mykee

you blink. oh. not again.

reminded of the time this happened once before, you do not worry for being this way indefinitely. so, you decide in that breath to ride it out with a little bit more grace this time.

with a deep sigh, you make your way to lucian’s side and lick the tip of his nose.

you wish you could capture this somehow— the details of when they open their eyes to the sunlight in your feline vision. each lash so perfectly curated, each freckle in their irises wonderfully placed, the overjoyed expression that paints their features when a kitten wakes them.

“a cat!” lucian squeals, taking you with him again when he sits upright. you giggle in your mind, the purrs let them know you are.

you’ll commend them later with how gently they care for you.

kyros’s warm palm stays on your head, petting as he is talking to you about being part of the family. asking for permission to hug you which you respond to with slow blinks and head butts to his soft belly.

lucian excitedly crawls in circles around you, careful not to hit you, while yapping about how many tricks you’ll be able to do— with live demonstrations of said tricks. you so kindly demonstrate them back to him, and his face of triumph is one you've never seen before.

your heart warms, despite being in this predicament, not once have you yet worried about needing to turn back.

on this rare morning, when your little ones are fawning over you and showing you the fruits of your love for them, you take this curse as a blessing.

but that smell.

it’s not bad, just strong and warm and creeping. the smell of a living body— of milk, blueberries and a simmering smoke beneath. a strange variation of… sylus.

a scent too strong that you must wipe them clean of or else something else will smell them, then your little ones would be in grave danger. your pupils shrink to slits and your hackles rise at the thought. kyros murmurs a confused, "huh?"

hopping up on your hind legs makes him coo, but your singular purpose is to get to his cheeks. a few licks will balance them out, smooth it out and refine it— balance it with you, and make it smell like home.

"boys, have you seen your mother?"

you’re in the middle of licking lucian’s forehead when sylus walks into their bedroom. he stares at his children, hair mussed in different directions, and they stare right back at him.

"papa!" kyros smiles, scrambling off the sheets to crash into sylus's knees. he is caught just in time before any teeth are knocked out, and lifted into a sturdy embrace.

lucian tilts his head closer to you when you bap his forehead with your mitten. you start licking at another spot on his head. "papa, a cat came in."

"it looks like it." he chuckles, recognizing the dragon li that has begun scenting his children as none other than his wife. it's happened before, anyway, what he didn't expect is that it would happen again.

he reaches out to squeeze lucian's cheek good morning, but your paw swats his hand away.

the silence is heavy.

he scoffs at you, appalled. "are you keeping him from me?"

you hiss, ears flat back and petulant. the answer, horrifyingly, a yes.

you try to chirp at kyros, redirect him back to you because— ugh, he just undid all the work you did and now he smells even more like his father and even less like you. luckily, he is obedient and wriggles out of his papa's grasp at your command, much to sylus's displeasure.

"hey!" sylus harrumphs, watching as kyros sidles up next to you and lucian. his brood, now within your litter.

you hiss at him again.

"no," lucian chides, petting your ears down. "das papa. he's nice."

"papa no hurt you." kyros supplies helpfully. "he big, but he no hurt."

sylus softens at his children's words. to you, he says, "see, kitten? i'm harmless."

"her name miss waffle-cake, papa," whispers kyros, offended for you. you meow in protest at the dubbed name, knowing how sylus will use it against you later on, but kyros holds you close now and sniffs you. "she smell sweet!"

"oh?" sylus grins, sinister and mischievous. "may i?"

he's fast when he takes you from kyros. the height you travel up to is sickening with the speed, it makes you squirm and cry in protest. soon you're face-to-face with your husband, eyes gleaming, and smirk treacherous.

his nose is in your belly in an instant. it tickles. you do not know whether to scream or laugh.

your meows are incomprehensible, and your limbs flail about against your control. in your head, you are screaming for your life.

"stop!" is yelled from below you, your own kittens now pawing at sylus's legs in outrage. "stop, she don'ike it!"

sylus breathes a chuckle as he cradles you to his chest. your sheathed claws tap at his cheek in mock pride, saying, yes! listen to your sons!

"papa, be nice!" squeaks lucian, seeming most affected by your distressed sounds. "she little!"

"give me!" demands kyros, hands outstretched upwards. waiting for your return in his protection.

sylus laughs at your smug expression, surprised a cat can even have such a prominent one, and promptly hands you back to kyros.

"sorry." kyros kisses your forehead softly, and you melt in his embrace. "papa silly sometime."

lucian comes to scratch your chin and bump his forehead against yours. angrily muttering under his breath, "big lizard."

your purrs get louder as your laughter turns hysterical in your brain.

oh, your sweet boys.

"okay, i'm sorry." sylus sinks down to the floor to kneel on his legs and bows his head. "i got... excited."

lucian is the one who shifts his body to be the barrier between him and you. "papa... like cats?"

sylus chuckles at the accusation. "i love cats. especially waffle-cake." he nods towards you. despite yourself, you tilt your head shyly.

"miss waffle-cake." kyros sneers. he did come up with the name, after all.

sylus raises his palms regretfully. "miss waffle-cake."

oh he's loving this. you snuff a breath at him through your little pink nose.

sylus pleads with his family now, eyes big and unguarded. begging to be included in the fun. "i promise to be gentle."

the twins look to one another. it wasn't like their papa to lie to them. he messes with them, regularly, sure, but he isn't mean, they think. lucian is the first to nod, and so kyros announces the ruling that papa can now be part of the i-love-miss-waffle-cake-club.

grateful, he squeezes himself onto lucian's bed and takes all three of you in the crisscross of his legs. bending close to your snout for a little nuzzle as he whispers, "just say when."

knowing that the last time this happened, turning back involved lips and true love.

you rub your cheek against his chin in acknowledgement.

the morning is spent indulging your family on their simple joys.

you'd become one of the world's greatest marvels, existing being your greatest feat to your children.

your quick zoomies around the room are exhilarating, especially with two little boys trying to catch you.

you sniff them until their stomachs hurt from laughing.

you teach them to make biscuits on papa, starting your own little bakery on his bottom.

even your instinctive licking (because they're starting to smell like sylus again) is so inexplicably beautiful to them, they just sit there and let it happen.

and naturally, under the warmth of the morning light, once curious eyes waver behind heavy lids. your own yawn from your place on sylus's chest, underneath his shirt, seems to trigger everyone else's.

positions are established like nature, and soon you're squeezed up against two little ones who've decided they want to be kittens in papa's shirt too.

but before they drift away, kyros takes your paw in his hand and lucian kisses your head and murmurs. "wish mama was here."

melting your heart into oblivion.

"having fun?" sylus inquires once lucian has followed his brother into a dream later on. you've crawled out of his shirt and perched yourself on his shoulder, curling around your babies as best you can.

you chirp at him, yes. and slowly blink at your sons.

"ready?" he asks softly, but it sounds like another request entirely.

the slight pucker of his lips is cute, showing a little more than he let on— if you knew how to look for it. an expert in reading your husband, you read him clear as day: he misses you.

so you lean in, but instinct trumps logic and your paws press against his lips. "mrph!"

"what?" he wonders. you're getting up and climbing on his head now. he feels the sharpened bristles of your tongue move his unstyled hair in all directions, doing more harm than good if your intention was to groom him.

he lets you finish the job, just as obedient as his sons, until you give him the kiss he's been waiting for.

when your feline eyes turn from large and crystaline to the ones he fell in love with, he smiles. "kitten."

meanwhile, your hands slide up to the back of his head to tug him down. his hair—now perfectly balanced in scent thanks to you— is askew, but you make no effort in fixing anything else.

you take a whiff and sigh in relief. "much better."

"because... you're not a cat anymore?" sylus inquires. unaware of the still fading inner workings of a feline's mind.

"sure," you shrug, kissing his cheek. then you turn to your sleeping babies on his chest and soften. "but that was good too."

papa? he’s spent all week memorizing the names of the organizations affiliates. not one is called papa. had he missed something? so soon shall this be the end of his career?

he swallows. ponders—this can either be an enemy with technology to change their voice, or… no, how could a child know this number?

“hello? can talk to papa?”

“who is this?” he demands, harsh.

it is lost on the voice. he dictates his own learned script slowly. “my name… is… keewo.”

keewo… neither was that on the list. had he missed a page? was it the phonetic alphabet? code?

his palms begin to sweat. phone calls should never last more than a minute unless necessary. and the time ticks dangerously closer to forty seconds.

and his supervisor seems to he counting with him, because across the room, polishing a newly shipped in protocore weapon, his eyes meet ones behind a crow’s mask.

“you are not in our system.”

“what tissem?” the voice breathes, mouth too close to whatever receiver he was using. “can talk to papa pease?”

“are you a child?” forty seconds… the masked man rises from his seat.

“no. i boy.”

“how old are you?” forty-three. he’s placing the weapon down.

“i two. oh-most, twee.” the boy says happily. “can talk papa now, pease?”

forty-nine. his eye twitches. “who is papa?”

“my papa!”

fifty. shit. the supervisor is a few steps— “what’s his name?”

“uhh… uh…” fifty-three.

fifty-four.

fifty-five.

“papa name is… uh—“

“you dialed wrong.” fifty seven.

“no! i pwactice.” he harrumphs on the other end. fifty eight. “my papa name sy-woos!”

fifty-nine.

sylus.

his blood runs cold.

at sixty, like clockwork the phone is snatched from his hand. but the masked man who’d given him strict instructions that day has frozen in his own place a few paces away.

behind him stands a ghost never meant to be witnessed by mortal eyes. this shadow clad in darkness that only allow his red irises’ glow to pierce through. he lowers his head—respect, fear— he cannot say. but his heart beats like hooves in of a stampede.

“kyros.” says sylus. mister sylus— he would be instructed to call him were it not deemed unnecessary because he never comes in. “papa is working, angel.”

he barely hears the commotion on the other end. doesn’t even register the way the ominous entity of a man’s voice softens to an unbelievable timbre just above him.

“i know, i miss you too.” he says. footsteps fade along with the voice as he retreats with the wireless into the private office reserved for him alone.

he’s done for, surely. how could he have dismissed the boss’s son? how could he have known? no matter; he should have. and now—

“hey.” the masked supervisor squeezes his shoulder and he jumps like a cat.

the man— he isnt sure which twin this is but there were two of them earlier— snickers. “scared?”

he swallows.

“don’t worry about it.” he points to the dock missing its handheld, towards the light glowing orange. “forgot to mention, if it’s this color, always redirect to the main phone.”

he swallows. the boss doesn’t like to be bothered with trivial things, is what he knows. right?

but his supervisor adds. “he doesn’t like missing calls from very important people.”

he has no time to process before sylus returns and the handheld clicks in place in the dock before him.

crimson eyes examine him and he feels like his skin is peeled apart and soul exposed for a moment before sylus slowly turns away.

“carry on.” is the command.

and so, he does. he can do that.

It was late. Beyond late, the kind of hour where the dark ceases to be a shield and begins to feel like a countdown

Two hours had bled away since midnight, the precise deadline Sylus had given you to return with the shipment routes. Two hours since his last text had flashed across your screen: "I'm on my way." A terse response to your notification that you had successfully wrung the coordinates from the broker. The deal had come with a condition, of course, but a win was a win.

Now, you stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the most expensive penthouse in N821. Your skin was still radiating the residual heat of a hot shower, the heavy ivory silk of your robe trailing against your ankles as you knotted the belt around your waist.

N821 was a different kind of monster than N109

Where N109 was a chaotic, bleeding theater of crime, N821 was the same beast refined sleeker, heavily organized, masked in exorbitant wealth, and brutally cold

You closed your eyes, exhaling a slow, sharp breath through your nose. The frustration didn't leave you, it merely settled deeper into your chest. He was with her. That little hunter. The one he taunted. The one you had once discovered practically in his lap

Granted, during that particular encounter, she had a loaded barrel pressed flush against his sternum. And God, how Sylus had thrived on the bite of it. He didn't just tolerate her defiance; he fed on it.

Irrelevant, you reminded yourself, your jaw tightening. Your arrangement with the leader of Onychinus was built on concrete and blood, not sentiment

If there was closeness between you, it was found exclusively in the dark sharp, high friction intimacy utilized purely as stress relief. When two apex predators unite, you do not expect a love story. You expect an alliance

He desired you; that much was undeniable. You were a crown jewel in the underworld silently deadly, poised. A trophy for a man who claimed to own the world

Not an ornament for him though. Never that. Sylus had little interest in fragile things

Yet, your eyes rarely deceived you. Every time he looked at the hunter, there was a faint, intolerable fondness in his gaze. It was childish to even note it, but the great, wanted criminal's eyes actually softened whenever he called her kitten

You despised the word. If he ever dared utter that nickname to you, you would ensure his next glass of wine was laced with cyanide.

Why did she get a title born of affection while you received a title born of strategy? With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the glass to gather the paperwork scattered across the desk. Time was a luxury you didn't possess

The documents required your signature and a thorough review before they could be handed over to your dear husband by morning

Your dear, dear husband.

The man you swore you didn't crave. The man you swore you didn't miss. You swore it because it was the absolute truth. You were detached. It was the only state of being you had ever known

As the perfect daughter of a sprawling empire, love had never been factored into your record.

Neither had vulnerability

For someone who could afford everything the world had to offer, you couldn't afford a heart

You had never been in love. Intimacy itself was a foreign language until Sylus Qin. To this day, the irony of it brought a cold, humorless smile to your lips. Embarrassing, really, that a man so ruthless had been your introduction to the flesh.

Then again, he had set a incredibly high standard.

While other girls your age were experiencing the trivialities of teenage romance, you were busy learning how to strip a firearm in under ten seconds. You had spent your youth enduring grueling training sessions, followed by hours studying the art of high stakes negotiation under the suffocating, stern glare of your father

In your world, knowing how to distinguish which protocore dealer lied and which one merely inflated prices for survival was the key

But you knew how to hate. Sylus knew it, too, and he drew an infuriating amount of satisfaction from drawing that hatred to the surface

You sat in the plush, albeit uncomfortable, armchair, closing your eyes briefly to soothe the pulsing pressure building behind them. You forced yourself to reopen them, scanning the lines of text to highlight the clauses Sylus would inevitably want to contest.

Think of the devil

The heavy click of the penthouse door echoing through the foyer broke the silence. You didn't bother to lift your head. You were furious, and you had no intention of granting him the courtesy of an immediate greeting.

He called your name once. Then, as if tracking the scent of your irritation, his heavy footsteps moved towards the study where you were.

When he stepped into the light, he was a vision of controlled violence. His silver hair was damp, plastered slightly against his forehead from the storm outside. His clothes were dark with melted snow. His knuckles were split freshly cleaned, but faint traces of copper still stained the creases of his skin. A shallow, clean cut marred the high ridge of his cheekbone.

Yet, by the slow, deliberate grace of his stride, you could tell he was entirely unbothered. He looked utterly smug

You permitted yourself exactly one second to take in the sight of him. Then, with a fluid, dismissive motion, you tossed the files onto the marble coffee table. You swung your legs over the armrest of the chair, leaning back into the cushions with calculated laziness

Svlus stoned. He knew that nosture. He knew he was walking on razor thin ice

An amused brow arched upward, a familiar, infuriating smirk threatening to touch his lips before he smoothly schooled his expression. He slipped his damp coat from his shoulders, tossing it aside. Now, it was his turn to take you in

The silk robe had slipped, exposing the curve of one shoulder. Your long legs were draped carelessly over the velvet arm of the chair, and the ends of your hair were still dark with moisture. A vision. Perfect, dangerous, and entirely unimpressed.

"Read," you commanded

Your voice was a low, smooth blade. You didn't look at him as you spoke, your slender fingers wrapping instead around the stem of your champagne glass. You brought it to your lips, taking a slow sip

Sylus picked up the documents. His crimson eyes scanned between the lines, his expression entirely unmoved by the staggering demands written into the contract. It was the face of a man who found exactly what he expected.

You had done your job flawlessly. As always

"I assume it went well on your end as well" you murmured, boredom perfectly lacing your voice, though the underlying edge remained razor-cold. "Though if I were to critique, you are quite late. And we do have a time limit."

Sylus didn't look up from the pages immediately, flipping one over with a crisp, deliberate sound that echoed in the quiet room.

"Worry not, The twins handled it." he replied, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the stillness

"it was supposed to be your job–"

"–The broker tried to alter the delivery terms at the eleventh hour," he murmured, tilting his head. The shallow cut on his cheek caught the amber light of the fire. "He brought a few extra bodies to enforce the new price. It took a moment to remind him of his place."

"Remind him of his place."

You set your champagne glass down on the marble table with a hollow, deliberate clink. Your eyes didn't track the movement; they remained locked on the neat, bloodless line across his cheekbone

"A clean cut for a back alley broker," you remarked, your tone smooth, devoid of the irritation simmering beneath your skin. "He must have exceptional aim. Or a very specific model of an Association-issued blade."

Sylus didn't blink. The corner of his mouth twitched. He tossed the folder onto the desk, the heavy paper settling with a dull thud

"The Association tried to intervene. They failed."

"And you let them walk away," you countered, sliding your legs off the armrest. You stood, the ivory silk parting slightly at your thigh as you crossed the room toward him. "You left the financing channel exposed. I noticed the omission before you walked in. It's a vulnerability, Sylus. My board will reject that transit exposure immediately."

You stopped a mere foot away from him. The scent of him, and the distinct, metallic tang of fresh blood rolled off him in waves, overpowering the scent of the room

"I don't tolerate sloppiness," you murmured, tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes. "Especially not when my family's name is masking your assets. If your little shadow play in N109 is bleeding into our territory, fix it."

Sylus stood his ground, a towering monolith of damp wool and dark intent. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't even look at the paperwork you were weaponizing against him

Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly down the exposed column of your throat to where the silk of your robe loosely met at your chest

"Sloppiness" he repeated, the word rolling out of his chest like low thunder. He took a single step forward, crowding your space until the heat radiating from his body began to melt the chill in your own. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"I call it what it is. A liability."

Sylus reached out. His split knuckles were rough against your skin as his thumb caught the underside of your jaw, forcing your head back a fraction of an inch. His touch was cold, a harsh contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin, but his grip was unyielding.

"You don't give a fuck about the southern transit line" he murmured softly.

"I care about our metrics"

"You care that she was there."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The amusement left his face, replaced by something entirely different. The smug, detached mask he usually wore around you cracked, revealing the dark, predatory focus underneath. His crimson eyes searched yours, not with the cold calculation of a business partner, but with the raw, heavy intensity of a man who had just found a crack in an unbreachable wall.

"Look at you," Sylus whispered, his deep voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, more intimate. His thumb stroked the line of your jaw, the friction sending a sharp jolt straight down your spine. "Jealous." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your lips

Your breath hitched a small fracture in your armor, but to a man like Sylus, it was a siren song.

"Don't flatter yourself," you hissed, your voice dropping to a dangerous, venomous whisper. You wrapped your hand around his wrist, trying to push him back. "I don't care who you entertain in your spare time. Just keep your goddamn pets out of my ledger."

Sylus didn't move an inch. If anything, your resistance only made his grip tighten, his fingers sliding from your jaw to wrap fully around the back of your neck, tilting your head up to fully meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes was entirely gone. In its place was a dark, feral satisfaction that burned hot enough to scald

"will you say that again?" He asked, his lips brushing yours with every syllable, a torturous, high-friction promise.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t get the chance to

You tried to twist your face out of his grip, a sharp, dismissive jerk intended to re establish the boundary, but Sylus didn't let you breathe.

The moment your fingers tightened on his wrist to shove him back, he used his massive momentum to drive you backward

The small of your back hit the solid wall with a heavy thud. Nearby, the champagne glass you had set down wobbled, tipped, and shattered against the marble floor, the sharp crack of crystal completely swallowed by the sudden, suffocating proximity of his body

His hand shifted from your jaw, split-knuckled fingers tangling ruthlessly into the strands of your hair, tugging back until your neck arched, He used the leverage to feast on you completely without restraint. It was a violent, undisciplined wreck of a collision messy, desperate, and entirely devoid of the elegance you both prided yourselves on

He didn't give you a clean, strategic kiss. He didn't offer the practiced precision you both used to mask your intentions in public.

He bit you.

It was a bruising, desperate clash of teeth and lips that tasted immediately of the starved, mutual want you had both spent days denying. You let out a muffled, furious sound against his mouth a protest born purely of your refusal to break first and tried to wedge your forearm tightly between his chest and yours to force some distance.

Sylus didn't care. He pinned your arm flat against the wall, his thigh crowding ruthlessly between yours, the rough of his trousers parting the heavy silk of your robe.

The past four days of silence, of separate territories and calculated distance, boiled over in a single second.

It was unpolished. It was feral. The slick, wet sound of his tongue sliding against yours filled the quiet room, deep and demanding, dragging the air straight out of your lungs until your chest heaved uselessly against his.

You tried to bite him back, to hurt him, to remind him of the danger of crowding a predator, and your teeth caught his lower lip, drawing a fresh bead of dark blood.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, He thrived on the high friction of your resistance.

He pulled back for a fraction of a second, just enough for a thin, silver string of spit to break between your swollen lips. His eyes were entirely blown out, the right crimson of his iris practically glowing in the shadows of the room, dark with a terrifyingly possession. He looked like a beast that had finally been given permission to tear its cage apart.

"My, my, is my sweet wife finally showing her teeth?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a ruined, breathless rasp as his mouth left yours for a single second to track a wet, heavy path down your jawline.

"Move." you gasped, your fingers clawing deep into the fabric of his shoulders, though your nails dug in so hard you were actively pulling him closer, betraying the very lie you were telling. "Sylus–"

He didn't let you finish.

Our blood. Our slick, hot saliva,

It mingled into a chaotic, violent smear between your mouths as he devoured your protest.

The grip on your hair tightened, tugging hard enough to make you gasp before he buried his tongue back into your mouth, deeper this time, swallowing your breath whole. It was a suffocating, borderline foul display spit slicking your chin, the metallic taste of his torn skin smearing between you, while his large, calloused hand slid inside the parted silk of your robe to grip the bare skin of your hip with a bruising force that would absolutely leave a mark by morning.

You hated how easily he broke your composure. You hated that you had spent days pretending his absence didn't claw at the inside of your ribs, only for him to wreck your perfect armor in a matter of sentences.

Sylus broke the kiss, His forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest rising and falling in violent, uneven synchronization with your own

"Say it again," he rumbled, his thumb dragging across your wet lower lip, smearing the crimson stain. "Tell me you don't care who I keep in my spare time while you're choking on me."

"You're a bastard," you whispered, your voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of fury and unadulterated arousal, your hips twitching helplessly against the heavy, solid weight of his thigh pressed between yours

"Yours," he growled against your skin, a dark, stolen vow before his lips curled into that insufferable smirk

His mouth descended on your throat with feral hunger, biting and sucking the sensitive skin until a deep bruise began to bloom while his thigh anchored firmly between your legs, the sudden, blunt friction wrung a sharp, fractured sob from your lips

It was humiliating the immediate, pathetic rush of your own juices instantly soaking through the lace panel of your underwear. Your logical mind screamed to fight, but your body, instinctively chased the bruising pressure. You rolled your hips against his leg, a desperate, rolling twitch to catch the edge of relief.

But Sylus had no patience left tonight. His large, rough palms slid beneath the hem of your slip, scraping up, up, up, the bare skin of your thighs, your hips, trailing a path of fire. His hands found your chest, fingers roughly squeezing the tight, aching weight of your breasts, his thumbs snapping against your nipples without a shred of shame

"Need I remind you sweetie," he rasped, pausing only to sink his teeth into the junction of your shoulder, biting hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood. "She is not the one who wears my name."

Not the woman he loves, but the woman in his bed. or at least that's how it sounded to you.

The bitter thought tasted like ash, but the fire between your thighs was blinding. Lured into his trap, your hips moved once again against his leg practically begging for the friction

Sylus let out a low, rumbling growl of pure triumph. Before you could reclaim your breath, his hands locked around your waist. With terrifying, fluid ease, he hoisted you onto his broad shoulder.

"What are you–"

The words were knocked out of you as he manhandled you across the penthouse, his brute strength on effortless display. You hung like a prized, captive trophy, until he threw you face down onto the mattress.

Your face pressed into the plush bedding, your breath hitching. Before you could scramble to your elbows, heavy, crackling energy flooded the space. Black-and-crimson mist bled from his fingertips, weaving through the air like liquid iron before snapping tight around your wrists.

The heavy pressure of his evol pinned your hands behind your back, completely unyielding.

"This won't solve anything, Qin," you hissed, turning your head to glare at him with venomous, hatred

But the threat died on your lips. In the dim amber light of the room, you were utterly exposed. Your silk slip had ridden up to your waist, baring the flush, plush curve of your ass and the perfect, arch of your spine. You looked like a feline caught in a trap, beautifully undone.

And fuck did Sylus adore the sight.

"It will," he murmured.

He stepped closer, his long fingers trailing down the small of your back before he leaned down to press a hot, mocking kiss against your lower spine.

His hand hooked into the lace of your underwear, pulling the material taut.

Even without looking, you could picture the sick, smug satisfaction written across his features. The panties were heavily damp, soaked through with the visible, glistening evidence of how badly you wanted him

Frustration and arousal coiled tight in your gut. You tugged uselessly against the heavy weight of bound hands "Uncuff me. This is fucking stupid! You can't just–"

"Can't?"

The word cut through your protest, smooth, amused, and dripping with absolute authority. He didn't care about your rules. With a swift, deft motion, his fingers hooked the damp lace, stripping it from your hips and leaving your dripping, swollen slit completely bare to the room

Before you could even process the movement, he brought the ruined lace to his mouth, licking and savouring the slick on it before letting saliva gather and spat on the same place he sucked, his large, calloused fingers ruthlessly stuffed the wet, panties into your open mouth after, forcing it past your teeth and cutting off your scream

Your eyes widened in absolute shock. The sheer audacity of it, the profound humiliation of being gagged by your own soaked underwear, sent a paralyzing jolt straight down your spine. You had never felt this helpless.

This desperate.

"Ah. Still trying to fight?" Sylus whispered, his lips curving into a dark, wicked smile as he looked down at your exposed, dripping heat. "Cute."

He reached down between your thighs. A heavy, viscous pearl of your own wetness was clinging desperately to your pussy, hanging from your swollen outer lips. With agonizing slowness, he used his thumb to catch the drop, breaking it and smearing the slick heat upward, coating your sensitive clit with your own fluids until you were covered in your essence

A muffled, strangled sob caught in the back of your throat, completely swallowed by the silk in your mouth as your inner thighs trembled

And Sylus thrived on the sound. With a deliberate, forceful shove, he buried two thick, rough fingers straight into your tight hole. The contrast was intoxicating, the feverish pulsating warmth of your walls instantly clamped down, desperately squeezing the cold, length of his fingers.

"Look at how wet you are," he rumbled, his voice a ruined, gravelly rasp as he began to pump his fingers inside you, driving them deep, stretching you open with a crude, slow pace. "...don't get the wrong idea, I'm not trying to mock you."" and you swore he almost sounded amused, but you couldn't focus

How could you, when the wet, squelching sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your pussy filled the quiet room. You were completely dripping, your juices running down his hand and pooling onto the dark sheets beneath you as he used his thumb to viciously hook and rub against your swollen clit with every deep thrust, driving you toward a blind, desperate peak while you lay pinned and gagged

Breathless and whining is what you were, one of the most important board pieces in N019 reduced to this, and you knew this was not even close to it all.

You could feel it. just beneath the shadow of your straining hips, you could feel the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hard against your thigh

Impending fucking doom it was.

He gave your ass a taunting squeeze, his large hand bruising the plush flesh before he finally pulled away.

The agonizing loss of his touch was immediately replaced by a different kind of torture. The slick, wet sound of his fingers inside you was gone, replaced by the harsh, metallic rasp of a zipper parting, followed by the slide of his boxers.

Pinned face down, your view was restricted, but you didn't need to see it to know what was happening. Peering over your shoulder, you caught a dizzying glimpse of his toned, sculpted stomach, and the thick, unyielding length of his cock standing proud against it. A viscous bead of precum already glistened at the blunt tip.

You watched his large, scarred hand wrap around his own girth, pumping twice in a slow, deliberate stroke before he aligned himself behind you

He slid upward, but he didn't push inside.

Instead, he wedged the broad, mushroomed head of his cock perfectly against your swollen clit. His fingers gripped the base of his shaft, holding himself firmly in place while he ground against your clit. Your own slick juices immediately coated him, the wetness running down his heavy length with every agonizingly shallow slide

He was teasing you. He was actively refusing to give you the ruinous relief of his cock stretching you wide, denying you the fullness you could feel aching in your gut. No matter how many times you fucked, taking Sylus Qin was a chore, because the universe was cruel enough to give the man a dick as impossibly big as his ego.

You whined, a fractured, pathetic sound, rolling your hips back in a desperate attempt to sink onto him, to soothe the need boiling in your blood

"Relax, wife," he drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration as he delivered another shallow, grinding thrust that sent a shower of sparks straight to your stomach. "You'll get what you want."

The heavy palm of his hand flattened against your lower back, pressing you down as his cock remained glued to your dripping slit. "Today. Tomorrow." He leaned down, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to your trembling shoulder. "Over and over again, until you tire of me."

He pressed one final, bruising kiss to your skin, and then, the heavy, crackling weight of his evol vanished.

The sudden release of pressure made your arms give out, your chest hitting the mattress, but Sylus didn't let you rest. His massive hands gripped your waist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he flipped you onto your back.

And fuck, was it a sight.

You were beyond divine. Your usually immaculate hair was a wild, tangled mess. Your cheeks were flushed a feverish, beautiful crimson, and tears of absolute frustration pooled in your waterlines. Your lips were swollen and thoroughly wrecked, while between your parted thighs, your dripping, perfectly ruined pussy was fully on display.

Sylus literally choked on a breath.

There was a reason you were hailed as the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the underworld. Everyone else only ever saw you armored in million dollar gowns and a blood chilling smile. No one on earth would ever get to see you like this. Reduced to a beautiful, panting wreck.

His. Entirely his.

But while he was busy staring at you with open, starving reverence, you were absolutely furious. You reached up, ripping the soaked lace panties from your mouth and hurling them directly at his sculpted chest.

It only angered you further when his lips curled into a wicked, devastating grin.

Your chest heaved. Despite your fury, your body betrayed you, throbbing violently at the sight of him caging you in, looking like a greek god, taking in his physique

But the ache wasn't enough to dull your pride.

You needed revenge.

You surged upward, your hands shooting out to fist violently in the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a brutal, bruising kiss.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound of approval. His body automatically chased the closeness, climbing over you to press his heavy weight down.

The second he did, your long legs instantly wrapped around his waist, locking tightly at the small of his back.

You squeezed your thighs, pressing right against the base of his rigid cock, wringing a sharp grunt from his throat. Using the leverage, you rolled your hips

The world tilted, and the next thing Sylus knew, his back hit the mattress, and you were straddling his hips.

You sat up, looking down at him with the cold, authoritative superiority.

"You've played enough," you murmured, your voice a smooth, dangerous blade. "So now, keep your hands flat on the mattress, Qin. If you even think about touching me before I give you permission, I swear to god I’ll leave you exactly like this."

His crimson eyes glistened with dark, feral amusement. It was a bluff. You knew it, he knew it. Sex between the two of you was like breathing; neither of you would ever actually stop. But Sylus loved this game just as much as you did

Slowly, he raised both hands in mock surrender, letting them fall flat against the dark sheets.

He watched, thoroughly trapped, as you reached down and slowly pulled the ruined silk slip over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened, locking hungrily onto your perfect breasts, his jaw ticking with the desperate urge to bite, to taste, to ruin

But you kept yourself deliberately out of reach. You leaned down, taking his lower lip between your teeth for a sharp, stinging bite before dragging your open mouth down the strong column of his throat. You painted his skin with hot, wet stripes of your tongue, trailing down his collarbones, over the hard planes of his chest, and tracing the sharp, dangerous V-line that disappeared beneath his waist.

His breath hitched, his abdominal muscles jumping under your mouth.

Then, your slender fingers wrapped around his impossibly thick cock. You felt him flinch, a full body shudder ripping through him as you leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss directly to his weeping tip.

You were going to make him beg.

You flicked your tongue out, catching the thick bead of his precum, tasting the hot, salty tang of his arousal. You were aching, sticky, and dripping wet because of him, and it was time he felt that exact same desperation.

Sylus let out a sharp, ragged exhale as you parted your lips. Maintaining absolute, unblinking eye contact with him, you slowly sank down onto his crown with your mouth.

Fuck.

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Taking his entire length was physically impossible, but you took as much as your throat would allow, your hands ruthlessly wrapping around the thick, heavy base to pump the rest.

His hands twitched violently against the sheets. His fingers curled into fists, fighting the agonizing urge to drag you up and kiss you. He needed to be inside you. He needed to feel you whole. Watching you worship him like this made you look like a filthy deity.

The visceral, wet sounds of your mouth sucking and slopping against his heavy flesh echoed in the quiet room. You gagged softly, choking once as he unconsciously bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper into your throat.

You could taste the shift in his pulse. You knew he was close.

So, right as his hips snapped up, chasing the final, blinding high of his climax you pulled off completely.

The sudden rush of cold air hitting his slick, painfully hard cock made him freeze. He stared up at you blankly for a fraction of a second, chest heaving, before a rich, breathless laugh tore from his throat. He was left entirely high and dry, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire.

"Give me one good reason," Sylus rasped, his voice rough as gravel, "why I shouldn't flip you over right now and show you exactly what you just did."

You hummed, entirely unimpressed. "You could," you whispered, leaning down to drag your tongue up the underside of his shaft. "But you won't."

Before he could argue, you wrapped your lips tightly around him again, taking him agonizingly deep. A single tear escaped your lash line from the sheer, suffocating size of him, a thick string of spit and precum dripping down your chin to smear over his skin.

Sylus couldn't hold back anymore. Breaking your rule, his large hand shot up, tangling ruthlessly into your hair to guide your head, his hips bucking up in short, desperate thrusts to chase the edge.

With a deep, guttural groan, he shattered.

Hot, thick, salty liquid erupted into the back of your throat. You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the overwhelming taste and volume of it.

But you didn't swallow.

You pulled back slowly, parting your swollen lips. Sylus watched you, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Your hand remained wrapped firmly around the base of his twitching cock

Maintaining eye contact, you let his thick, pearlescent cum spill from your mouth.

It was absolute, exquisite filth. The heavy white fluid fell in thick droplets, landing directly onto his still erect cock, sliding down the slick, inflamed veins.

It was disgusting. It was perfect.

Sylus was utterly mesmerized, trapped in a state of primal shock as he watched his own seed run down his length. But it was infinitely worse when you leaned back down.

With slow, deliberate strokes, you stuck your tongue out and began to lick him clean.

You chased the hot rivulets of sperm up and down his shaft, swallowing every last drop of the filthy mess you had made.

You sat back on your heels, wiping a stray drop of cum from your lower lip with the back of your hand, a triumphant, wicked gleam in your eyes.

He was broken. You had taken the king of N019 and reduced him ruined mess beneath you

Or so you thought.

The heavy, suffocating shift in the room's atmosphere was your only warning.

Sylus’s chest was still heaving, the silver strands of his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but the hazy, blown out look in his crimson eyes was already sharpening.

The dark, look in his eyes returned, instantly wiping away any illusion that you were the one in control.

A low, vibrating sound started deep in his chest.

"Beautiful," he rasped, his voice a dark, gravelly purr that was breathless and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "You played your hand well."

Before you could even register the sudden flex of his muscles, his hands lashed out

His massive palms clamped around your waist like iron vises. With a violent, he flipped you. Slammed into the mattress, the heavy, unyielding weight of his body instantly crashing down to cage you in

He didn't give you a second to recover. His hands caught your wrists, pinning them squarely above your head with just one of his massive hands.

"But the house," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending a violent shiver down your spine, "always wins."

He shifted his weight, his knee driving ruthlessly between your thighs to force your legs impossibly wide. Even after his climax, he hadn't softened. If anything, he was harder, the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hot and demanding against your soaking entrance.

His regeneration worked in more ways than one.

Your breath stuttered. The adrenaline of your revenge was instantly swallowed by the immediate, reality of what was about to happen.

"Sylus–"

"Shh," he commanded softly, silencing you not with cruelty, but with an agonizing, possessive intensity.

His free hand slid down your torso, his calloused fingers tracing your stomach before slipping between your thighs.

He didn't bother waiting anymore. You were already dripping, completely melted down for him, your viscous wetness pooling against his fingers as he guided his thick, blunt head squarely against your opening.

He locked his crimson eyes onto yours, demanding you watch him. Demanding you feel every single agonizing second of your surrender.

And then, he pushed.

A sharp, fractured cry tore from your throat. Despite how wet you were, taking him was a visceral, shock to your system. He was too thick, too unyielding, stretching you wide open with a blunt, heavy pressure that sent a blinding flash of white hot pleasure straight to your brain

Your nails dug violently into the back of his hand where he held your wrists. "Fuck–wait, wait–"

"I’m done waiting," he growled, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he forced himself deeper, inch by excruciating inch. "You wanted to play the tyrant? Take it."

He didn't slam into you. He knew exactly what he was doing, driving himself inside with a slow, relentless, torturous pace that forced your body to accommodate every single millimeter of his girth. The friction was maddening

You could feel the distinct, heavy throb of his pulse buried deep inside your walls, stretching you until you felt completely, utterly full.

When he finally bottomed out, his hips snapping flush against yours with a heavy, wet slap, your back bowed off the mattress

You were completely lost to him. The meticulous, flawless daughter of a syndicate empire, reduced to a trembling, mewling mess, completely ruined by her husband.

Sylus let out a long, ragged exhale, burying his face in the crook of your neck. For a few seconds, he just held you there, letting your body adjust to the staggering invasion, reveling in the feverish, desperate way your inner walls clamped down around him, milking him

"Mine," he breathed against your skin

the word tasting like a vow and a curse.

Then, he began to move

He pulled back almost completely, the slow drag of his length nearly drawing a sob from your lips before he drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy, concussive thud.

The rhythm he set was ruthless. It wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking of amateurs; it was the measured, devastatingly powerful pace of a man who intended to wring every drop of sanity from your mind.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding echoed off the marble walls of the penthouse. With every deep, grinding thrust, he deliberately angled his hips, ensuring the thick ridge of his cock dragged ruthlessly against your swollen clit.

Your mind shattered.

"Sylus" you sobbed, the name tearing from you in a broken, high pitched plea that you would have killed anyone else for hearing. Your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper, desperately chasing the blinding high.

"Hush now," he mocked, though his voice was thick with his own desperation, his breathing turning ragged as he pounded into you. He finally released your wrists, only to slide his hands under your shoulders, lifting you up so your chest was crushed against his. "Where is all that anger now, sweetie? Where is the woman who was going to walk out on me?"

"Shut up" you gasped, biting down hard on his shoulder to ground yourself against the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure.

He hooked his arms under your knees, folding your legs back toward your chest, exposing you completely. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper, the nerves of your clit so exquisitely sensitive that your vision literally whited out.

And as the suffocating, brilliant wave of your climax began to crest, snapping your muscles tight around his cock in violent, pulsating waves, Sylus let out a guttural moan, driving deep inside you one final, devastating time to meet you in the dark

...

The silence that crashed back into the penthouse was deafening, filled only by the ragged, synchronized cadence of your mixed breathing.

His palms, rough and heavily calloused, framed your jaw with a sudden, grounding warmth. Sylus looked down at you, his crimson eyes were completely blown, dark with an unreadable, heavy emotion as he leaned down to share the very air between your lips, sealing your surrender with one final, bruising kiss

Your fingers tangled into the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You pulled him down tightly against you, anchoring yourself to his massive chest. Heartbeat against heartbeat, you closed your eyes and focused on the heavy rise and fall of his torso, desperately trying to piece your fractured composure back together.

"If you ever use your evol to bind me like that again, Qin," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a breathy, thin threat, "I will have your head"

A low, rumbling vibration started deep in his chest, breaking into a breathless, genuine laugh that brushed hot against your collarbone. "Is that a promise, my dear? I'd say you are not in the position to threaten me right now"

He nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck before his large hands slid beneath your thighs. With a fluid, effortless roll, he shifted your limp body directly on top of him. He stayed buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding anchor as the sticky, cooling residuals of your shared cum smeared between your skin.

You completely melted, turning to absolute putty against the hard planes of his chest. His broad palms traced slow, soothing patterns up and down your bare spine, but the gesture did little to cure the boneless, trembling exhaustion holding you hostage. You were entirely unable to function

Sylus stared up at the ceiling, his jaw tightening. He wanted to say something. He wanted to offer a rare, uncharacteristic reassurance, to tell you that while he thrived on the fire of your jealousy, there was absolutely no one else

But the words remained trapped in his throat. Did you even want to hear that?

Absolute, non negotiable loyalty had been the bedrock of this arrangement for a full year now. It was a cruel twist of fate, the invisible threads of his life were bound to a different woman yet the only woman who truly mastered him was currently draped across his chest.

His wife.

He looked down at your tangled hair, unable to fully articulate the staggering weight of what you actually meant to him. It was a terrifying admission, but you had completely rewritten his parameters. Every cold smile, every sharp word, every calculation you made left him utterly mesmerized. Without ever demanding it, you had him wrapped entirely around your fingers

"I should get you cleaned up," he finally rasped, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the quiet room.

A faint, stubborn hum of disapproval escaped your lips. Beneath the sheets, your exhausted inner walls involuntarily clamped tight around his half hard length, wringing a low, strained groan from his throat. A dark, amused smile touched his lips at your defiance. He leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your heated forehead.

You were already slipping, the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you over the brink of sleep, but the Onychinus princess refused to let the business fade. Without opening your eyes, you murmured your final, drowsy command into the crook of his neck:

"You better make sure that shipment tomorrow is delivered."

The table before him had become a narrow cemetery.

Clay pots, porcelain bowls, black ceramic, brass, stone, imported soil in sealed glass jars, old seed packets arranged with the grim neatness of evidence. Pressed petals under crystal weights, white once, now the colour of bone steeped in tea. A notebook lay open beside the newest corpse, his handwriting exact across the page, each failed bloom recorded with the discipline of a man refusing to call grief by its proper name.

He had given the datura everything.

Warmth, drainage, moonlight simulated through expensive lamps. Water clean enough for kings. Soil miced by specialists whose hands trembled when they delivered it to his door. He had altered conditions by fractions, recalculated humidity, dismissed three botanists, threatened one supplier, replaced every pot, moved the plants from window to shadow, from shadow to filtered light, from filtered light to the pale artificial dusk the manuals recommended.

Each time, the same surrender.

The root softened first.

The stem darkened.

The bloom folded into itself before dawn.

A flower that looked like a trumpet and behaved like a sealed mouth.

Sylus respected poison. It carried patience, intelligence, a woman's old inheritance. It entered quietly, it trusted time. Men feared blades because blades performed honestly; poison frightened them because it made a theatre of obedience. The cup lifted, the lips parted, the meal continued. Death joined the table politely and waited for recognition.

Datura belonged to that lineage.

Women had known its uses long before priests assigned names to sins. Vision, stupor, sleep, escape. A seed under the tongue, a draught mixed with wine, a husband made gentle by degrees. A god reached through fever, a body loosened from its cage. White flower, night mouth, bridal shroud. Every bloom carried a rumour of altar and autopsy.

Small wonder it refused him.

His hands had always been better at ending breath than coaxing it.

Still, he planted.

Again, and again, with the obscene fidelity of a man returning to the same locked door long after the house had burned behind it.

In some buried chamber of memory, there had once been a garden. Olive leaves glittering in the wind, pomegranate split open in a shallow dish, red seeds shining like wet teeth. Your hands in the soil, your wrists stained dark. White datura opening around you with the dazed devotion of animals scenting blood.

A name had followed you then.

Kore, perhaps.

Beloved, perhaps.

Bride, perhaps.

He remembered the fruit more clearly than the city. Pomegranate juice on your fingers, on your mouth, at the corner of your smile. The underworld had entered myth through a girl's appetite, through six red seeds pressed between teeth, through the simple, irreversible act of swallowing. Men retold it as theft because theft preserved their dignity. Appetite in a woman unsettled the order of the world. A taken girl could be pitied. A hungry one had to be feared.

Persephone had eaten.

That remained the part no century managed to soften.

Fruit became contract. Mouth became gate. The seed descended through the body and made law inside the dark. Spring returned thereafter with soil beneath her nails and death stored somewhere under her tongue, no longer belonging wholly to meadow or grave. She had become a divided thing, and divided things had always ruled more completely than pure ones.

Sylus thought of her whenever datura failed.

He thought of a queen beneath the earth, of fields starving above her, of a god who mistook possession for keeping until the entire world began to wither from the difference. He thought of your mouth, red from fruit in a life that arrived to him through broken panes of recollection. He thought of hunger as covenant. Of devotion as an old cannibal liturgy: take this into yourself, carry me past the reach of decay, make a grave of your body and call it love.

Perhaps that had been his mistake.

He had tried to make the flower live.

The flower wanted to be eaten by the right earth.

Near dawn, you entered. No omen announced you, the room simply received you and changed.

His shirt hung from your shoulders. A bandage crossed your skin. Your feet made no sound on the floor. Rain slipped down the windows behind you, turning the city into a blurred red wound, and all the dead little pots seemed suddenly indecent in your presence, as though he had been caught arranging bones.

You saw everything.

The ruined flower in his hand. The wet soil. The seeds. The graves.

Mercy passed through your face with the sharpness of a knife.

Sylus hated mercy when it turned towards him. It entered too cleanly it found the places armour had neglected. Rage could be answered. Desire could be led by the throat. Fear could be bought, broken, taught to kneel. Mercy only looked, and in looking, stripped the theatre from ruin.

You came to the table.

Mephisto stilled above you.

Even the crow understood before Sylus did.

Your hand reached towards the dish of datura seeds, then hovered. Pale seeds, death-small. Pomegranate lay beside them, split from an earlier hour, its red interior glistening with that ancient obscenity of ripeness. You touched the fruit first. A few seeds broke under your fingers, juice gathered against your skin, bright as bitten flesh.

Red entered the soil when you placed your hand inside the pot.

Nothing bloomed.

The world had better taste than that.

Miracles, when they were real, often began in ways too quiet for witnesses. A shift in scent, damp earth breathing after drought, the faint loosening of matter that had been held too tightly for too long. Your fingers moved through the planter, breaking apart the compacted dark, drawing out rot with the practical tenderness of a grave-tender preparing the dead for rest.

Sylus watched.

His wealth had fed the soil.

His attention had starved it.

You handled earth as though it possessed memory. As though it could be frightened. As though every dead root had gone rigid under the pressure of being forced to live. Soil darkened beneath your fingers. Pomegranate red disappeared into black. The stain looked sacramental, then animal, then intimate beyond either. A mouth feeding a grave. A grave learning hunger. The old myth rearranged itself around your wrist.

He saw, with sudden inner violence, every failed garden.

Datura in a ruined courtyard where ash fell for three days. Datura under glass during a winter when your breath had fogged the panes and his had not. Datura beside a bed where your body cooled while white petals blackened on the sill. Datura in a city with burning streets, in a house near salt water, in an estate swallowed by ivy, in rooms he had abandoned because the air kept the shape of you too well.

All those flowers had died after you.

All those seeds had waited.

Centuries of Sylus pressing life into soil that remembered another hand.

The thought should have humiliated him. Instead it hollowed him with a reverence close to disgust. He had mistaken barrenness for refusal. The earth around him had been fasting.

You stayed with the pot until exhaustion took you.

Your hand remained near the soil after sleep lowered your head against the sofa. Pomegranate marked your fingertips. Dirt collected beneath your nails. In the low light you looked less like a girl returned from dreams than something the underworld had yielded reluctantly, some queen passing through his rooms with death still caught in the hem of her borrowed shirt.

Sylus remained beside you.

N109 faded towards morning. The city’s appetite dulled under grey light. Mephisto tucked his head beneath one wing. Rain ceased.

The soil moved.

A thin green thread broke through.

Then another.

The shoot rose from the dark with terrible modesty, small enough to crush, stubborn enough to accuse. Sylus did not breathe. The stem lengthened beneath the last hour before dawn. A bud formed, pale and closed, a little fist of moonlight grown from black earth and pomegranate blood.

When it opened, the room filled with the scent of wet leaves, poison, and something sweet enough to hurt the teeth.

White petals unfurled towards your sleeping hand.

The datura had bloomed like a mouth finally permitted to say the name it had been starving on.

Sylus looked at the flower, then at the red beneath your nails, then at the soil warmed by your touch. The answer stood before him in monstrous simplicity. All his lamps, all his imported earth, all his careful brutality had meant nothing to a seed waiting for Persephone to return with hunger in her hands.