"By you, I am forever Undone"

And thus begins your life of fable—the dread dragon, feared by all, rumored to cannibalize his enemies and scorch the territories with flames and salt the fields of anyone who dares oppose him—now always appears in public within his empire with a little black cat on his arm, who lounges in his lap as he negotiates deals in the most exclusive night spots in the N109 zone.

The dread dragon, Mr. Qin, is known to always get what he wants.

But everyone knows black cats bring bad luck.

And so, at first, rivals and begrudging business associates assume he's lost his touch. Maybe gone a little soft, or daft.

So, like sharks circling chum in the water, failing to see the wicked hook in the bloody gloom, they begin to test their luck.

Previously reliable suppliers start 'misplacing' certain parts of shipments. The best parts. Rivals begin to edge in on the dread dragon's turf, causing ruckuses at businesses he is known to own—nightclubs, casinos, and a chain of cat cafes he recently acquired. They intimidate the employees, the nearby residents, offering better 'protection' than what the dragon can offer these days, what with his true colors showing as a frivolous peacock with a weakness for literal pussy.

After all, as quickly as a king can rise, a king can fall, they say.

Mr. Qin takes it all in stride, receiving the increasing reports of insulting chaos encroaching into his domain calmly, only tapping his finger against the kitchen counter as he lounges on a stool, idly watching you eat your weight in perfectly seared wagyu beef on a delicate plate of china.

"You gotta do something, boss-man," one of the magpies, the one with the scar—Kieran, says agitatedly one night. He's almost vibrating with indignation.

"We can take care of it. Just give us the word—we can have charges in every single one of the upstarts' bases within twenty-four hours," the other magpie, Luke, shifts from foot to foot, just as restless as his brother.

They're both clothed, now—all black ensembles, cargo pants with as many belts and buckles and pockets as Mr. Qin seems to have on his 'casual' outfits. Unfortunately, they've have never appeared before you naked since that first night.

"And just one detonator! One click and—" Kieran cries.

"Boom! Like the end of Fight Club!" they crow together, miming entire skyscrapers collapsing one by one, complete with sound effects.

"Only the film version,"Mr. Qin just sniffs disdainfully. "The film was completely unfaithful to the book."

"Not the point, boss! The point is, BOOM!" Luke's eyes are wide, like a little kid who thinks that if he just explains his genius plan to the grown-up slowly and loudly this time, the grown-up will eventually come around to seeing his genius vision.

Leaning forward, Mr. Qin rests both elbows on the counter. "Many bases these fools own are prime real estate. Destroying them would be a waste, when I can simply take over and lease the premises to tenants with a better sense of self-preservation than their current occupants."

The twins' shoulders slump in unison.

"However, I do have some small fish that need frying, so you're welcome to throw grenades into their ponds instead."

Immediately perking up, the magpies are so overjoyed that they'll get to blow anything up in the near future even if it's not as cool as Fight Club that they shift right out of their clothes, winging around the room in a flurry of chittering, dive-bombing Mr. Qin's head, and then zooming out of the kitchen when your back has arched enough to let them know that if they continue, there will be Consequences.

Luke had to lose a few feathers before they both understood that you mean business when it comes to protecting Mr. Qin's glorious hair.

"Did you eat your fill, Kitten?" Mr. Qin asks idly.

You answer with a satisfied purr, slinking over to him and rubbing your cheek and body along his arm and chest leaning over the counter.

Thoughtfully running a hand over your back, he scritches behind your ears. "Good. I hope your appetite is as endless as always, because it's time to kill two birds with one stone, and you're going to help me do it."

More food, and helping Mr. Qin?

A truly fabled life indeed.

Later that night, you find yourself in a familiar setting. To the average patron, it's a small place. So small that the waiting list for a reservation is known to stretch into years, and not just months. Just a few stools along a bar, a few small tables for two along the windows facing a quiet city street. The waiting list is so long because it has always been, essentially, one person operation. The art of sushi has been passed down for generations in the same family, with the parent training their child who then takes over the business and continues the family legacy. All they make is sushi, and they simply make the best sushi in the world. No wonder that the menu prices reflect such exquisite offerings.

However, to those in the know, beyond the tiny dining area, there is a back room. Larger than the dining room out front, but still small as far as rooms that serve its purpose typically are. Back here, there are no chairs.

The room itself, windowless, only narrow enough to contain the long table, still feels light, airy, with its blond wood-paneled walls lined with alcoves containing lovely vases and elegant flower arrangements. The effect is serene, a counterpoint to the blood soaked, high tension decisions that are made within its walls.

At the far end of the room, next to the door leading to the front and the kitchen, a beautifully carved liquor cabinet sits. The respective lackeys accompanying their bosses mix the drinks and serve —warm sake. Whiskey and soju. Bourbon and scotch. Serious drinks for supposedly serious people.

The clientele sit on cushions, shoes off, socked feet whispering across the tatami mat floor when they must move around to obsequiously pour their boss's drinks or discreetly hand them documents for review.

To enter this dining room, weapons must be surrendered at the door to the restaurant's only staff aside from the chef—the sous-chef, in training under her mother, this generation's current chef. This is a neutral location, after all, and all must walk in having surrendered their means of harm to others. That is the sacred rule of this hidden room, inviolate for years stretching back into memory.

In this room, the most nefarious denizens of the underworld feel safe, even as they bare their fangs at each other other in grotesque facsimiles of smiles if one were to know their true thoughts.

Mr. Qin sits at the head of the long, low table. Dressed in a black bespoke suit with a blood-red, standing collared shirt, his sleek, muscular figure cuts through the elegant atmosphere like a knife, his hair the tip of the blade. He has said nothing, simply nodding his head as the guests initially filed in and took their seats. He's relaxed as you curl into his lap, cradled between his crossed legs. The picture of indolent insouciance, his serenity sharply contrasts with the acrid stench of nervous fear wafting through the air from most of those seated around the table. All but one person reeks of guilt—not remorse, but the feeling of having done something that, if discovered, will warrant swift, horrifying punishment.

The sous-chef, tall and svelte, enters repeatedly, bringing in each round of sushi, carefully plated, one item at a time, to be savored in its individual glory before the next round is brought.

As the food arrives and empty plates depart, the guests share surface-level pleasantries, innocuous and polite.

All lies. Tigers wearing bow ties.

You don't pay attention to the particularities of meetings like this—they mean nothing to you, provided no one smells of violent hostility towards Mr. Qin. They can hate all they like. They can look all they like. And so long as Mr. Qin smells calm, you don't trouble yourself with his fleeting anger or amusement, with what's actually being said underneath the sheathed words.

As Mr. Qin's silence stretches, the discomfort in the room rises. But he waits, patiently, occasionally sipping some fizzy concoction that reeks of gin, as the people in the room grow increasingly restless. They desperately try to avoid staring as he hand-feeds you a portion of each priceless dish carefully prepared by the internationally-renowned chef, even as indignant disgust thickens their already foul scents.

After more than two hours of his silence, and as the meal is entering its final course, the sous-chef brings one of the highlights of the menu: fugu sashimi. Or, raw pufferfish.

A delicacy, and incredibly dangerous if prepared by inexpert hands due to the neurotoxin naturally occuring within it. You perk up, having heard of fugu before, back before, before, before…. you shake your head, ears flapping.

It's prized as such a delicacy not only because of its taste, but because the thrill of eating something so deadly often evokes a euphoric feeling in the one eating it. Some even report an aphrodisiac quality to their experience of consuming it.

As the sous-chef places the dish before Mr. Qin, you lean over to take a lick, but for once, his large hand slips between your nose and the fish.

"Not tonight, Kitten. I'll share fugu with you another time, under more convivial circumstances."

This gentle denial, given as if you're an actual person, is the final spark that ignites the simmering, resentful ire of the gathered guests.

"How much longer must we endure this grotesque display of poor manners before we get down to business?" One of the guests demands, loud and irritated. Many others grunt or nod in accord, finally brave now that someone else has drawn a target on his own back.

Mr. Qin simply hums, not taking his eyes off you. "Would you say that bringing an emotional support kitten to an establishment that allows them is less polite than say… theft or extortion from your valued business partners?"

The room goes quiet as the clink of chopsticks against plates and everyone's breath ceases.

Finally, the mutinous guest who was brave enough to initially complain clears his throat. "That is a serious allegation, Mr. Qin." He glances around the room, as if gathering support from his counterparts. "Do you have proof?"

"Proof, hmmm," your human, ruby eyes glinting in the low light, muses. "My kitten is all the proof I need."

"Ha, yes. We've all noticed lately how your… behavior, has changed recently. As if you've become more… distracted." The leader of the mutiny, though his confidence is growing with Mr. Qin's seemingly bizarre behavior untempered by shame or concern, remains cautious in choosing his words. The scent of fear, but also derision, intensifies.

"If I were distracted, you would be free to continue your unwise flirtation with my ire without consequence," Mr. Qin slips a thin slice of the fugu into his plush mouth. His subsequent noise of pleasure elicits a purr from your own throat, as you enjoy seeing him happy as much as your own happiness.

The leader of the mutiny has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You must be confused, if you think anyone at this table would dare cross you." His fear fades as his conviction that Mr. Qin has lost his marbles rises.

You’re not worried. They all believe they’re safe in this room—it doesn’t even occur to them to attack him outright in this neutral sanctum. They will bide their time and strike another night.

"Let's find out, then." Mr. Qin runs one long, elegant finger along the top of your head, down your spine. "Kitten, could you kindly indicate everyone at this table who is currently gambling with their life?"

The noises of disbelief, confusion, and disgust shatter the otherwise quiet room as you, without hesitation, rise to your paws, tail straight up in the air, and hop lightly on the table. Winding your way around and over the plates of each guest, you stop to sniff, growl, and then turn, showing your own asshole to every single asshole in this room who reeks of the scent of smug betrayal and lies.

When you stop before the one person who now smells of fascinated curiosity, the same one who hasn't smelled guilty since the beginning, you flick your tail in satisfaction and briefly nose her palm in respect, and then trot your way back to Mr. Qin's lap. He rewards you by lifting your small body into the air and nuzzling into your furry tummy. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The leader of the mutiny scrambles to his feet rather ungracefully from a cross-legged position, and seethes over the table. "This is absurd, and exactly why we can no longer trust your grip on the N109 zone. This dinner is over!"

He turns to leave, only to stop abruptly as he almost runs into the sous-chef. She stands, relaxed, legs spread a bit, one foot in front of the other. It's almost a boxer's stance, if not for the razor-thin sushi knife held, blade down, in her fist.

A knife-fighting stance.

"The meal is not quite over," she says calmly. "I must ask you to return to your seat."

The mutineer sneers as the rest of the patrons stiffen, reaching for holsters and knife sheathes out of instinct, only to remember that they're empty. "This place's neutral status is sacred. How dare you threaten us within its walls?” His disbelief and outrage are not unreasonable. This is the generations’ long understanding of what this place has to offer, in the same way they have offered haute cuisine. His only recourse, really, is to meet betrayal with betrayal, and the threaten the previously unthinkable. “We'll raze you to the ground if you don't stand down this instant."

The sous-chef remains unruffled. "Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules."

The mutineer spins around, raising a finger to point at Mr. Qin, but stops, a confused look crossing his face. He lifts his fingers, now trembling, to his lips instead. As if they're already tingling as the puffer fish's neurotoxin surges through his veins. "What the fuck have you done?"

Mr. Qin ignores him, turning instead to the only person who hasn't double-crossed him in the room. "Please, continue. It would be a shame to leave this divine dish unsavored."

With wide eyes, she lifts her chopsticks and slips another slice of fugu into her mouth, as the mutineer drops to the tatami, unable to breathe another word. The remaining patrons begin to slump in turn, some straight backwards with quiet thumps, some sprawling forward onto the table, the cacophony of dishes clinking and drinks spilling rising into a crescendo until the only sound remaining is the quiet chewing of the person left alive at the table.

"Thank you for another lovely dinner, Rin-san," Mr. Qin nods to the sous-chef in appreciation. "My compliments to the chef."

She nods in turn. "Thank you for your continued patronage, Mr. Qin. I'll convey your sentiments to my mother." She slips out of the room.

Turning back to the final guest, he waves his hand. "Stay, if you'd like. But when you are done, spread the word of what happened here tonight. I'd rather focus on my Kitten, instead of fools, for the near future."

"Of course, Mr. Qin."

Your days continue—nights, really, drifting along at the dread dragon's side. The unrest in his domain evaporates, so much steam from screaming kettles boiling empty into silence. Now, when business partners or rivals see the black cat on his arm, the only scent in the air is terror.

Everyone knows black cats bring bad luck, after all.

To them. Not to Mr. Qin.

Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules, after all.

This makes you purr, eliciting an answering pleased rumble deep in Mr. Qin's chest. You don't question why, simply reveling in the satisfaction of enemies quivering in fear and your human's pleasure in their amenability to his desires.

One night, months later, Sylus lounges in his huge, standalone marble bathtub. It sits before a soaring window as the N109 zone's sky lightens almost imperceptibly, signaling the coming dawn that this rancid part of the world never sees.

You slink along the rounded edges of the tub, enjoying the challenge of not slipping from either side while still remaining as close to Mr. Qin as possible as he soaks in a place you will not follow, mo matter the depth of your devotion to him. He twirls a glass of wine from languid fingertips, steam rising from the warm water, rippling with every little movement of his powerful body.

"You could join me," he offers, offhandedly. He's not looking at you, instead gazing into the wine before taking a sip. In his scent, a deep interest belies his seeming indifference to any response from you. "If you wanted to change into… something more comfortable."

Continuing to glide along the smooth stone, you ignore him. No way you want to get wet. If you need to get clean, which you do not, thank you very much, as you are already pristine and perfect in every way at (least in terms of hygiene, even if not in temperament), that is what your tongue is for, not a death pool ready to drown you and make you look ridiculous with flattened fur if you do manage to escape.

"Shame." His gaze, which you are pointedly ignoring, is so heavy behind you that it slightly raises the fur along your spine. It remains on you for a beat before he sighs and casts it toward the window and the glittering city below. "Perhaps I am losing my mind, after all," he murmurs, but there is no conviction in this assertion in his scent. Whatever is puzzling him, he is sure he knows the truth of it.

More months pass. You don't know how long you've been with him. Only that he has never stopped showing you the kindness, the care, and the companionship that he offered you from that very first night.

Perhaps you should have seen it coming. Perhaps you should have run long before it was even a possibility.

But how could you know to run, if you didn't think it were possible?

One can't return to the past, after all. Time doesn't flow backwards, no matter how much you throw yourself against the bars of the cage.

What's done is done. Caleb is dead. And with Caleb, your old self died too.

You are a cat, with a dragon-like human who needs to be protected, and cherished, and adored, as he does for his cat.

That is all there is. That is all you need.

Mr. Qin reads aloud to you every dawn before bed, as the morning sun spills over everywhere that is not here, signaling his night, and yours as well.

Whatever he happens to be reading, he reads out loud, with his rimless, gold accented reading glasses glinting in the light of the lamp on the nightstand, some kind of stained glass, Tiffany-style thing, designed to look like a crimson flower with wicked points. His words are the lullubies to your dreamless, peaceful nights curled at his side. By the dawning of the night, you often wake, curled up on his chest instead.

One such night, you wake to find that he is already awake too, staring at you with calm, curious eyes. You have the strange sense that he has been awake for awhile, but for some reason has made no effort to move you aside all the while, no effort to get up and start his version of the day. You've trained him well.

It's as if he's waiting to see what you'll do, now that you're awake too.

You roll a little, crouching on your belly like you're on the hunt for a mouse and want to remain as low as possible. The corners of his full lips lift slightly, the interest sharpening in his ember-eyes. Creeping forward, you brush your nose against his.

He doesn't move, just continues to watch you. There is something about his eyes that is so maddening, if you look into them for too long. Especially his right eye, the same one that glowed so bright, almost blinding, when he took you to the mall. You haven't seen it glow like that since, but you have the urge, all at once to—

you surge forward, as if pouncing on a mouse, and lick his right eyeball.

Both his face and scent reveal shock, fading to surprise, and then amused disgust.

"I don't know what I expected," he laments, a low laugh rumbling through his chest and through your body still crouched on him.

He lifts you into his arms and swings out of bed, and thus your day begins.

That night, he reads The Traveling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa as you're falling asleep.

"As we count up the memories from one journey, we head off on another." His rich voice is a soothing bass rhythm as he reads. "Remembering those who went ahead. Remembering those who will follow after. And someday, we will meet all those people again, out beyond the horizon.”

The words melt into you, fusing into the marrow of your brittle bones, seeping into spidering fractures you hadn't realized were there. Somehow, these words are comforting. Deep lilac, shot with sunset orange and pink, fills your half-asleep consciousness. But for once, that strange mewling is nowhere to be heard.

All the while, Mr. Qin's voice cradles you, a steady vessel carrying you safely on an endless river free from memory as you drift into dreamless sleep.

The waking is easy.

The waking has been easy, for months now. Maybe over a year?

You don't know how long you've been with him.

You should have seen it coming.

The waking is easy.

Warmth. Smooth skin, soft silver fur under your cheek. Long legs, entwined with yours. Your body rises and falls with his breath as you're draped over his soft, firm, pillowy steel-muscled chest.

The waking is easy.

You should have seen it coming.

The past can't be undone, nor can a leopard change its spots.

A cat who is not only a cat can't stay a cat forever.

The waking is easy.

Red eyes meet yours, crinkling at the corners with such genuine, unguarded joy that they are briefly rendered unfamiliar to you. You've never seen him smile so fully.

"There you are, sweetheart."

You can only live your head, chin resting against his chest, gazing placidly at him, easy in your waking, not suspecting anything amiss. Yet his handsome face with its severe contours, his long nose and the regal profile—it all seems … smaller. Everything about him seems smaller, somehow.

He's still huge, but he's less… giant, somehow.

He's gorgeous, actually. He's gorgeous not just as a sculpture in a museum, but attractive in a way that is physically painful, not just in your chest from your heart squeezing in the face of such artistic, divine beauty, but painful everywhere. His bulk under the entire length of your body. The soft hair along his legs brushing along your own legs. His heart jack-hammering in his chest underneath yours, matching your own jack-rabbiting beat. His skin against yours, silk and electricity.

His skin against your skin.

Not your fur.

You should have seen it coming.

He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheek. "I knew you'd be magnificent, if I were right." His voice is soft, steeped in awe. "But I hadn't realized just how truly breathtaking reality would be."

You should be able to smell the truth of his words, not just hear it in his voice.

But your nose, the scents in it—muted, and yet more colorful. He still smells delicious, musk and sleep, warmth and citrus, clean sweat. But all the layers of his feelings—

You can't feel his feelings from the way he smells anymore. He's an opaque polaroid instead of a neon mural, and you can only fumble for the clues of his feelings by the crinkling of his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the slowly tightening lines of his full lips as his smile fades into concern.

His soft silver eyebrows draw together, the furrow between them deepening.

"Kitten," he says, cautious. "I'm still me."

You wonder why he's saying this until his other hand joins his first, both palms now cupping your cheeks.

"And you're still you."

Oh.

You're shaking. Rolling tremors, an earthquake under your skin.

He thumbs along the sensitive skin under your eyes soothingly. "Breathe with me." Taking a deep breath, expanding his big chest where its pressed under yours, he coaxes your breath from your body.

After all this time, under his shelter, in his care, sheltering him, caring for him—what can you do but follow where he leads?

He's still him.

Even if you don't know what you are, anymore.

"Mr. Qin," you croak, helpless. Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Moisture slicks the paths his thumbs take, back and forth. The air is thick with its salt.

The furrow between his brow fades, his lips curving in pleasure again. "Surely we're on a first-name basis by now, Kitten, what with you watching me bathe and piss for over a year, and now waking up naked in my bed. Call me Sylus."

You look down, see the truth in the swell of your chest pressed against his own, feel the truth in the silk sheets along your bare back and ass.

Of course. It's not like you can take your clothes with you when shifting from human to animal, animal to human . Any movies or games that depict such idiocy are just censored nonsense.

But that's unimportant. You frown back up at him, the inexplicable tears fading as indignation rises. "If you didn't want company while you were on the toilet, you should have locked the door, Sylus."

He blinks in shock, eyes widening ever so slightly, but recovers quickly. "It took you long enough, but oh, were you worth the wait," he laughs—hearty, breathless, excited.

You don't need his scent to know that he's delighted.

Thank you for reading! there will be a part four with you learning how to human (or trying) and Sylus courting his kitten. I'm having a great time writing this. I'd love to hear what you think in tags or comments! People asked to be tagged so I'm going to try to do that in the comments.

“Hey,” you nudged him with your arm, knocking elbow against elbow, “talk to me.” 

A grumble vibrated from his throat, and his gaze darted, staring at you from the corners of his eyes. His profile was rigid, jaw clenched. His look was accusatory, anger prominent, slinging blame towards you. 

You scoffed, and increased your pace, walking past him to follow close behind your guide. 

You wouldn’t apologize for your constitution as a human. 

Traversing the desert had proven difficult for your body. As no direct access to the sun existed, Sylus had flown over expanses of ice, compact snow, and frigid rivers. Frost had accumulated over Sylus’ snout, the result from the damp breath he expelled the longer he flew. While huddled atop your saddle, the chill from the wind had seeped beneath your leathers, causing your teeth to chatter. 

Nestling against the length of his neck did little to deter the splice of the bitter cold. The plates of his scales had been exposed to the frigidity at a persistent rate, his body heat too weak to thaw the thin shells in time. 

Over the obsidian tiles of his body, your discolored fingers appeared pale. The ice had taken nips at your fingertips, translating into tingles, nearly numbing the skin. 

Whether your necromancy could revive the dying tissue in your hands was not an experiment you wanted to execute with your insufficient knowledge of the magic. 

A cluster of mountains blemished the vast planes of blinding white, and squeezing your thighs against your saddle, Sylus conceded, swooping low to land with large beats of his wings. 

The caves had been populated by a culture of people who wore furs, capturing fire in pits lined with smooth stones. They burned differently, sowed by dragons and evolved to adapt to harsh conditions. 

Those dragons drilled, scraping away harsh dirt and rock with modified claws. Far smaller than Sylus, their heads bobbed near yours, paralleling your trek as your guide walked you through the tunnels. Wingless, their spines were on display, their eyes were milky white - blind. 

“Our dragons take after extinct moles,” the man leading you summarized, “as they cannot fly, they dig our burrows.” 

A question formulated, increasing your pace, “so the dragons have found their Riders? Even this far out?” 

Sylus snorted behind you, revealing “less than half are paired.” 

He found them inferior, as he so often did.

“Laugh all you want, fiend,” the man’s words zipped Sylus’ lips shut, “at least the bonded here recognize when their Rider is ill.” 

With a shaky hand, you brought your hood further over your face. It did little to hinder the effects of prolonged elemental exposure. 

“Once you are settled,” your guide continued on, “there are hot springs located down the stairs from your room.” 

“Thanks,” you mumbled. 

Your room was deep within the caverns, down a hall lined with doors. At the very end, you were directed into the final chamber. 

Shaped as a dome, it was tight, and already you felt irritation bubbling, radiating from the dragon who whipped in your direction. 

“You have done it again,” Sylus spat, his canines on display beneath a stretched top lip. 

“Done what?” You progressed, intruding his space. Why you always felt the need to rival his posture troubled you. It would never work, you were just too small in relation to his vanity. 

He looked away, closing his eyes as if nurturing what little restraint he had left. 

“Sylus,” you prompted.

A snarl whipped past his lips, and he glared, “you’ve grounded me.” 

His wings flared out, unable to expand to their complete width. They scrunched back to fold behind his back, the motion reminding you of when a dead spider curled its legs. This close, you read his features, noting the sweat at his forehead, the dried blood on his lip from insistently biting the flesh. 

His lips. 

Your eyes hovered at his mouth, your tongue caught behind your teeth as it ached to lav over his self-inflicted wound. 

The taste of your dragon had not been forgotten. 

“It wasn’t my intention to confine you.” 

Tentatively, your hands held his biceps, soothing the stern muscles there. In the dim lighting, his ruby eyes shone, observant and unyielding. That vibrant crimson matched the brands of your wrists, identical, claiming you as his. To understand one another was a requirement of your bond, the connection fate bestowed upon you. 

You continued, bravely instigating conversation with one so stubborn. “Many people are scared of being closed in -” 

“I’m not scared.” 

Your sigh was dramatic when enclosed in such a compact space. Eager to retort, your lips parted, formidable words on the tip of your tongue, but talons halted your advance. The curve of his finger touched your cheek, pupils narrowing as he focused. 

“You’re freezing,” he observed. 

“I’m human,” you explained, “long exposure to the cold harms us. I need warmth, I need water, and I need rest.” 

Something snapped, a tight tether, an overburdened chain, you couldn’t quite explain it. Whatever it was released within, and your chest expanded, accepting air for what felt like the first time that day. Sylus mirrored your ease, his shoulders dropping a sliver. 

If your dragon sensed he was grounded, his mind might spiral, his emotional state vulnerable. Then that band around your chest would constrain you once more. 

“I’m not scared,” he reiterated, “the sky is my eyes, my ability to fly my arms and legs. Like this, I can’t protect you.” 

“Then it is my turn.” 

“To?”

“Protect you.” 

Silence made itself a guest. Then he was reaching for your attire. 

“Let me help you.” 

Your cloak fell to the ground, heavy. He went to unclasp the first latch at your side, but the tips of his talons hindered his ability to find leverage on the miniscule shapes of metal. He growled, his breath humid over your scalp. 

“If this didn’t serve to protect you, I’d tear it off.” 

The rasp of his voice ransacked your senses, and you leaned in, relying on his grip. He granted glimpses of hasty desire, primal in nature as your dragon utilized his traits to deliver upon you immeasurable pleasure. 

He chuckled, a few latches undone, “shall I tear something off of you, sweetie? I can scent your interest.” 

You refused to satisfy his interest. Once you were divested of your armor, you sent Sylus on an errand to deliver your leathers to the tanner. 

“Meet me at the springs,” you said. 

Sylus would stand guard at the arch of the opening. 

“Don’t turn around,” you warned. 

The dragon chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. You could tell by the way his elbows stuck out from the sides of his silhouette. 

With a shuffle, the blanket dropped, pooling to bunch at your bare feet. Awareness prickled your skin, muted by the steam flitting past your body. 

“Human bodies do little to entice me,” Sylus finally responded, albeit beneath his breath, as if it were a secret, maybe even a denial. He hadn't wanted you to be privy to his remark. 

So, you never replied.

Your toe tapped the top of the pool, burning in retaliation to your chilled skin. The initial contact would sear, but when settled, it would mend the ice you swore had collected within your bones. 

Stepping down, the water lapped at your knee, and you grimaced, wincing as your skin shifted to replicate the color of a bright cherry. Then you were submerging yourself up to your shoulders, exhaling as you were enveloped by decadent heat. 

The sound that rose from your throat was low and erotic, surprising to not only yourself, but the dragon standing just a few feet away. 

Sylus’ kiss hadn't produced that kind of reaction from you.You descended lower until your bottom lip was buried, mortified, silently negotiating with the water to pull you under and hide your humiliation. 

“Does it feel that good?” 

You screeched, whipping around to fling an armful of water at the dragon who had kneeled over your shoulder. Arms immediately folding over your chest, you drifted away from the edge, watching as Sylus used his talons to smudge water from his face. 

“Well?” You offered, “does it feel that good?” 

He would depart for your shared room first, granting privacy so you could change into the clothes provided by your guide. It took an extra few minutes to navigate the complicated vestment, cursing beneath your breath. 

You made your way back, and pushed open the door. 

Within the cramped confines of your borrowed room, a large dragon lay curled, his body eating the space allotted. His tail swayed, reminiscent of stationary fish in a stream. Rhythmic, the constant wave of his extremity relayed patience. 

Sylus’ head rose from the ground, lifting so his vermillion eyes could stare down, assessing the state of your attire. Furs lined your leather armor, extra padding that bloated your frame, but also provided a warmth you craved since you two had crossed into the desert lands. 

The tufts of fur itched in odd places, and you shuffled into the room with a unique cadence that outed your human tendencies. 

Your dragon found it in himself to snort, narrowing his eyes in an attempt at wordless humor.

“Don’t,” you held up a finger, ignoring his stare as you stepped over the end of his tail to access your traveling supplies. You rummaged, acquiring lotion given by the locals to aid in cracked skin. Removing the cork on the tiny, glass bottle, you got to work, smearing a glob on the top of your hand. 

Sylus watched, seemingly intrigued, archiving your actions. His curiosity towards humans had grown since you two had shared a kiss. While the majority of the time since that occurrence was spent with him in his native form, without words, his interest had been demonstrated through a glint in his eyes. His nostrils would flare as he inspected the scents related to your life, his talons scraping at objects he struggled to identify the texture of. He could not feel the sensation, but he could hear if something was hard, soft, or anything else. 

After your hands were armed with a layer of salve, you stepped in front of Sylus, consulting his eyes. 

“I’m not sure what the grand plan here was, but I can’t necessarily make my bed with you hogging the entirety of the room.” 

Sylus didn’t respond, angling his head to produce a reaction of consideration. You waited, tolerant, and you figured if you had a tail of your own, it would have rocked back and forth just as your dragon’s had while he idled. 

It must have been a mannerism your soul once demonstrated when it was a whole. 

“Well?” You prompted, restless, eager for sleep. Come morning, Sylus would be discussing your next destination, against tarrying in the same location for more than a day. Neither of you had slept decently since your initial meeting. 

His answer was a wing elevating, revealing his side, and a glimpse of his underbelly. Curved against his torso were his legs, talons sharp, residing where he indicated you might rest. Further up his body there was space in front of his forelegs and underneath his neck, beckoning to the shape of your human form. 

You could fit, although that would place you near his head. You colored, scrunching your shoulders as if they might hide your embarrassment. 

“You aren’t suggesting we sleep together,” you huffed. 

He was, his wing remaining afloat in the air. 

Rationalizing you required his heat, you yielded, arranging your limbs so you were tucked against your dragon. 

The flames crackling from the candles slowly burned out, casting the room into a stark darkness. It made sense, you realized, if the dragons living within the walls didn’t require sight.

A sound vibrated against your back, rumbling your ear where it was flush against his cheek. And as if he dropped a slew of warm feathers over your body, you relaxed in his hold, comforted by his purr. 

“I like when you do that,” you mumbled, eyelids weighted by weeks of fleeing. Such exhaustion would rip the truth from your heart, susceptible to permitting sentimental confessions. 

A part of you was glad Sylus opted out of using words at that very moment. 

Instead, the buzz of his purr increased, boasting its abundance of primitive wealth. His body coiled tighter, wing stretching to enshroud even more of your figure. Your hand found his snout before you could advise it not to, stroking the span of his nose. The repetition of your petting would continue until thoughts were unable to be completed, and your bones felt far too heavy. 

That night you dreamt of open skies, blossoming roses, and soft lips. 

Beneath a downpour of fluttering rose petals, skin, identical to your own, was conquered by talons, prodded by the desire of knowledge. 

Wonderment would propel arousal, enthusiasm and impatience continuing the endeavor, insight and implementation completing the venture. Satisfaction unknown to you rippled through your senses; wrecking havoc then placating the aftermath. 

This dream didn’t feel as if it was your own. It was seen through reptilian eyes, felt through claws dipped in raven hide. 

You awoke with a gasp, chest expanding uncomfortably. Fresh wood and rose wafted, weaving its tones into your being. Once more, you calmed, Sylus’ scent demonstrating the same effect as his purr. 

“Easy, kitten,” a hand ran from your shoulder to your wrist, fingers massaging your brands. 

Sylus’ voice, eroded by sleep, violated your ears. His breath stirred your hair, warming the delicate skin of your scalp. 

You couldn’t see, the room having been long since enveloped in darkness. Sight wasn’t required to know Sylus’ arm served as a pillow, the crook of his elbow compressed by your temple. 

“What was that?” You asked. 

Sylus hummed, the tips of his fingers trailing over your forearm, striving to soothe you. While you hadn't experienced a nightmare, the intensity of the emotions felt generated a sense of overwhelming loss. You had, whether you would admit it or not, wanted the dream to continue. 

“I swear, I feel you - in my dreams,” you quickly amended, “as if what I see is through your eyes.” 

“You do,” he answered, “just as I see what you have.” 

His hand roamed further down your arm until it found your wrist once more, the palm of his hand suffocating the top of yours. His fingers pressed between yours tentatively until they could bend to touch your palm. 

“I know the callouses here are from your sword, the endless hours you would train late into the night, thinking the weapon was your only redeeming quality. I saw those who undermined you - puny, weak humans who flew with their dragons before the age of thirteen.” His hand squeezed, his purr emitting through a smaller vessel, although just as strong. “Know this, my fearsome Rider, your dragon is far superior in comparison to theirs.” 

“I do know.” 

You had feared sleeping next to your dragon for reasons many would find less obvious. Exhaustion served as a truth serum, loosening your lips, softening your boundaries. In the cocoon Sylus crafted with his heat alone, he nurtured intimacy, both physical and emotional. 

This, you had to wonder, was what a bond should entail. 

Sylus guided your entwined hands to your chest, compressing your palm to your own heart. 

“I felt the terror here when you understood you were a Rider. Your parents had smiled, comforted their child had a way to survive,” he paused, wading the waters of the following sentence gently, “you hadn't wanted to be chosen.” 

I will be alone, you had thought. 

How odd it had been to be the only one in the room, downcast and sodden in sorrow, as your parents celebrated with glee. While born with Sylus’ brands around your wrists, understanding their meaning hadn't dawned until later in your childhood. From there, it had been a cyclone of information, then rejection. 

“I felt that sense of denial,” Sylus narrated, “you hadn’t wanted to be handed over the Guild, you had wanted to stay. If you had stayed, you believed you could have saved -” 

“Enough,” you hissed.

His hand left yours, conveying he would drop the subject. It went back to its previous function, soothing the distance between wrist and shoulder. 

“You must think I'm weak,” you muttered, clenching your eyes shut. It expelled tears from the corners, wetting the arm beneath your head. 

Sylus’ stare drilled into the back of your head, worsening your despair. 

“Necromancers are known to deny their craft before they even understand it,” he said, bypassing your accusation, “a feeling of terror is expected, if not natural. Any human capable of communing with the dead would feel the same.” 

“Human,” you replied, “not dragon.” 

“Dragons experience fear.” 

You waited, curious if he would continue. He did.

“From different things.” 

“Such as?” 

His chest knocked your back with his next breath. He was contemplating, his groan a manifestation of his deliberating. If he were to reveal a weakness, it would be an admittance of surrender to the bond. You doubted he would resign to something he adamantly denied. 

Or so you had thought. 

“Small, confined spaces,” confessed. 

Phrases you found meaningless sorted through your head. So, you resorted to tipping the scale in favor of your established dynamic. 

“Dare I say . . . my dragon is attempting to comfort me?” 

His chuckle resounded, “you will see, Miss Rider, I may come to surprise you yet.” 

Neither of you spoke a word after his admission. Eager to digest more of his thoughts, you grew impatient for sleep, shutting your eyes. It evaded you, slipping through your fingers like hot desert sand, something you had merely read about. Mentally, you thumbed through history books, remembering a vast array of environments nourished by the sun. Such knowledge was bestowed upon Riders, and Riders alone, reserved so those who remained grounded never developed the ability to yearn. 

Like a hungry beast, disgust tore through you like its life depended on it, desperate and savage. You fed it with internal dispute, always angry, always ashamed.  

Until a beacon of solitude flickered to life like a candle in the dark. Sylus’ purr rumbled, calling to you with a greater force, settling the emotions that threatened your repose. 

Once more, your mind flew to meet him in skies fashioned for a bond. 

Pain zapped an insistent strike over your shoulder blades, circling pegs not possible to form as a human. Expanding from those thick bases, odd trills of agony rained down as fiery droplets, racing over bone and web. These extensions of your body flapped, beating rapidly to hoist a frame large and heavy. 

Agonizing. Dreadful. Fear-inducing. 

Grounding. 

This was a curse, only those who had come before capable of casting such eternal torment. 

Your own eyes sliced through the fog of affliction, blaring with an intensity that captivated. Within your pupils, wide like a pool of ink, silver hair and pomegranate rings reflected. 

That once relentless burn dissipated, the long limbs sprouting from a back resting after a lifetime of misery. 

Sylus’ anguish spread over your skin, seeping into your muscles, corroding your bones. You wanted to tear at your own flesh, rake nasty talons over arms, legs, and torso, destroying the old so something new could be born. Like shedding the weight of dead skin, you could only hope whatever developed might cure the endless blaze. 

It wouldn’t, Sylus’ past answered that. Damaged scales would fall to the ground throughout many seasons, some wrinkled as if dehydrated, others chipped along the edges. While they would eventually be replaced, the pain remained the same. 

A small dragon rolled in tall grass, body contorting in unusual patterns. He was seeking relief, itching invisible wounds as if picking at a scab. Crimson eyes were wide, staring at the clouds above. 

He roared. 

You screamed. 

Fangs punctured your side, slotting through your ribs, hooking you to a maw. No dragon teeth as short as the ones embedded in your side should pierce a Rider’s armor. 

Briefly forgotten, your armor laid near a tanner a few rooms down. 

You wailed, battling to find your bearings, stuck in the rift between dream and reality. Your arm rose, hand balling into a fist as you hammered it down upon a dragon’s skull. The more you resisted, the tighter its grasp became. Your sternum crunched, crude, like multiple branches split for a fire. 

Talons slapped over your shoulder, knuckles as hard as stones. In the pitch black of your room, you knew your fated was struggling, fighting against a hoard of dragons in a form that gave him a disadvantage. 

You sucked in air, prepared to claim his name, only to be silenced by a sharp bolt of pain lacerating your chest.

Your body lifted, the dragon swinging its head, your ribs knocking against teeth with the momentum. 

Then you were thrown. 

Rock impacted your side, the ground finding your stomach when you landed. But you were rising, using the palms of your hands to feel along the humps of the imperfect wall. Gashes indicated an arch, the entrance to your room, and you were soon recognizing wood, gripping the doorknob. 

You lunged to the side, grasping your sword. The sheath clattered to the ground, the sound of your blade parting air a comfort. 

“Sylus!” You tore through the chaos, voice a crackle, high in pitch as you struggled to capture the core of your speech. It stung like shards of glass, splintering between your breasts. One more breath, your final burst of strength, and you shouted, “fire!” 

Dragons bellowed and snarled while fangs gnashed. 

Even without sight, you sensed his presence, the enlargement of his power. His hiss was primal, generated by a chest armored by plates of obsidian. 

Plumes of flame erupted, curling just below the coned ceiling. 

For a few, scant seconds you analyzed your surroundings. Your dragon swallowed the room, his blood glowing an amber beneath the aftermath of his inferno. Dozens of compact dragons crawled over his form, eyes sheets of opal, sharp talons miniscule scythes. Like an infestation, their numbers alone ingested his frame, marring his gorgeous shade with tones of repulsive clay. 

Then it is my turn . . . to protect you. 

Your arms lifted, both hands encircling the hilt of your sword. The shift in your shoulders aggravated your sternum and ripped the seams of the punctures at your ribs. Your cry was desperate, pathetic, and weak, but you found your first target, letting your rage fuel your strike. 

The edge of your blade cleaved through scales, severing a neck. Its head fell first, its body second. Somewhere, hidden, a Rider collapsed, their corpse still. Their energy tickled, budding within your stomach. 

Whispers strained your senses, taunting details, bargaining with your psyche. The two you defeated tattled, exposing a plan. Someone aimed to fell your dragon. Not for his demise, but ultimately yours. 

The room went dark. Disgusting satisfaction welled, remnants of emotions polished by the dead. 

Sylus threw his head back, another wave of fire gushing from his jaws. 

You tamped down a false sense of defeat, one continuously cultivated by your victims. The next dragon was approaching, climbing down Sylus’ body via his tail. 

Pitching your sword over your shoulder, you twisted, thrusting the weapon out into an arc, utilizing the drive of your sweep. A foreleg was severed from a torso, the dragon stumbling as blood poured. Using the mass of your blade, you flipped it, pointing the tip towards the ground. Hovering it over your enemy, you allowed it to drop. 

Sentiment smacked you in the gut, your head swirling in dizzying perplexity. This dragon departed in peace, relieved to be free of a task concocted by humans. Its Rider sprung at you with disdain, amassing a grudge they would carry throughout their journey in the afterlife. 

“Sylus,” you croaked, asking for his aid. 

Light exploded, accompanied by a screech of discomfort. One dragon had hiked up Sylus’ neck, its winding talons shearing a bulk of scales at the hinge of his jaw. Intelligent creatures, they understood your routine, seeking to rob you of your sight. Sylus squirmed, attempting to rock the smaller dragon from his head. Yet its talons proved a worthy opponent, snagging in Sylus’ exposed flesh. 

His outcry boomed, rattling your teeth. 

It split you in half. 

Desire to protect ricocheted, caged by your bones, pleading to be liberated. Your thoughts dispersed, instinct plundering your logic, hijacking the part of you that governed your judgement. 

It was happening again - that brazen surge of power. 

Reflex brought you to your knees, your palms planted to the ground. A few more dragons approached you, heads cocked as they listened for your natural habits. They were inferior and weak. 

Intuition taught them to advance with caution. They stalled. 

As Sylus’ fire ceased, your heart leveled. 

Dots of radiant scarlet fluttered, ascending to dance within the space provided. Vines broke through the surface of the ground, encapsulating the corpses offered. Between your pinky and ring finger a stem sprouted, thorns protruding as a cherry bud unfurled at the top. 

You required more. 

A current flowed beneath your palms, electric. It scampered as if it had a life of its own, springing from your being, reaching for its other half. Drawn to one another, he found you as you found him, merging your strengths and overcoming your weaknesses. 

Chaos ensued, incomplete and imperfect. 

Tendrils of vitality looped, buzzing in your ears, stuffing your head full of cotton. The whispers of the dead were potent, dragging you into their sway. A poisoned mind would grant the darker powers free reign over your authority, over your dragon. Forever a puppet, you’d be led by the strings of infernal command. That grim abyss was near, lapping at your ankles. 

Your head lifted, eyes darting from the rose maturing between your fingers, and to your dragon’s gaze. Pupils a narrow slit, inlaid in pride, rubies sparkled. Your heart vaulted, leaping to synchronize with his. 

With a dragon, a Rider shall fear nothing. 

Magic saturated the room, filling it to the brim, causing the dragons around to cower in fear. It rushed through your veins like a raging, rampant river. Buzzing, you trembled, maneuvering your body to stand. It continued to coarse from the roots of your hair, down to the ends of your toes. 

The heaps of vines covering the corpses stirred, beckoning your attention. Your lips moved. Inaudible mantras, foraging for cooperation, negotiated with the dead. Like needle and thread, vines hemmed bodies. 

Your world pitched in a direction, and you wobbled, unsteady. Energy was seeping from you as if leaking from a crevice. But you hung on, eyes snapping shut as you focused, completing the mend. Your vines were meticulous, sensitive to your thoughts. An instance of wavering would halt the process. 

A few more stitches, a few more bare intentions. You pleaded with these dragons’ souls, simultaneously nurturing their empty bodies. 

“Return,” you rasped. 

A snout nuzzled through a set of vines, a pair of talons emerging to brush the foliage aside. The first dragon born from your craft hopped from its cocoon, strolling until it sat at your feet. Seated, its head was level with your clavicle. 

Its ivory eyes now hugged irises; however, the shapes were unlike those seen upon any other eye. Instead of a perfect circle, the pitch black outer ring had miniscule protrusions, almost as if the line wiggled. Streaks of thin lines decorated the scarlet iris, painting a design not seen since your awakening. 

Rather than a human or dragon iris, this dragon adorned irises replicant of bloomed roses. 

The second dragon emerged the same. It too stalked over, obedient to any command you might implement. 

Further away, two Riders, once attached to the pair in front of you, did not rise. 

No one moved, the revelation of what you had achieved clamping onto the shoulders of dragons and your human body alike. Although unlike your four-legged counterpart, the fortification of your body couldn’t withstand the burden. 

Gravity at last won, luring you towards the ground. 

You were caught, weightless as arms boosted you, corralling you against a chest, while one arm was stationed underneath your knees. A purr spawned at your ear, the scent of freshly cut wood and rose inflating your lungs. 

A small smile perched at your mouth, eyes opening to settle on Sylus. Wounds were etched into his skin, weeping blood. 

“I’m heavy,” you joked, coughing when your sternum protested. Such violent reactions led to more pain as your chest rapidly contracted. 

His retort never came. 

“Look around, my wicked Rider.” 

Your head lolled, cushioned by Sylus’ shoulder. 

All dragons sat like statues, their heads bowed. Arms and chest felt like they had transformed into a throne, your nefarious gift suddenly worshiped. Your mouth opened, voice frail as you started to speak. Immediately, like a row of dominoes, heads cocked, ears perked. 

“I don’t want it,” you breathed, a similar sense of terror creeping along your body, “this influence.” 

A dragon near the back rose on its legs, lingering at the edge of the room until it neared you, its snout cast downwards. Slowly, it bumped Sylus’ thigh with its cheek, chortling, communicating in a tongue you could not recognize. 

“Those who you have not freed . . . their Riders are close,” he translated. “The dragons here will stand down, but the humans will not, nor will the remaining cave dwelling dragons outside of this room.” 

The storm of Sylus’ voice reminded you of thunder and lightning, of rain pattering against a window while a shawl occupied your shoulders. You dared it to enrapture you. As your surroundings withered into a trivial background, sleep sung its seductive song, hedging the edges of your vision. 

“Stay with me, kitten,” Sylus mused, “take from me what you must.” 

“Do not tempt me, my dragon,” you jabbed, although fond. 

Siphoning from Sylus, you had since learned, was intimate in its own right. His energy was appetizing, a piece of dark chocolate melting on your tongue, a fat seed of pomegranate rupturing between teeth. Sweet, bitter, and rich, you savored his power. It funneled into you, foreign, eventually conforming to your will. 

The door collapsed as Riders barreled through, armed with weapons capable of starting a war. 

Two dragons, reborn from your magic, stepped between Sylus and the entrance. They hissed, upper lips folding to reveal fangs. 

Power amassed at your throat, burning like bile. Turning, Sylus presented you to your opponents, your hand outstretched, spires of black and red mist weaving amongst your fingers. Your hand was not your own, held up by those curious swirls. 

So this was Sylus’ magic, the energy he kept dormant within. 

Your sternum blistered. You inhaled, tears wetting the crease of your eyes. 

One command rang out, igniting the rose-eyed dragons. 

“Do your worst.” 

The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.

No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.

You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.

At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.

It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.

But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.

Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.

One of the many reasons he keeps you.

Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.

Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.

The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.

He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.

You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.

You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.

You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.

He's not a normal person.

His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."

His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.

Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."

"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."

"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.

"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.

Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."

The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."

"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."

The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."

Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."

You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.

They always die.

It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.

You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.

But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.

Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."

As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.

Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.

He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.

The lights go out.

Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.

You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.

Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.

You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.

The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.

You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.

The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.

"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.

"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"

"And join your boss," his twin finishes.

Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.

Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.

Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."

"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.

Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.

Your neck is naked for the first time in years.

You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.

He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.

Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."

"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.

Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.

The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.

You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.

His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.

You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.

It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.

Your littermate deserved this too.

Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.

In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?

You stare at it.

It smells really good.

Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.

Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?

It's almost like…

You twitch your whiskers.

As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.

The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.

No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.

Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.

That's it. He's just a cat person.

A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.

Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.

You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.

But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.

Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.

Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.

You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.

Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.

Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.

This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.

Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!

You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.

No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.

The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.

You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.

You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.

Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.

Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.

He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.

You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.

There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.

You curl up in a little ball and watch him.

He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.

When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.

You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.

Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.

If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.

He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.

He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.

This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.

A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.

You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.

Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—

when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"

Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.

And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.

"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.

"CAW! CAW! CAW!"

Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.

Oh. Kitten.

Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—

In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.

The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.

Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.

The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.

"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.

Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.

Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.

"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?

He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.

She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.

Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.

"Sylus—" The sound leaves you embarrassingly soft. More breath than word, and in response, his grip tightens. 

"Oh?" His voice drifts against the shell of your ear, velvet-smooth and devastatingly pleased with himself. "That was cute."

The mist still curling around him dissipate slowly as his Evol fades, revealing broad shoulders draped in black and crimson eyes now fixed entirely on you as he perches his chin on your shoulder. His hand remains warm against your hip above the fabric of his shirt, his fingertips flexing once to test whether you'll make that sound again.

Heat flashes through your stomach at the shit-eating grin you can hear in his voice. "You absolute prick—"

"You were smiling before I interrupted you." His nose nudges slowly beneath your jaw, where he breathes in the lingering notes of your perfume with shameless indulgence. "You were thinking about me."

"I was trying to make myself some tea because I couldn't sleep in that big bed on my own." Nothing but a sweet attempt at keeping your dignity, if the intention wasn't so utterly charming.

"Mhm.. that's even sweeter, kitten." The low hum vibrates with amusement. 

You hate how quickly you fold around him. The way your pulse flutters the second he touches you. The way your thighs threaten to press together when his mouth lingers too long against your neck.

His fingers flex once more at your waist before his head lowers slightly for his hair to tickle your temple as he inhales yet again—slower and far more obvious.

Mortification floods your body when you hear him chuckle.

"Sylus." You try to warn him, try your best at keeping your pride, but you both know very well what he is referring to with that amused tone. 

"You're rather sensitive tonight," murmured most charmingly with gentle lips that tickle the shell of your ear.

"I am not! You simply frightened me!" Your bravery roars into a hissy fit, though his chuckle practically melts against your skin. "But I love the fact that I can hear your heartbeat racing. It is adorable, sweetie."

You open your mouth to argue, only for his fingers to slide slowly beneath the hem of the shirt resting against your thigh. "Do you need me?" breathed along the curve of your neck, as if he can sense the slick between your thighs from his mere presence.

You try to twist away from him, only for his other hand to brace against the cupboards beside your head, so he may cage you in effortlessly. The movement is lazy and entirely too self-assured, because Sylus knows you won't get very far.

"Don't keep doing that," you mumble, but he cuts you off with a challenge. "Doing what?" He acts so sweetly innocent with his head tipped to the side while adoring that flustered anger in your expression.

"This creepy sneaking up on me and disappearing thing!" The fantastically composed explanation of his Evol causes Sylus to actually sound amused as he coos at you most sarcastically and echoes, "creepy?"

"You appear out of nowhere!" You begin in disbelief over the fact he seems so oblivious to what he does to your heart. "Yes, but…" he chimes in softly, "you made that pretty little noise for me. How could I not be tempted to do it more often from now on?"

Oh, he is unbearable tonight. You can feel the smugness radiating off him now.

Crimson eyes meet yours beneath the low lighting, though one of them radiates that energy that always pulls you in too deep.

Sylus enjoys studying every reaction he drags from your body, he is a collector of the finest and rarest things… and you fall right into that category, too.

"You know," he muses while lazily brushing his thumb along your jaw, "I originally only did it because you seemed so oblivious for once."

Your stomach tightens and your system feels like someone overfloods it with information. "Originally?" Barely more than a whisper as you stare up at his eyes.

"Mhm," Sylus hums for you while his gaze drops to your mouth.

"And now?" The question comes out even quieter than intended, causing one corner of his mouth to lift.

"Now? Forgive me, but it seems as though you want me to continue, sweetie." The honesty in his voice makes heat crawl all the way down your spine. "Ah, so you do want me to continue, as well." That dangerous, fascinated expression he gets whenever he discovers something new about you reappears upon those added words. Ruby eyes sharpen to the point Sylus looks like he wants to you pull apart and examine you with greedy hands.

"You're aroused already," he notes softly out of left field. That startles you for sure, and lands a punch against his shoulder paired with another warning hiss of "Do you have a death wish!?"

With a feigned look of hurt that is soon covered up beneath a satisfied smirk he continues his verbal attack on your dignity as he whispers, "will you make that sound for me again then?"

Then he leans down slightly to encapsulate your figure entirely while his lips brush near your ear. "Do it again."

The whisper alone nearly ropes you in. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the counter as his hand continues its slow path higher along your bare thigh beneath the oversized shirt. Not enough to truly touch, just enough to make your pulse race.

"Sylus," you warn weakly since your voice sounds more like desire than rejection. 

"Yes, sweetheart?" His nose drags lightly beneath your jaw as he inhales yet again, then, he sighs under his breath. "Oh, you poor thing," murmured almost sympathetically despite the smugness woven through every word. "Now I understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why I can't stop doing it." And before you can recover, he vanishes again.

You blink in disbelief before searching the kitchen for him. But there is no energy for you to expose, there is nothing but the beating of your heart at the sudden emptiness surrounding you. "Sylus?"

Silence. The penthouse suddenly feels too large and too quiet and too much.

You still don't understand what he was talking about, but you also leave yourself little time to wonder since your feet carry you through the darkened rooms.

Though you barely have enough time to blink before arms wrap around your waist from the opposite side of where you were looking. You practically jolt out of your skin with a sharp gasp that dissolves into another helpless whine when Sylus's chest meets your back again.

And this time? This time he groans, he actually groans right against your neck. "Fuck," a low muttered curse to himself rather than to you. His pants feel uncomfortable already thanks to the sound of your fear.

Your face burns hot enough to melt steel due to his antics. "You are genuinely sick in the head." But your body reacts just as much as his to this game of hunter and hunted—far too much for your liking.

Plus, you can't possibly say such mean things and expect Sylus not to revel in it. The back-and-forth, the hissy sound of your voice, the smell of your arousal… it is all most adorable. "And yet, you like it," he whispers into your soul before pressing a kiss against your neck.

"I do not."

"Sweetheart." His lips brush the sensitive spot beneath your ear. "You're trembling with want."

Unfortunately, you are. Because something about Sylus focusing on you like this feels catastrophic. His attention is overwhelming on a normal day; but when he becomes fixated on something, it turns dangerous very quickly.

And right now? Right now he seems utterly obsessed with the way your body reacts to him.

— ❦

The second notable instance happens weeks later, after Sylus has become utterly intolerable about it. By now, he sneaks up on you constantly; be it in corridors, in lifts, in the foggy bathroom.

Sometimes he will simply do it to amuse himself. Other times because he enjoys watching your composure collapse the second his voice appears beside your ear. But the worst of all? Your body has started anticipating him. And you hate that he has caught up on that.

Tonight, you're searching for him in one of the clubs he owns, the shared tracker led you here after the hour ran way later than what was agreed on. The lower floors are still alive with music and chatter, all gold lights and expensive perfume, but the private halls upstairs remain dim and quiet.

Here, you round the corner toward his office with careful steps, because something has been feeling off ever since you stepped foot into the location. As if many eyes were already on your back; and that feeling didn't stop. Not when you ascended the stairs, not even when you made it into the furthest corner of the building.

Rather than knocking, you freeze in the darkened space because you realise exactly what just happened. You anticipated to be scared again, a little part of your brain hoped for Sylus to step out of the shadows and overwhelm you again.

You want to curse yourself for it, but there is little time for such a gesture once a familiar laugh sounds from the darkness ahead; a low and knowing sound that pricks at your pride.

"Kitten…" The voice drawls most smug and so satisfied that heat floods your face and a snarky little "Shut up," follows right away.

Sylus emerges from the shadow near the doorway, tall and unbothered as always, though the loosened collar and rolled sleeves suggest a very long evening.  "You slowed down," his gaze sweeps slowly over you before it lingers on your expression with unconcealed joy.

"I did not." The retort makes him smile; smile in a way he never would in front of anyone else because you are simply too cute to resist.

"You did," Sylus whispers as he boops the tip of your nose like a man ready to die. "You expected me tonight. Or did you miss me too much? Is that why you came out here? At this an hour?"

Creased brows, a down-turned mouth, and lastly a roll of your eyes. All signs of danger a wild animal would understand and grace you with space. Sylus, instead, crowds you further.

Because you grow so cute when he pushes just a little too much. When the walls crumble from the sheer attention he places solely on you now that you are once again trapped between his body and the next best object.

"N-no," Curse yourself and that little stutter Sylus steals from you. With a sigh you gather your wits and add, "I expected you to be annoying. But you didn't come back to the base at all."

"Mhm, similar things." He leans towards you leisurely, with hands tucked into his pockets while you instinctively retreat a single step. The smile that spreads across his face is catastrophic. "You were supposed to be tucked away in bed. And yet you're out here, looking for me. You're a little too brave."

"And you're impossible," yet another defenceless however defensive grumble.

"And you," he murmurs with almost too much love laced into every syllable, "have become very snappy again." He notes while his hand reaches up to cup your face and lightly squeeze your cheeks.

The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, much too warm. Slowly, Sylus adjusts his hold to brush his knuckles along your cheek with infuriating gentleness. "You know what interests me most?" he asks quietly.

You don't mean to entertain Sylus further, you know these trick question will always lead to your downfall. And yet here you are, much less like the feisty kitten and more like a lamb led to the slaughter, as you tilt your head up and ask, "What?"

His thumbs drags over your lower lip first while his gaze follows the movement with envy, then Sylus speaks. "The anticipation before I touch you," mentioned casually while he still admires the softness of your lips before finally focusing on your gaze again. "You have started reacting before I even lay a hand on you now."

Your body shifts instinctively, which turns out to be an immediate mistake on your part as you can witness in real time how his expression changes. 

A flutter of your lashes is needed to adjust your sight, because momentarily you imagined his pupils to look like thin slits before they suddenly dilate. Intrigue or perhaps possessiveness flickers across his features before being buried beneath calm amusement once more.

And something about your reaction seems to wreck Sylus equally so. Perhaps it was that soft inhale of air, or the fact he can feel your cheeks burning against his fingertips.

"Sweetheart." The pet name snaps you out of it, brings you back to focus on the man standing in front of you now that Sylus leans in closer and brushes his lips against yours. "You're making it very difficult to behave."

Your stomach swoops dangerously at the roughness in his voice while a nervous chuckle seems like your best attempt at a reaction as your bravado flutters away in time with your heart. "You never behave."

A chaste kiss that leaves you starving for more and a almost guilty sounding murmur of "True," are the last traces of Sylus before he suddenly disappears inside the club. You stumble forward into the space he just occupied, your mind still clouded by the kiss before the cold reality of emptiness greets you.

There is a split second after Sylus vanishes where your body betrays you completely as anticipation crackles through your bloodstream before your mind can catch up. 

"No, Sylus!" You hiss out into the thrumming boom of the music below and the empty space on the top floor. You know what he wants, you know he wants you to go find him, to stumble around again only for Sylus to sweep you off your feet. And you're having none of it, nothing at all.

"I'm not falling for this!" You speak more to yourself than to the man in question. Every nerve ending lights up at once as your palm presses against the wall for some fickle sense of security. You said you wouldn't fall for it, and yet, your feet have already begun to move.

You quietly follow along the carpet-lined hallway that should lead to Sylus's office. You know he's close, you are very sure he is watching. And the worst part? You wait for him too, because you like the game he plays.

But his office is empty and almost entirely dark safe for the desk lamp which flickers lightly. It bothers you more than you would ever care to admit that Sylus did in fact not startle you, that he didn't reappear and drape himself over your back like a weighted blanket.

Yes, you feel disappointed and a little empty… and quite impatient. Until warm hands slide up your curves and around your waist from behind, which causes your spine to stiffen. Sylus's chuckle is muffled as his forehead settles briefly against your shoulder. "Boo."

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to compose whatever joy you felt and instead sigh deeply to feign annoyance. "Please stop sounding so pleased with yourself."

"But kitten, I am pleased." His fingers flex against your stomach again to hold you just a little tighter against himself then. "Very." He adds for you to understand how much he means these sarcastic words.

Then, Sylus exhales harshly against your neck. "God." Your knees nearly weaken at the sudden shift of his tone again, and perhaps it is a good thing he has already been eager to stabilise your weight.

"Sylus…"

"Your scent…" His hand splays against your stomach possessively while his lips travel slowly along the curve of your throat. If he could, he would most likely savour the way your breathing keeps falling apart for him. "You smell incredible when I catch you off guard," he admits quietly. "Not just then, but especially tonight again..."

The confession sends heat spiralling straight through you down to your core, where you tighten around nothing and yearn for everything Sylus could give.

Unfortunately for you, you fail to notice the way your ass rubs against his crotch. Fortunately for Sylus, he is very much aware of the way you're grinding on him. "Oh, sweetheart," he says softly, though you feel the amused huff of air he exhales. "Have I trained you already?"

Before you can recover, he shifts again. What was once solid, has turned untouchable as red mist swirls around you in an almost playful way. It feels warm yet cool all at once, and the breath leaves your lungs in frustration. "Sylus, don't you dare—"

Of course he wouldn't dare too much, not when you sound this needy. Right away, he stands between the cramped space of the desk and your body to wrap his arms around you and pull you flush against him. It's a delicious feeling now that your breasts are squished against his own and your breathing mingles in the scant space between.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? The sound that leaves you then. So needy and soft enough to barely exist. But Sylus hears it anyway, actually, his entire body registers your desire. "You are so cute," he murmurs.

"Sylus…" Then one large hand slides up the back of your neck, for his fingers to thread into your hair as he searches the depths of your soul with pupils blown dark beneath crimson irises. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

You can't think of a witty response. Not when he's looking at you like he wants to consume you whole. His thumb coaxes your mouth to open, for him to tug lightly on your bottom lip. "I could spend hours sneaking up on you just to hear it again."

He notices your fluttering pulse too, obviously. It's the sole reason for that brief smirk ghosting across his mouth before he leans down. "Poor thing," he whispers against your mouth, then nudges the tip of his nose against yours. "We should go home now, wouldn't you like that?"

— ❦

The third note-worthy time happens late at night in his bedroom after an argument. Not a serious one. Just enough bickering to leave tension simmering beneath your skin.

You're irritated with him. Sylus is entertained by you being irritated with him. A disastrous combination.

You finish changing in the adjoining bathroom before stepping back into the darkened bedroom while wearing little more but a thin camisole and shorts. The curtains remain open for crimson moonlight to spill across the sheets and dark furniture.

The room appears empty, which causes your eyes to narrow immediately. It's suspiciously empty. "Sylus?"

When no answer follows, you feel your pulse beginning to flutter. It's like your willingly stepping into yet anotjer trap, because this is exactly the sort of thing he would do.

"You're childish," you mutter while climbing into bed anyway. Yet the silence remains.

While you pretend at ignoring the awareness prickling over your skin, your mind is running at top speed. He could be anywhere—watching, waiting for precisely the right moment to pounce.

The thought alone sends warmth curling low in your stomach. Which is exactly why you're doomed. 

But you fail to notice the flicker of the bedside lamp before strong arms suddenly cage you against the mattress.

A gasp tears from your throat as Sylus materialises directly above you, one hand planted beside your head while the other catches your waist beneath the blankets.

And the sound you make, that helpless, breathy whimper absolutely ruins him. His eyes close briefly as though physically pained by it. "Again," he says immediately, voice rougher than you've heard all evening during the tense conversation.

"Sylus!"

"You can't be angry with me anymore." He exhales shakily against your cheek before ghosting his lips far too close to yours. "Not when you react so perfectly still."

The familiar temperature spike greets you once more, as the hand resting on your waist slides lower beneath the blankets. Sylus traces slowly over your hip through thin fabric while his gaze remains fixed on your face.

"You anticipated me tonight," he murmurs. "I could smell it the second I walked into the room."

Mortification crashes through you because you would never want to admit such a thing after an argument.

"You're awful," is your best chance at denial.

"And you're very… instinct-driven tonight," Sylus whispers before kissing your cheek. You know immediately what he is referring to. How your emotions were a little more aggravated again, how the entire argument even took place, and how you now look at him like his attention would be enough to fix your attitude.

His mouth brushes yours lightly to coax you further into forgiveness. "Should I make it better?" Sylus whispers into your ear in that suggestive tone he reserves just for you, no mocking to be found at the moment.

He hears the breath leave your lungs, feels your fingers trail along his biceps before they come to rest at his nape and curl into his hair.

"Yes."

The whispered consent is enough to bring a smile to your lover's lips.

There is a brief pause before his fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he groans in response to finding out just how wet you are.

"There," he mutters, while peppering kisses left and right against your cheek and throat. "You like it this much when I scare you?" he can't refuse but tease you just a little to feel your hips buck against his fingers. "Or is our argument to blame?" he muses while gathering more of your slick.

"Sylus…" You already sigh his name in that slightly annoyed however needy way. His forehead presses briefly against yours, offering you comfort while a single digit pushes into you.

By no means deep, and never enough to satisfy the aching warmth pooling low in your stomach. "You become so soft when I surprise you," he says quietly. "And so responsive, kitten."

Your fingers fist against his shirt as another trembling sound escapes you the moment his touch grows firmer. "I know," he breathes most comfortingly while visibly losing his composure now. "Sweetheart…"

The tension in the room thickens rapidly after that. Every small reaction of yours feeds him. Each gasp and startled little whine, every shaky breath he manages to drag from your lungs with those torturously slow touches that rub your clit so perfectly. 

One second his mouth is against your throat, then a soft smack against the sensitive bundle of nerves startles you to claw lightly at his broad shoulders before all sensation vanishes entirely.

You're panting now, heart hammering not just from excitement but the realisation that this… charming asshole has edged you just to get a rise out of this once more. Like he hasn't been able to enjoy overwhelming you enough as of late. 

A groan of annoyance cuts through the stillness of the moment as you try to find your big girl voice, not the trembling mess Sylus has made of you. But before you can truly will yourself up, before too much lust between your thighs disappears, you are pulled back when you least expect it. 

Suddenly you're not just held against Sylus, but seated on top of him with your legs spread wide over his own and your ass nestled against his aching bulge. The momentum steals another helpless cry from your lips as his hands roam your body.

"Sylus—" Though by the time you manage to moan his name, his fingers have long reclaimed all he abandoned before. His big hand covers your pussy, where his fingers dive deep into your fluttering walls while his palm pressures relentlessly against your clit for your body to quiver and twitch from pleasure.

"I've got you," Sylus murmurs so softly, while kissing along your neck like the sweetest angel. You feel his touch change, the intention behind it shifting for waves of pleasure to ripple inside your core. 

Like a man utterly consumed by the sight before him, Sylus lingers on your profile as he watches every expression that crosses your face like it's an unholy confession.

The slight parting of your lips followed by the devastatingly cute gesture of you pressing your mouth shut once you try your best to suppress those exact noises he feeds off. Though it's the telltale sign of your thighs tensing whenever the deep thrusts of his fingers catch you off guard again, that frees them.

Those sweet, involuntary little noises he has grown addicted to. "Beautiful," he murmurs as your breathing finally breaks apart completely. "Look what happens when we play together," Sylus goes on, though his whispers are almost overshadowed by the squelching wetness of your pussy as he works you towards your high.

You can barely think by then. Especially not when he keeps mumbling into your skin about how good you feel and how sweet you smell with a voice warm enough to melt ice while sensation winds tighter and tighter inside you.

Your head falls back against his shoulder in surrender just as your legs snap shut around his thrusting fingers, burying the cruel instruments of pleasure until his knuckles are coated in your juices and the tremors of your orgasm squeeze tightly.

A whiny cry, much louder than those adorable noises he's been enjoying so very much as of late, follows upon the coaxing, "There you go," Sylus says quietly.

"That's my girl." The final startled whimper he pulls from your throat sends you completely over the edge. And Sylus looks devastatingly satisfied about it as he helps you work yourself through your high and come down from this intoxicating little game.