dark and burning, hands locked at your waist like he was bracing himself against the bed.

When you finally had him buried to the hilt, closer than you’d ever been before, his head tipped back with a sharp inhale, the broken sound pulling from his chest before he could stop it. His feet planted firmly on the mattress, thighs tensing behind you ready to meet every movement you made.

Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

He let you set the pace. Your pussy swallowed him whole as you lifted yourself up and dropped down with wet smacks. The sound of skin meeting skin was filthy, echoing through the room like an orchestrated symphony of sin. Your mixed fluids began to froth up, dripping down the base of his cock as you took him deep and ground down against him. 

For a moment, he gave it to you. Let you decide how much, how fast, how deep you wanted him. His hands never left your hips, grounding you, supporting you, reminding you that you were safe even as he shook beneath you.

It didn’t last.

A low, rough sound tore out of him as his grip tightened and the world tilted in one smooth, decisive motion. His cock slipped free only long enough to roll you beneath him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he caged you in, leaving you gasping and empty for a heartbeat that felt almost cruel.

His mouth found yours again, fierce and claiming, all that patience finally burned away.

“My turn,” he growled softly against your lips.

He speared you with his cock again, driving back into you with precision. He hit deeper into you at this angle, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that forced your head back and your eyes shut from pleasure.

He cupped your cheeks, tilting your face back to meet his. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. 

Your eyes flew open.

His pace turned brutal, controlled, relentless.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, softness threading through his voice even as his hips snapped viciously against yours.

You nodded shakily. “S-so good mmphh-ahh,”

He grinned, feral.

Sylus took your hands, lacing your fingers together before pinning them above your head. His mouth dipped to your neck, popen-mouthed kisses following the path of bruises he had already claimed as his.

His lips closed around your nipple, tugging the bud between his teeth and biting lightly. His cock thrusting so deep inside you that your vision blurred. His name fell from your lips in a wrecked, slurred whine.

He drove his hips deeper, forcing your legs up higher, thrusts hammering into you like a man starved. Like he had waited his entire life for this. Like he would die if he wasn’t as deep inside you as he could get.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, the angle shifting as he hit something inside you that had you crying out. His cock imprinted into each inch of your gummy walls, his tip driving against your cervix, forcing sensation after sensation until you could barely think.

His hands clenched around yours. 

“Keep them there,” he ordered, releasing them only to hook your legs higher until your ankles rested on his shoulders. Until you were practically folded in half, so spread open that every inch of you was on display for him.

Your body took him in greedily, hole spread wide on his cock, juices frothy and white around the base of him as he fucked into you. 

“Fuucckk, just like that. So good f’me, kitten.” He groaned. 

His fingers found your clit and it nearly tipped you over the edge. 

Your walls trembled around him, becoming impossibly tighter, feeling the wire in you tightening. He could feel it too. 

“Are you close?” he rasped in your ear. 

“M’close, Sy, I’m gonna-” 

His fingers on your clit picked up the pace as he angled his hips up. His cock slammed against your g-spot, and the feeling was just too much. 

You shattered around him, cumming harder than you ever had in your life. 

“Sylus!” You screamed.

His breath grew laboured at the way your pussy clenched hard around him, walls fluttering as you gushed with even more of your juices, soaking him in you. He eased you through it, letting up on your clit before the pleasure tipped into overstimulation.

He was close, god, he was so close. 

“Where can I?” He gasped through tight breaths. 

Your eyes snapped open, meeting his burning gaze. The pleasure on his face was a drug that you never wanted to recover from. Pupils blown wide, sweat slicking his hair, and that delicious scrunch of his brows as he tried to hold back from the feeling of your walls squeezing the life from him. 

You clenched harder around him, just to tick him off. 

“Sweetie, please. I’m- fuck, I need, please can I-” 

“Inside me, cum inside me,” you said, reaching for his hips, trying to get him deeper inside you. 

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, long and drawn out. “Yeah? D’you want it inside you? You want me to fuck it all in you? Hmmm?” 

His thrusts turned impossibly rougher, rhythm stuttering as his climax took hold of him. 

“Fuuuucckk, I love you,” he groaned.

And then, he was cumming. Hot spurts of him filled your thoroughly fucked pussy, painting your walls white with his release. 

His words rang in your head. I love you. 

It made you giddy.  I love you.

It made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. I love you. 

It made you want to confess, too. “I love you.” 

His eyes snapped up from where he'd been fixated on watching his cum slide out of you. Breath still uneven, pupils blown wide. For a heartbeat, he looked stunned. Like the word had struck him harder than anything else that had passed between you tonight.

“What did you say?” he asked, quietly.

You didn’t repeat it right away. You watched him instead. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his grip on you tightened. The way his brow furrowed, attention firmly on your face.

“I said,” you murmured, gentle but unyielding, “I love you. I love you too, Sylus.”

Something in him broke open.

Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough.

His brow knitted, breath hitching as if just realising what he’d said. “You-” He stopped. Tried again. “You don’t have to-”

“I know,” you said softly, cupping his cheek with your palm. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and fragile. His gaze searched your face like he was looking for an exit, or proof, or permission. You could see the control in him reasserting itself instinctively, every wall sliding back into place.

Then you touched his jaw, thumb brushing there in quiet reassurance.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

You were offering him the choice. Giving him authority over the thing he’d let slip.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, softer. Slower. Like he was tasting the truth of it before committing.

“I love you,” he said, sincerity burning through each letter.

You smiled, forehead resting against his. “That’s better.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left him, shaky but real. His hand slid up your back, palm warm and steady, anchoring you there.

He kissed your temple then, slow and reverent, as if sealing something in place. The world outside felt very far away. Unimportant, as he lay down beside you, locking you in his embrace.

Everything else could wait.

Morning would come when it came. 

For now, there was only this.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

Phewwww, if you're reading this, then you made it to the end! Thank you for taking the time to read this. It's finally finished!

I've been struggling with writer's block a lot over the past few months and some life situations too, so I want to say a HUUGGGEEE thank you to the people who have stuck by me while I took a break from writing!

Most notably, my lovely beta reader, @diamondtiger 💎💎. Quite literally, I couldn't have done it without you!

But it didn’t come. 

Sylus was still. 

Those watching eyes glowed with fire and hunger. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, tracing where your lips had parted from him just seconds ago.

“I could take you now,” he whispered, voice cracked, reverent. “I want to.” God, it sounded like he was begging for it. The longing dripped from every word, and you could feel it. His want. It was pressed against your stomach, hot and pulsing.

You nodded quickly, chest rising and falling, with a wanting so strong it ached. After so long waiting and working for what you wanted, it was in your grasp. He was in your grasp. You would’ve been stupid to say no.

But his hands didn’t move, staying firmly situated on your hips. Strong fingers twitched there, tightening almost imperceptibly, so faint that you wouldn’t have noticed had it not been for your entire being attuned to his frequency, committed to perceiving and understanding only him. 

The pull that simmered between you threatened to boil over.

“…Sylus?” you whispered. 

His brow was furrowed. His breathing was as wrecked as yours. 

“I can’t. Not like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Not rushed.” 

“Sylus, please,” you begged. You should have been embarrassed, but you weren’t. 

His brows knitted further, eyes closing as a huff left his chest and his lips met yours slowly, reverently. 

You pouted in protest when he pulled away.

“If I take you now, kitten,” he whispered, “it’ll be like this.” 

His head dipped, lips crashing against yours in a blaze of fire and want. Your body melted into liquid heat, desire thundering through your veins. You tangled your fingers in the soft strands of hair at his nape and he groaned. The sound low and guttural, torn from his chest.

His head fell back on a deep inhale, pulling back only enough for your eyes to meet his molten red ones. To really see you. 

“Like this. Fast and desperate and full of heat. I’ll ruin you before I ever get the chance to adore you.” He continued. 

You blinked, still reeling from the feel of him. His mouth, his hands, the heat of him still echoing under your skin. “Sylu-” you whined.

“I want you.” His hands slid down to your waist, holding you still. “God, I want you so badly it fucking hurts.”

He pulled you closer still, and god help you, it twitched against your stomach.

He bit down a groan. “But not like this.”

You blinked up at him, breath caught somewhere in your throat, something raw and aching clawing straight through your ribcage.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he murmured, like it was a sin he was aching to indulge in.“I want to pick you up in my car. I want you in a dress I chose, draped in decadence and temptation. I want to order for you. Watch you blush when my hand slides beneath the table and finds your thigh. I want to earn every inch of your pleasure.”

“Sylus, I—”

But he shook his head, already reading the words in your mouth before you could say them.

“And after,” he continued, tilting his head with that wolfish smirk, “then, and only then, I’ll take you the way I’ve needed to since the moment I saw you.”

His words carved themselves into you, sketching the shape of a night you hadn’t dared to imagine until now. Intimate. Lavish. His. You’d fantasised about it for weeks—those late nights watching him close deal after ruthless deal, seated across from strangers you longed to replace. Wishing he would reach under the table for your hand. Waiting for your name on his lips.

Your chest ached, lust folding into something deeper, something terrifying and electric and tender all at once. You wanted it. The dinner. The dress. The twisted, tender romance of it all. You wanted everything he promised, and more.

You exhaled, slow and shaky. “So… what now?” 

It was late. Early actually. Dawn was beginning to paint the horizon in a warm light that broke through the purple haze of nighttime, at least, as much as it did in the N109 zone. 

He pulled back slowly, releasing the tight grip on your waist and placing distance between your bodies like it physically pained him to do so. You instinctively chased the heat of him, leaning into the loss before your mind could catch up, but his hands were there, steady and firm, holding you at bay.

His gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door. Regret threaded in his voice like smoke. “I’ll take the couch tonight.” 

You gaped at him. “You’re kidding.”

He chuckled, an indulgent rich sound after seeing your pout. He reached out and brushed your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering. The strands were soft now, fully dry

“If I stay in that room with you, sweetie…” he leaned in, lips rushing the shell of your ear, voice dipping into something dark and dangerous, “...then you won’t be able to walk in the morning. Let alone sit pretty at dinner.”

Your knees went soft. Pathetic, boneless, nearly collapsing beneath you.

He kissed your forehead sweetly, maddeningly gentle, then stepped away, pulling in a steadying breath.

“Tomorrow night,” his gaze dark and glowing. “I’m all yours. But tonight, you rest. You’ve had a long day, sweetie. I need you at your best, strongest self when I finally ruin you.” 

He ushered you toward the bedroom door, hand warm against the small of your back, gaze never leaving yours. He closed the door slowly. A soft click, clean and final.

You could’ve screamed in protest. You stared at the door. Considered clawing it open and begging.

Instead, an indignant little huff escaped you. A chuckle responded, the sound muffled through the heavy wood of the door. 

“Don’t be petulant,” he called. “You’ll get what you want soon enough. Goodnight, sweetie.”

You sighed, cheeks warm, pulse fluttering traitorously. “Goodnight, Sylus.”

You woke slowly. 

For a few long seconds, the world blurred, unfamiliar and soft. Your body was heavy with warmth, wrapped in a comfort that didn’t belong to you. Your thoughts chased a scent just beyond memory. Something dark. Expensive. Him. 

What happened?

The night before unspooled your thoughts in fragments. Firelight. His mouth. His hands. His voice, low and reverent against your throat. The promises whispered like prayers and wrapped in desire. 

It all came back to you. 

Your hands found the cold side of the bed next to you. Smooth and untouched. He kept his promise. He hadn’t stayed with you. 

You’d kissed Sylus Qin. And he’d returned your kiss like it was worship. You’d confessed everything. Your mission, your obsession, your failure. He hadn’t killed you. He hadn’t laughed or even flinched. Instead, he held you, murmuring that you were his. That he was yours.

You sat up, fingers digging into the sheets, a small grin forming on your lips. You wanted to squeal, giddy and breathless like a teenager, but that felt just a touch too ridiculous. So instead, you buried your face in the pillows and kicked your legs beneath the covers, drunk on delight.

After your little indulgence, you laid on your back and blinked up at the ceiling. Your heart picked up speed as your brain caught up. 

It felt like a dream.

It all replayed in pieces: the kiss that felt like fire, the restraint in his hands, the whispered promise of dinner. It hovered over you like incense smoke, clinging to your skin and permeating your every thought.

This was real.

And so were the consequences. 

The Hunter’s Association was probably already spiraling. Had they flagged your absence? Your empty apartment? You missing from your desk? Would people be asking questions? 

There was so much to do, so much to sort out, and less time to do it in. 

What would you do with your old life? Your apartment, your equipment, your friends? Everything that tethered you to a world you’d just stepped away from. You hadn’t thought about what would happen next. 

It was overwhelming. The layers of consequence you hadn’t even begun to think about. But you would handle it all. You were more than willing to give up everything for him. You already had. 

And then, he’d slept on the fucking couch. Asshole. 

You peeled yourself out of bed, the oversized pyjama shirt settling around your thighs in lazy folds. You’d barely registered changing into it. Everything about last night had been a blur of adrenaline and desperation and Sylus.

Your bare feet kissed the cold wood floor just as the scent hit you. Coffee.

You padded out of the bedroom, towards the source of the smell. 

Sylus stood at the kitchen counter, back to you. The broad expanse of it was perfect and enticing even under the black sweatshirt stretched across it. Loose, low-hanging trousers rode his hips just right. His usually flawless hair was a dishevelled halo of silver, tousled from sleep and curling slightly at the nape.

Soft and domestic weren’t words most would ever associate with Sylus Qin. No, this version of him was all for you. He looked like a dream. A fever dream wrapped in soft cotton and quiet menace. 

The coffee machine hissed and sighed, steam curling through the air as he poured the espresso with a practised hand. His gaze flicked to yours as he set the mug down on the table. 

His face softened. “Good morning, Sweetie,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Good morning.” You remained hovering near the door, unsure of what to do with the scene before you. 

He nodded toward the chair by the table. “Sit.”

And like the good girl you were, you obeyed without hesitation. He could’ve told you to leap from the balcony and you would ask which floor would please him most.

You watched him move around your kitchen with casual ease, his lips curled into a smirk, like he hadn’t just shattered your world with a kiss and a confession not even twelve hours ago. Your cheeks flushed as you realised he had probably seen your little pillow-scream earlier on. 

“Where’d the clothes come from?” You asked.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “My men dropped them off this morning. Luke and Kieran, specifically. You’re lucky they’re not in the hospital.”

Luke and Kieran? The names clicked into place a second too late.

“Who?” 

He grinned. “The two men who led you to my car last night? I believe you handed them their asses?” he asked with a joking lilt. He raised his hand to just below his shoulder. “About this tall, crow masks?” 

Your face warmed even further. 

“They’ll live,” he added, smirking. “In fact, I think they’re nursing bruised egos more than anything. You made quite the impression, kitten.”

You took a slow sip of coffee, hiding your grin behind the cup’s rim. 

He placed the tablet down beside his own steaming mug of coffee. The screen glowed with familiar CCTV feeds—the kitchen, the hall, even the room you’d slept in. 

You nodded toward the screen. “Why do you have access to my CCTV?”

He let out a low laugh, dark like velvet and old money. “Your CCTV? Sweetie, it’s my system. I designed it.”

You blinked. “Y-you what?”

Sylus tapped the screen. A familiar interface blinked to life, hallways, angles, and entry points. Every camera you thought belonged to you. Every feed, his.

You stared at the tablet like it had betrayed you. Familiar images flickered across the screen, suddenly strange. It was like looking into a mirror and realising someone else had been watching you watch yourself.

This was the system you’d trusted, studied, and built your confidence upon.

It wasn’t yours. Maybe it never had been.

Sylus had folded it into his world without so much as a warning, like it had always been meant for him. And in some twisted, maddening way, you knew that was true.

You didn’t resent it. Not really.

You just wanted to bite him a little.

“I have to go soon,” he murmured, voice low and reluctant, like he hated to leave.

You glanced up to find him watching you, coffee forgotten, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark sweatshirt.

If he were anyone else, you’d say he was fidgeting.

But Sylus Qin didn’t fidget.

…Did he?

Your pout formed before you could stop it. He’d only just gotten here. You were just getting to know each other, to understand each other. This strange domestic scene: coffee, warmth, him in your space, it felt too good to lose. Too rare.

And now he was going to leave? 

“No.” The word slipped from you before you could temper it. Sharp. Possessive. Final. “No, Sylus. Don’t go.” 

He blinked, caught off guard for a moment. Then, something shifted behind his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Fondness, certainly. 

“Kitten-”

“You just got here.” Your voice was too tight, too needy, cracking slightly on the edges with emotion. But you didn’t care. Your fists curled in your lap. “You just told me… after last night. And now you think you can walk away? No. I won’t let you.” 

A slow exhale left him, like he was trying very hard not to give in. “Sweetie, you’re making this difficult.” 

“Good,” you snapped, almost whining, too breathless to sound smug. “It’s supposed to be difficult. You don’t get to vanish before the dust even settles.”

That familiar, possessive heat flared bright and ugly within your ribs. “You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s what you said. You don’t get to just say that and then walk out the door.”

His jaw flexed, and for a beat, he said nothing. He breathed with just a hint of a self-satisfied smile tickling the corners of his lips. He was enjoying this all too much. 

“Sweetie, trust me. I don’t want to go.” He rounded the table, stepping closer to you. The heat radiating from his body wrapped around you. Familiar now, like firelight. “But I have to. Just for a few hours. There’s business I need to handle.” 

“Oh,” you muttered. Business. Of course.

Of course, he was still Sylus Qin. The N109 needed him, Onychinus needed him. The world didn’t stop just because he decided to kiss you like a man possessed. Still, you hated it. Hated the idea of being left behind now that he was here. Tangible. Real. Yours. 

The idea of even a few hours without him made your throat ache with something unreasonable. 

He must have seen it in your face because he moved closer to you, bringing his palms up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs softly brushed the skin beneath your eyes. “Don’t pout, kitten,” he murmured. “I’ll be back before you know it. But in the meantime, I’ve arranged something for you.”

You blinked up at him, brows narrowing in suspicion.

He smirked. “Didn’t I tell you?”

His lips brushed your cheek, light and lingering. “I want to dress you up, sweetie. Wrap you in the finest things money can buy.”

Another kiss, this one near your ear, dropped to a whisper.

“Surely you wouldn’t deprive me of that pleasure.”

A breathy little moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

He chuckled and pulled back just enough to rest his hands on your thighs. 

“As much as I love this look…” His thumb dipped under the hem of your pyjama shorts. “You drugged and kidnapped me in a silk dress. I want to claim that version of you, too. Will you let me?”

You snorted, despite yourself, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw. His voice dropped to a velvet growl. “And you’re mine.”

You didn’t have a comeback for that. Not when his words left you dizzy and full of something warm and terrifying. 

He pulled back just enough to see you properly. His hand slid higher on your thigh, deliberate. “A stylist is coming later this afternoon. She’ll bring the dress and help you get ready. Hair. Make-up. Everything. All you need to do is relax for me.”

“She?” you echoed, a brow lifting. So you do know other girls.

“Sweetie,” he said, tone dipping into something darker, “I’m not letting another man get within ten feet of you. Not after I’ve had to endure you letting them get too close already. Especially not while I’m not here to break his hands for it.” 

You bit your lip to keep your smile from spreading too far. “Sylus-”

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said smoothly, ignoring your half-formed protest. “And when I do, you should be ready for a long night.”

You rolled your eyes, but the flush crawling up your neck betrayed you.

“You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, mouth brushing yours again. “I am. And I’m yours.”

He kissed you once more. Slower, this time, softer. A promise in the press of his lips, the final taste before parting. He lingered, forehead resting against yours, and then he pulled back. 

“Don’t miss me too much,” he said, already halfway to the door. 

“Oh, the door won’t op-“

He cut you off with a smirk, placing his fingertip to the security pad. It blinked green. The lock disengaged with a clean, mechanical click, stunning you into silence. He then stepped through the threshold and closed the door without a second glance. 

The door hissed shut. 

A second click followed, the lock re-engaging. 

Then silence.

You were alone again. The mug in your hands had gone lukewarm, the world dulled in his absence. Quiet, colourless and a heavy silence settled, like you’d been switched on standby.

Maybe 5 seconds passed, maybe 5 minutes. The stillness pressed in, a pressure in your ears that demanded movement. Your leg bounced restlessly as your thoughts scattered. 

Your coffee had grown cold and your ass was numb. Standing up slowly, you drift to the kitchen to busy yourself with washing and putting away the coffee cups. Something to do, something to touch. 

There was nothing left to do but wait. Wait for him to come back. Wait for the stylist.

Wait for the next time you could feel his hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, like none of this had ever ended.

Curiosity rising, you walked to the door. How had he bypassed your security systems so easily? How could he claim your CCTV as his with such little effort?

Your thumb pressed to the pad, and a soft synthetic beep answered you. 

Access denied. 

You frowned and tried again, pressing harder against the receptor. 

Access denied. 

The red light pulsed steadily, a confirmation and a warning all at once. You were locked in.

He hadn’t just taken over your CCTV system, he’d taken over everything. Deleted your access and locked you in. 

The red light flashed again. Slow. Mocking. Certain.

You were trapped inside the very cage you had built to hold him. 

The irony should’ve stung. It should have terrified you, even just a little. But it didn’t.

Instead, it settled in your chest like a secret. A slow-spreading warmth, dark and heady.

Of course, he thought this far ahead. He didn’t miss a single detail. He was so clever. So precise. So devastatingly attentive.

He hadn’t done this to control you.

He’d done it to protect you.

He really, truly cared.

You smoothed your hands down the front of the dress again, fingers gliding over velvet in the same nervous rhythm you’d fallen into since slipping it on.

It was everything. 

Wine-dark velvet, the colour of blood, temptation and ruin, clung to you like it had been poured over your skin and left to set. It demanded attention. It cinched at the waist, dipping into a low cowl at the chest, offering only a whisper of what lay beneath. Thin straps kissed your shoulders, soft and deceptively delicate.

And then there was the slit. It sat high and dangerous. A deliberate tease of danger and a promise of how easily your skin could be bared. 

With every step, the skirt shifted like sin incarnate, draping itself in elegance and intention, perfectly aware of its effect. 

Every inch was designed to drive him mad, and you sincerely hoped it would. 

You’d worn it for him. Because he’d chosen it. Sylus had exquisite taste, of course, he did. Unlimited funds came with a certain expectation of extravagance, but this was more than luxury. It made the silk dress you’d kidnapped him in feel like something scraped off a clearance rack. This dress had weight. Intention. Opulence.

Even the underwear had his signature all over it. A matching lace set was soft and equally as decadent, the same blood-red hue and precision hugging your curves. All of it betrayed just how intimately he understood you. The thought that he knew what lay beneath the velvet made you burn for him. 

It made everything worse. Or maybe better. You still couldn’t decide.

But you did know one thing.

You wanted him to take it apart. Piece by slow, reverent piece. Like a gift he’d wrapped, stashed away and couldn’t wait to open. 

That should’ve been the only thing on your mind. Just anticipation and nerves for your first real date together. It should’ve been a joyful moment, just like the ones you’d imagined hundreds of times. The excitement of your fantasy being brought to life under velvet and candlelight. 

And yet, a bitter taste lingered in your throat. Something cold and acrid. A dark cloud was creeping up, threatening to overpower whatever joy you did happen to be feeling in that moment. 

The stylist. 

She’d arrived early. Unnecessarily early. Punctual at 2 p.m., all perfume and efficiency, wheeling in half a boutique like she had some personal investment in the outcome of your evening.

She was, of course, lovely. Polished and composed, with glowing skin and glossy hair swept into a perfect controlled wave that screamed experience. Her presence filled the room with ease, like this was routine. She’d orchestrated events exactly like this a thousand times before and she’d do it a thousand times again just as effortlessly.

She was almost too comfortable. Too familiar. 

And she knew Sylus, which was the main reason you hated her. She used his name like it was nothing, without any lick of respect. 

“Sylus has always preferred jewel tones,” she said casually, flipping through rich velvets and silks casually, with ease. “Black. Burgundy. Emerald. He has such a flair for the dramatic. God, he’s practically theatrical. I always told him it suited him.” She laughed, light and familiar, and you wanted to punch her.

The way her voice curled around the syllables of his name made your skin crawl. There was no professionalism in it. It was familiar in a way that set your teeth on edge. You fucking hated it. Like she hadn’t just worked with him. Like she’d known him. Been there. Seen things you hadn’t.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t trust yourself to. 

“Oh, and when it comes to women…” she said, pausing to hold a black slip of silk against your body. “He definitely has a type.”

You arched a brow, slow and deliberate. “Does he?”

She smiled at you through her lashes. All teeth and smug amusement. “Oh, I’d never tell.”

You wanted to claw her eyes out. Fingers itched, aching with the need to bury themselves in her perfect hair and just pull, just to watch her composure fracture. But you didn’t move. You stood there, letting her rifle through the garments like she hadn’t just confirmed the worst part of your imagination. She was more than a stylist. She was a witness to the version of Sylus that existed before you.

She knew him. His favourites. His preferences. And that made one thing certain—she would have to go.

She held up the dress, this one, the one that now clung to every inch of you like velvet and ruin, and her smile shifted. Knowing. Smug.“He picked this one for you. But of course, you can wear whatever you like.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did he say that to you?”

Her lips curved, almost pitying, like the question had been adorable. “I know his taste, sweetheart. But I’m no mind reader.” She plucked a hanger from a drawer and held it aloft, matching lingerie, blood-red and barely-there, dangling from her perfectly manicured fingers. “And these go with it.”

A dangerous silence stretched.

You didn’t answer. Just took the set, turned and disappeared into the bathroom. Your breath burned in your lungs, heavy with the effort of restraint. 

When you stepped out, she helped you into the dress with the brisk precision of someone used to sculpting beauty. Her touch was impersonal, but that didn’t let her off the hook. She wasn’t just dressing you for the date. She was curating you. For him, like it wasn’t the first time. Like she’d done this before. For other women. For Sylus. 

The dress fit like it was made for you. 

Of course it did.

Because it was.

By the time you broke from your reverie, she had already laid out a full spread of makeup with near-clinical precision. Brushes, palettes and gleaming tools lined up like instruments of war. She gestured for you to sit. 

“Now for the finishing touch.” 

You sat, stiff and silent, letting her tilt your chin like you were nothing more than her canvas. Her hands were practiced, and you had to admit, however grudgingly, she was good. 

She worked in soft, confident strokes, layering colour, highlight and shadows across your features. A flush of blush. A flick of liner. Your mouth painted in the same wine-blood red to match the dress. You watched yourself transform in the mirror, barely recognising the woman staring back at you. Maybe that was the point. 

Is this who he wants? This version of me, curated and polished until I shine?

“You’ll be the only thing he sees tonight,” she murmured, stepping back to admire her work like it belonged to her. “He’ll love it.”

Your lips curled, slow and certain. “I’ll be the only thing he sees every night.”

That made her blink. Just once. And then she laughed. “You two are perfect for each other.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. That floored you in a way nothing else had.

When she finally packed up, she brushed a speck of invisible lint from your shoulder, fingers lingering a second too long. Your jaw tightened. You had to physically resist the urge to sink your teeth into her hand.

She winked on her way out. “Have fun tonight.”

The door clicked shut behind her, locking automatically. The red security ring pulsed, smug and satisfied.

Locked in.

And strangely, that brought you comfort.

A sharp knock came at exactly 7 p.m., slicing you through the spiral that had been trapped in since the stylist left. 

You inhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your chest that begged you to run to the door like something feral. The moment you opened the door and saw him in all his devastating, deliberate glory, your breath caught sharp as a blade in your throat. 

He was dressed to ruin you. There was no other word for it.

Black on black. A silk dress shirt, collar open just enough to expose the golden column of his throat, tucked into tailored trousers that clung to him like sin stitched them in place. His hair was tousled just enough to look unintentional. And those red eyes? They drank you in the second the door cracked open.

“Sweetie,” he murmured, his eyes dragging down the length of you like he was memorising a masterpiece carved to destroy him. “You’re going to kill me.”

From behind his back, he revealed a bouquet of blood-red roses, thornless and obscene in their perfection. His smile, soft, smug and unguarded disarmed you completely.

“Not before dinner,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. The grin you tried to cover curled traitorously across your lips as you took hold of the bouquet, its fragrance curling around you.

His gaze didn’t leave you. Not for a second. He took his time, drinking in the drape of your dress, the flash of your leg through the slit, the delicate line of your throat, until his eyes finally settled on your face. The only one he’d ever cared to memorise.

“I knew that dress would suit you,” he said, stepping into your space and pulling you closer. “If I’d known it was going to look this good, though, I’d never have made dinner reservations.” His breath brushed the shell of your ear, his nose following the same path as he drank in your perfume.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice dropping into something wicked. “You smell good enough to ruin.” 

You flushed, heart thundering so loud it echoed in your ears, in your throat, everywhere.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice soft, masking the storm beneath your skin. But the bite lingered. The tension sat coiled between your ribs, ready. 

His eyes narrowed, head tilting slightly as a slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Something’s got your fur standing on end,” he drawled, voice all velvet and smoke. “What is it, kitten?”

He watched you for a moment too long, his gaze indulgent, burning heat across your skin like a touch you couldn’t shake

You looked away, hating how easily he read you. How he felt your mood like a pressure drop before a storm.

“Nothing,” you muttered, slipping from his hold with more effort than you cared to admit. You crossed to the kitchen, every step stiff with defiance, and began filling a vase with water with your back towards him. You made sure to keep your eyes on the roses instead of the man who made your blood feel like lava.

“Nothing?” His voice dipped lower, darker, like a knife sliding back into its sheath. “Because you’ve barely looked at me since I walked in. And kitten… you’re pouting.” 

He moved toward you with slow, predatory intent, laser-focused on his prey. With every step, the tension in the room wound tighter and tighter. You could feel him behind you, his presence like static on your skin, urging you to turn and look. To play the game you’d accidentally started.

But turning would be surrender. And, after all, you hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really.

“I’m not-” you started, but he was already closing the space between syllables.

He chuckled. Dark and knowing. “Pouting?” he echoed, mocking and sweet, taking the final step that erased all distance between you. His thumb grazed your lower lip, slow and purposeful. “Try again, and this time, don’t lie to me.” 

He paused, waiting, and at your continued silence, he asked, “Was it the dress? The makeup?” Another pause, softer this time. “The stylist?”

You said nothing; you didn’t have to. The deepening curve of your pout revealed it, and he knew it. Of course he did. He knew you so well, after all. 

His smile widened, slow and indulgent. “Ah,” he breathed, like tasting something forbidden. “Are those claws I see?”

He stepped closer, chest pressing flush against your back, his body all heat and muscle against you. His fingers ghosted over the bare skin of your arm, feather-light and gentle. 

“Tell me, sweetie,” he whispered, “Who are we using them on tonight?”

Still, you stayed silent. You wanted to make him work for it.

His fingers hooked under your chin, coaxing your gaze toward him over your shoulder. His hand at your hip tightened, pulling you harder against the hard planes of his body. You could feel his heartbeat pounding against your almost bare back.

“Use your words, sweetie,” he coaxed, voice low, fond and maddeningly patient. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s upset you.”

You glared up at him. He looked downright delighted.

“It’s stupid,” you muttered, the words reluctant, fragile.

“Try me.”

You paused, teeth grazed your bottom lip. He was patient, unmoving, steady and searing with the quiet power of someone who knew he’d already won.

“The stylist,” you muttered at last, gaze sliding away from him.

His brow lifted ever so slightly as he folded his arms, the cut of his blazer straining across his chest. “Go on.”

“She knew you,” you added, heat bleeding into your voice. “Too well.”

“Too well?” he echoed, tilting his head again. “What does that mean?”

You braced for mockery. A laugh. A dismissal.

It didn’t come.

“It means,” you snapped, finally meeting his eyes, “she talked like she’d done this before. Like she’d dressed women for you before. Like you used to-” 

You stopped yourself, taking a deep breath as heat surged to your cheeks.

He said nothing. Letting the silence stretch, tight as a drawn bowstring..

“...Like she knew how to get me ready for you,” you admitted.

A long moment passed.

Then, his smile twisted. Darker now, feral. 

“Is my girl jealous?” he purred, clearly too pleased with himself to even try and hide it.

You glared harder.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone, as if he could soothe the emotion right out of you. “You’re the one here. You’re the one I chose. I thought I made myself clear last night… but maybe I should’ve done more”

“She said-”

“You never need to justify yourself to me. Not your feelings. Not your fury.” His voice darkened. “If she upset you, she’s gone. Understand?”

“That’s not what I-” 

“Understand?” He asked again, low and sharp.

You nodded slowly, his insistence knocking the breath from you. His smile deepened even further. 

“That’s my girl.” He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unapologetic, leaving behind the ghost of a smudge of lipstick. Proof you were his and he was yours. He’d made sure the whole world would know it.

The ache in your chest unwound, replaced by something molten and still.

“You’re mine. You always were and you always will be.” His words felt like gospel branded into your skin, tingling your spine. “And if she made you feel otherwise,” he murmured, voice dropping to something lethal, “then she’s gone.”

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing the top of your thigh, dangerously close to the edge of the slit. Close enough to steal your breath. Close enough to taste the wine of his cologne and feel the low hum of pleasure in his chest.

You nodded, breathless.

“Good,” he murmured, lips grazing your cheek, then moving down to your jaw. His voice, at your ear, was silk. “I like it when you’re feisty.”

You could’ve slapped him. Or kissed him. Or both. Instead, all you managed was: “She knew too much.”

He nodded, expression sobering. “You won’t be seeing her again.”

Your eyes widened a fraction, but he caught it.

“I’ll handle it,” he said simply, like it was already done. “She should’ve known better. She should’ve treated you with the same respect she reserves for me.” 

His voice dipped, eyes dark. “You’re my equal after all.”

“It wasn’t that bad, Sylus,” you muttered. “I’m just making a problem where there isn’t one.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His gaze grew hotter. “She clearly got too familiar with something that belongs to me.”

And just like that, your anger fizzled into something darker. Warmer.

Because Sylus was yours. And god, he knew it.

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