lie to me
snowcrow x reader
chapter two â keep dreaming
âMen like Sylus, they see something they want and they take it. They don't care about consequences. About who gets hurt. They don't think about the effects of their actions. They just take, and take, and take.â âAnd you're so different?â
synopsis: what should have been a one-night escape turns into a pull you canât ignore, no matter how hard zayne tries to stop you.
wc: 3.2k | ao3
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taglist: @nerokun19 @sylusinmyheart @nanaminsmuse @valiantchaosvalkyrie (ily)
You wake up to the smell of coffee.
For a moment, you're disorientedâyour neck aches, you're still in last night's clothes, and there's a blanket over you that definitely wasn't there when you passed out on the couch.
Then it all comes flooding back: the club. Tara. The truth serum.Â
Sylus.
You push the memories away with a groan, eyelids heavy, head pounding like a drum as sunlight stabs through the blinds. Your body protests every movement, but you eventually drag yourself upright, spotting a note on the coffee table in Zayne's precise handwriting:
Early surgery. Coffee's ready. There's ibuprofen next to the pot. Drink water. Text me when you're awake.Â
You shuffle to the kitchen, pour yourself a mug of coffee, and down the ibuprofen with a full glass of water. Your phone shows three missed texts from Zayne, all sent between 6 and 7 AM:
Zayne: Hydrate. Actual water, not just coffee. I'll know if you don't.
Zayne: And don't spend all day on the couch. At least stretch. Your body will thank you.
Zayne: We should talk when I get home. About last night.
That last one makes your heart drop.
You're still staring at it when a new message appears:
Unknown Number: Morning, sweetie. How's the hangover treating you?
Unknown Number: I imagine by now you've been given strict instructions to stay away from me and my club.
Unknown Number: Are you going to listen?
Unknown Number: Please say no.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You should block the number. Should delete the messages.Â
You havenât been warned, not yet. But you already know whatâs coming. Know you should be good and do exactly what Zayne would want, because he's never steered you wrong before.
Instead, you save the contact.
Sylus.
You reply before you can overthink it:
You: how did you even get my number?
Sylus: I said I'd find you, didn't I?
He did. Right before he left.Â
You thought it was just a line. A smooth exit. You didn't think he actually meantâ
Sylus: Did you really think I was going to let you disappear?
Sylus: Your friend was generous enough to assist me. The excitable one.Â
Damn you, Tara.
You: iâm going to murder her
Sylus: Please donât. I like her.
Sylus: Now answer the question.
Sylus: Am I alone in this?
You reread those five words once. Twice. The same ones he asked last night before everything got interrupted. The ones you never got to answer because someone pulled him away.
You: you know you're not
Sylus: I know what I saw last night. What I felt.
Sylus: But I want to hear you say it.
You could tease him, could make him work for it. But something about the way heâs honest with you makes you want to give that back to him.Â
Besides, there's no point in playing coy through text when your body already gave you away last night.
You: i can still feel your hands on me.Â
You: does that count?
His response comes quickly.
Sylus: That's an answer worth waiting for.
Sylus: Now tell me when I can put them on you again.
You stare at the message, heart racing. Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with another text from Zayne:
Zayne: Did you take the ibuprofen?
You: yes, sir
Zayne: Iâm serious. Did you eat anything?
You: not yet
Zayne: There are eggs in the fridge. Make yourself something. You need protein.
Zayne: Text me a photo when you've eaten.
You roll your eyes, but feel something warm in your chest anyway. Heâs bossy and overprotective sometimes, but he cares. He always cares.
You crack two eggs into the pan, watching them sizzle. Your mind keeps drifting back to last nightâto the club, to the heat of the dance floor, to hands on your waist and breath on your neck. You shake your head, using all of your energy to focus on the simple task in front of you.
The eggs are perfectly scrambledâthe way Zayne taught you. You plate them, snap a photo, and send it.
Within seconds, he sends back a single thumbs-up emoji and:
Zayne: Good. I'll be home around 7. We'll talk then.
The âwe'll talk thenâ sits heavy in your stomach. You push the eggs around your plate, your appetite suddenly gone. You manage a few bites before giving up.Â
A shower. You need a shower.
You stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders, trying to wash away the previous night. But it clings to youâthe memory of dancing, of being pressed against someone who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. The way his hands felt. The way your body responded.
The realization hits you with startling clarity: you want to go back. You want to see him again, want to feel that alive again, consequences be damned. You've spent so long being careful, being good, staying within the clean lines Zayne has drawn for you. And last nightâlast night you felt like yourself for the first time in years.
The question isn't whether you're willing to risk it. The question is how long you'll be able to resist before you stop caring about the risk at all.
You get out of the shower, wrap yourself in a towel, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. There's a faint mark on your neck, just beneath the curve of your jaw. It's not dramatic, not deep or obvious. Just a hint of pressure left behind, something youâd have to be looking for to notice. A shadow of a bruise shaped by lips and teeth and want.
Your fingers drift to it before you can stop yourself.
The touch sends a flash of sensation through you: the memory of his mouth on your skin, the scrape of teeth, the way you'd tilted your head back to give him better access without even thinking about it.
Shit.
You press your fingers against the mark, watching your skin change color under the pressure before releasing it.
You shouldn't like this. Shouldn't like having evidence of last night marked on your skin. Shouldnât like knowing that every time you look in the mirror today, you'll see it. Remember who gave it to you.
You shouldnât. But every part of your body hums at the thought of belonging to someone like him.
Your phone buzzes from where you left it on the bathroom counter.
Sylus: Tell me. Are you going to let your doctor talk you out of seeing me again?
The mention of Zayne sends guilt spiking through you. You glance at the time. 8:46 AM. He'll be in surgery for hours. Won't be home until tonight.
When you'll have to explain last night. When he'll probably lecture you about being safe. About making smart choices. About staying away from men who run clubs in the N109 Zone and get under your skin in all the right ways.
You: i don't know yet
Sylus: That's not a no.
You: it's not a yes.Â
Sylus: I can work with that. For now.
You set your phone down, needing a second to step back. You should be worried about tonight's conversation with Zayne. Should be thinking about how to explain the club, the dancing, the way you came home at 3 AM smelling like smoke and vodka and another manâs cologne.
Yet all you can think about is the weight of Sylus's hands on your waist. The confidence in his voice. The way he looked at you like you were something worth having.
You get dressed, pull your hair back, try to have a normal day. Try to be the person Zayne expects you to be. But when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can still see it. The mark on your neck. The flush in your cheeks. The girl looking back at you who's starting to realize she wants things she's not supposed to want.
And, for the first time, you don't want to look away.
You hear the familiar jingle of his keys outside the door at 6:57 PM.
You've been sitting on the couch pretending to read the same page of your book for the last twenty minutes, hyper-aware of every passing second. You spent most of the day recovering: sleeping off the hangover, responding to Sylusâs texts, trying not to think about the conversation you have been dreading all day.
The door opens, and Zayne steps through, still in his dress shirt and slacks, tie loosened. He looks exhaustedâsurgery days always drain him. But heâs carrying two bags of takeout, and you recognize the logo immediately.
Your favorite Thai place. The one across town thatâs become his quiet way of apologizing.Â
âI brought dinner,â he says simply, setting the bags on the counter. âRed curry, pad see ew. Extra vegetables.â
Itâs just takeout. Just broccoli and carrots. But your heart aches anyway, knowing heâll spend half the night picking around every last vegetable without a single complaint.
âYou didn't have toââ
âI wanted to.â He starts unpacking the containers. âLong day?â
âI survived. Barely.â You close your book, setting it aside. âHow was surgery?â
âSuccessful. Complicated, but successful.â He pulls out plates, serves the food your usual wayâextra peanuts on the side with lime wedges. âCome eat. You must be hungry.â
You are. You move to the table, and the normalcy of it makes your chest tight. This is what you doâyou eat dinner together, talk about your days, exist in this careful, comfortable routine youâve built over the years.
Except tonight feels different. Weighted.
You both eat in silence for a few minutes. Heâs tiredâyou can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he moves more slowly than usual. But heâs here, with your favorite food, making sure you eat.
âSo,â you say finally, once the silence has grown too heavy. âExciting day at the hospital?â
âThe usual.â He takes a sip of water. âYours?â
âExtremely successful day of doing absolutely nothing.â You spear a piece of broccoli. âI did stretch, by the way. And, yes, Iâll admit it. You were right. It helped.âÂ
The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. âI'm always right about these things.â
âDon't get cocky.â
âI'm a doctor. It comes with the territory.â He's studying you now, that assessing look in his eyes. âYou seem...energized. Usually takes you longer to bounce back after a late night.â
Because I've been texting someone who makes me feel alive. Because I can't stop thinking about how free I felt last night. Because for once I feel like something other than your responsibility.
âJust got lucky, I guess.â You shrug, aiming for casual.
More silence follows. You push noodles around your plate.
âZayneââ
âAbout last nightââ
You both speak at the same time.
âYou first,â he says.
You take a breath. âI wanted to say thank you. For the coffee. And the ibuprofen. And the blanket that mysteriously appeared in the middle of the night. And not being mad about me coming home so late.â
âI wasn't mad.â He sets his fork down carefully. âYou're young. You're going to go to clubs. I was concerned, maybe. But not mad.â
The rationality of it throws you for a loop. You'd been braced for a stern talking to, already conjuring up a list of bratty comebacks in your mind.Â
âThat's it? No lecture about responsibility or safety orââ
âDo you need a lecture?â He glances over with one eyebrow raised. âDid something happen that I should be concerned about?â
âNo. Nothing bad. Just normal club stuff. Dancing, drinking.â You're testing him, waiting for his reaction.
Heâs quiet for a long moment, studying his plate. âDid you have fun? Really?â
The question surprises you. âYes. I did.â
âGood. Thatâsâgood.â But he doesn't sound like itâs good. You can see it in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. âAnd Tara? She stayed with you?â
âMost of the night. She ditched me for a bit to dance with someone, but I was fine.â You watch his face carefully. âI wasn't alone the whole time, anyway. The owner came over and introduced himself.â
Zayne goes very still. The kind of still that reminds you he's a surgeonâsteady hands, controlled breathing, not a movement wasted.
âThe owner.â
âYeah. Sylus. He wasââ You search for the right word. âInteresting. Nice, actually. We ended up talking for a while.â
When Zayne looks up, his expression is perfectly controlled. Which is how you know he's not calm at all.
âSylus.â He says the name like he's tasted something bitter.
Your blood goes cold. Thereâs no way he means that Sylus. What business could a clean-cut cardiologist possibly have with a rogue nightclub owner, anyway?Â
âYou know him?â you ask carefully.
âI know of him.â He picks up his fork again, but doesn't eat. âWhat did he want with you?â
âWant? Nothing. We just talked.â Lie. You're getting defensive now, and you're not sure why. âHe noticed I hadnât taken the truth serum and was curious whyââ
âTruth serum.â His voice goes flat. âHe gave you truth serum?â
âIt's the whole concept of the club. Everyone takes it. Voluntarily. It's supposed to be funââ
âDid you take it?â
âNo. I told him I wasn't interested.â
âGood.â The tension in his shoulders eases by the smallest fraction. âDon't. Ever.â
âZayneââ
âI mean it. Promise me you won't take anything Sylus gives you.â
You blink at the intensity in his voice. âWhy? What's wrong withââ
âPromise me.â
âOkay, okay. I promise.â You take a bite of the noodles, chewing slowly. âBut why do you care so much? It's just some club gimmickââ
âBecause you donât know whatâs actually in it. Because Sylus isnât someone you should trust. Becauseââ He stops himself with a clenched jaw.
âBecause what?â
He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might actually give you a compelling reason.Â
He doesnât.
âJust trust me on this. Please.â
This is the reaction you'd expected earlier. But itâs not about you going to a club, not about staying out late or coming home tipsy. Itâs about Sylus.
âHow do you know him?â you ask carefully. âYou said you know 'of' him. What does that mean?â
âOur paths have crossed.â His tone makes it clear that's all you're getting. âWhat else did he say to you?â
âNothing much. Asked about why I wasn't drinking the serum.â You pause, debating how much you should share. You know you shouldnât be pushing this, but you canât seem to stop the words from coming out. âHe asked if Iâd come back.â
His jaw flexes. âAnd what did you tell him?â
âI said maybe.âÂ
You do want to go back, because it was exciting. Because someone looked at you like you were interesting instead of fragile. Because for one night you weren't Dr. Zayne's patient or liabilityâyou were just you.Â
âWhy? Would that be so bad?â
âYes.â The word comes out hard. âIt would be âso bad.ââ
You cross your arms, shifting in your chair to face him fully. âBecause...?â
âBecause that manââ He stops, visibly trying to control himself. âBecause men like Sylus, they see something they want and they take it. They don't care about consequences. About who gets hurt. They don't think about the effects of their actions. They just take, and take, and take.â
âAnd you're so different?â Your words come out sharper than intended.
âYes.â His eyes meet yours with a fire youâre not used to seeing. âI am. I think about the consequences of my actions. About who could get hurt. About whether acting on something would hurt someone. About whether it's worth destroying everything for one moment ofââ He stops.
Your pulse quickens. âOne moment of what, Zayne?â
âI have case files to review.â He stands abruptly, gathering his plate even though he's barely eaten half. âThank you for eating with me.â
âWhy won't you just talk to me?â The frustration cracks through your voice.
âBecause some conversations donât have good outcomes.â He sets his plate in the sink harder than he means to. âAnd I'm trying to protect us both from that.â
âI don't want protection.â You stand too, facing him across the table. âI want honesty.â
âThen you want something I can't give you tonight.â His voice is final. He turns away, already halfway to his office. âGoodnight.â
âIt's barely eight o'clock.â
He stops in the doorway, but doesn't turn around. âGoodnight.â
He disappears into his office. The door closes behind him with a soft click, which might as well have been a slam.
You stand there in the kitchen, surrounded by the remains of your favorite takeout that you can't even taste anymore, watching him walk away. Again.
The injustice of it burns in your chest. He gets to ask questions, gets to warn you away from people, gets to almost say important things then retreat behind his walls. And you're just supposed toâwhat? Accept it? Be grateful he cares enough to worry?
Your phone vibrates in your pocket with new messages.
Sylus: Thinking about you.
Sylus: Specifically about the way your body fit so perfectly against mine when we danced.
Sylus: Tell me you're thinking about it too.
You glance at Zayne's closed office door. At the distance he just put between you. At all the things he won't say, wonât admit, wonât let himself feel.
Your fingers move across the screen, and there's something almost defiant in the way you type.
You: maybe.Â
Sylus: Maybe, she says. Like she didn't whimper so sweetly when I rolled my hips.
Sylus: Like she wasnât holding onto my shoulders so tight I thought she'd leave marks.
Sylus: Like she wasn't five seconds away from letting me taste her right there on the dance floor.
You smile despite it all, because Sylus doesn't hide. Doesn't hold back. Says exactly what he means and doesn't apologize for it to anyone.
You: big talk from someone who had to leave before anything actually happened
You: all theory, no proofâŠ
Sylus: Youâre right. All theory.Â
Sylus: So let me gather some evidence. Tomorrow night.Â
You met him less than 24 hours ago. And now heâs asking to see you again like itâs inevitable. Like youâre already his to convince. No slow build, no hiding behind professionalism or boundaries or whatâs appropriate. JustâI want you. Come see me. Let me prove it.
You: that sounds like a bad idea.
Sylus: Probably. The best things usually are.
Sylus: Come to the club. Let me show you I'm not all talk.
It should scare you. Should send you running.
Instead, it makes you feel alive.
You glance at Zayneâs door again. Still closed. Still locked. Still keeping you at arm's length while somehow expecting you to stay.
You: keep dreaming.
Sylus: Oh, I plan to. You left me with plenty to work with last night.
Sylus: Youâll come when youâre ready. Iâll be there when you do.
Sylus: Sweet dreams to you too, kitten. Of me, preferably.
You fall asleep smiling.
Not because itâs safe. Not because itâs smart.
But because maybe safe and smart were never what you needed in the first place.
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